An Imperfect Librarian - Elizabeth Murphy [44]
“This is entertain–” I mean to say, This is entertainment for you, isn’t it? I swallow water on tain then cough up the other words. I move to the shallow side where I can touch the boggy bottom. “Rather have my head underwater than my feet in this guck,” I shout.
She wraps her arms around her knees and hugs them to her chest. The straw hat hides her face from the sun and from my view. “There are some pockets of quicksand. Not too many. You should be safe,” she says.
I run out of the water. Folio swims like mad to keep up with me. I grab a towel then wrap it around my waist. “What’s so funny?” I ask.
She rummages through the backpack of supplies then pulls out a bottle of wine and uncorks it. “Nothing,” she says. She holds out a glass to me. “Glass of wine? Some cheese and bread?”
I shake my head and finish drying off. “Do I have anything to do with nothing?”
“I was laughing because you believed me. There’s no quicksand, Carl.”
“I knew that. I was worried about the sharks.”
She takes a gulp of wine then gapes at me. “Are you serious?”
“See? You’re as gullible as I am.” I put on my shoes then go to the bushes for a pee. When I come back, I watch Folio chasing after flies near the edge of the water. I lie on the blanket and reach out my hand to rest it on Norah’s back. The strip of sand bordered by bushes and shrubs is barely wide enough for the two of us. “Do you ever come here with Francis?”
She doesn’t say anything. She shifts forward so that my hand is no longer on her back.
“I was just wondering, since he was such a close friend of the family.”
She lays an empty glass in the sand, lies back on the blanket and covers her face with her hat. “I don’t want to talk for now. I’m taking my siesta.”
The clouds move in to give us shade. I turn on my side to face her. I trace an imaginary line along her warm, smooth legs then run my hand up the inside of her thigh. I slide my hand under her swimsuit and squeeze her breast. She turns to face me. While we kiss, she pulls down the straps of her suit over her chest, hips, knees then feet. I pull her naked body against me.
Folio disappears in search of shade or because she doesn’t want to listen to the heavy breathing. She reappears later when we’re lying quietly on the blanket. The lop on the pond hitting off the rowboat is the only sound. Norah lies with an arm and leg stretched across my body.
Folio drops a wet tennis ball near my face. I raise my head off the blanket and throw it into the pond. She darts off then comes back in an instant and shakes water over us. Norah squeals and sits up on the blanket.
We put on our clothes and pack up our supplies. I throw Folio’s ball in the boat and she jumps in after it. Norah pushes off then joins me on the centre seat. I row with one oar. She rows with the other. The breeze is shy so we make good progress with little effort. Folio sits in the front to scout for birds. We round the point and watch for the shallow spots where hidden boulders might scrape off the bottom of the boat. When we’re almost to the beaver’s house, we stop to rest. Norah splashes water over her face then flicks some at me. Folio barks and the boat tips to the side.
“That’s enough,” she says. “Let’s go to the beaver’s house.”
The mound of grey sticks and mud is larger up close than from the other end of the small pond. Norah holds the oars while I move up front next to Folio so I can grab hold of a boulder. “There’s no smoke coming out of the chimney. There mustn’t be anyone home.”
She lays the oars in the spine of the boat and throws the anchor overboard. “Don’t be silly,” she says. “It’s too warm for a fire today.”
We change places. She climbs out of the boat onto a boulder near the shore then dives into the water. Folio bites at the drops that fly into the boat. I count the seconds, wondering how long someone can hold their breath. I lean over one side but I don’t see her. I lean over the other and there