An Imperfect Librarian - Elizabeth Murphy [45]
“You’re a naughty, mischievous girl,” I tell her.
“Bold, saucy, a know-it-all and whatever else you want me to be.”
I wrap a towel over her shoulders. The boat rocks. “Do you think it’s a good idea to be drinking and swimming under water?”
“Don’t be on my case, please. Did you see the beaver?”
I lean forward to kiss her. “No beavers, only a siren who rose from the depths to nearly capsize the boat.”
She rubs her head with the towel to dry her hair. “Beavers can be troublesome. They chop down trees, divert rivers, pollute the water. You don’t want to get giardia.”
I run my fingers along the contours of her face. “Common symptoms?”
“Growing a big fat tail.”
“Like a siren?”
“Like a beaver,” she says.
“How do you think I’d look with a tail?”
“Wouldn’t match the life jacket. Aren’t you hot sitting in the boat with that thing wrapped around you?”
“That thing will save me from drowning.”
She runs her fingers through her hair like a comb. “Not if you only wear it in a boat or on land. Test it in the water, why don’t you?”
I climb out onto the boulder while I listen to her reminders about three-point contact. “Hang onto the rock with one hand and the boat with the other while you step out,” she says.
The water may be cold but at least I don’t have to touch off the bottom. It’s a bog-saving vest as well. I kick and wave my arms to warm up. I play with the buoyancy and swirl round. I turn to face the boat. She’s drawn the anchor and she’s rowing away from me.
“Where are you going?”
“Swim to me,” she calls.
I wave to her. “Come back! I can’t swim. I can only tread.”
She’s not waiting for me. “You’re swimming now.”
The boat leaves a smooth wake behind it. I shatter it when I thrash my arms and kick my legs. That’s the closest I’ll come to swimming. I stop partway to hold my breath and dip my head under. There’s not much to see in the murky waters but then something moves. It could be a terrified trout, an eel or the carcass of a moose thawing out. I kick and thrash then kick and thrash some more. I reach the shore as she’s anchoring the boat.
She hands me a towel. “Hurray for you! You officially swam the length of the pond.”
I wipe my face. “That wasn’t a very nice trick to play on me.”
She kisses my shoulder. “Forgive me. I’ll make up for it. Anything you want.”
“What about if you answered my questions about you know who.”
“Who?” she says.
“There you go again. I told you, you were evasive about him.”
“Not Francis. Please. We’re having a great day. Don’t spoil it again.”
“Again? Since when did I spoil the day? I just swam the length of the pond? What else–”
“I didn’t mean today. I mean in general. Enough about Francis.”
“You make it sound like that’s all I ever talk about.”
“Sometimes it feels that way, yes.”
“Feels to me like you’re avoiding the topic.”
“Not paranoid by any chance are you?”
“That’s not a very nice thing to say.”
She stands. “I didn’t say you were.”
I grab her hand. “Stay here with me. Don’t go. You can make up for forcing me to swim across the pond if you bake me one of those blueberry pies you’ve been boasting about.”
“Blueberry pie it is, once the berries ripen and you help me pick them.”
She sits on the blanket. I put my arm around her. “But not the red ones because they’re green, right?”
“I told you you’d catch on,” she says. “Next, you’ll have to learn about the berry grounds, berry pots, berry notes, berry ocky, berry duffs and berry bank.”
“Is that it?”
“Nowhere near. You still have to learn how to tell marshberries from partridgeberries, which berries to pick before the frost and which after. There’s the whole issue of knowing where to find them. One year, there might be thousands in an area. The next year...”
Norah talks as she lies down and rests her head in my lap. She knows how much I like to run my hands through her hair. I close my eyes and remember a day at the shore with