Chapter 16: Sorry, Lark

I handed Lark the phone.

She read the message, and every freckle on her face went still.

"She's never been to my boat," she said.

"Never?"

"Thirteen years. She sends birthday cards to the aquarium."

It was a quarter to ten.

We washed the pan and made the bunk in four minutes flat.

Lark pinned up her braid and put on the clean fleece.

Then took it off and put on the green dress, then took that off again.

"It's your aunt," I said. "Wear the fleece."

"It smells like a seal."

"It smells like you."

She wore the fleece.

At ten exactly, a silver sedan pulled into the marina lot.

Pru Aldrich got out in her linen suit and her pearls, carrying a round tin in both hands.

She walked down the dock with her chin up, past the man with the rope, and stopped at the stern of Second Wind.

"Permission to come aboard," she said.

"You don't need to ask," Lark said.

"I do."

Lark held out a hand, and Pru took it and stepped over the rail, which I would not have bet on.

She stood in the little cockpit with the tin against her chest, and she looked at the blue paint and the coiled lines.

"Papa's boat," she said.

"Yes."

"He took me out on it once," Pru said. "I was sick over the side. I'd forgotten."

Then she looked at Lark directly.

"I came to say something, and I would like to say it without sitting down."

"Okay."

"I am sorry."

Her voice was perfectly level, which was how I knew it cost her.

"I am retiring the rule tonight, and I would like to hear what you want in its place."

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