Chapter 24: Low Tide

The tide went out early on the last Sunday in March, and it left the north-shore dock standing over bare mud.

I sat at the end of it in a folding chair with a wool blanket over my knees.

My daughter slept against my chest in a blue knit cap.

She was seven weeks old and she had Wesley's chin.

I had decided that would be the only thing of his she kept.

The Ledge showed black and bare in the distance.

For the first time in months, there was no white yacht stuck on it.

Mason's crew had spent the whole winter cutting the Marguerite into pieces.

The court had given him two hundred hours of harbor service and a year of probation.

He had asked to spend every hour on that wreck.

He had hauled the last of the hull away on Friday.

My mother came down the dock behind me with a cake box in both hands.

A paper plate was clamped in her teeth.

"Sit," she said around it. "Don't move. I'll cut."

"Mom, it's not a party."

"It's a Sunday. That's enough of a reason."

She set the box on the rail and lifted the lid.

It was lemon, with a lopsided swirl of white icing.

"It looks like the one you brought for the memorial," I said.

"It's the same recipe. They never let me serve it that day."

She cut a slice with a plastic knife.

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