Where the River Ends - Charles Martin [31]
Once the water hits the ocean, the sun lifts it to the clouds, only to spill it once again across the continent. In that cycle, certain molecules of water have made this journey from swamp to river to ocean thousands of times.
DOWNED TREES, stumps and beaver dams made the first five hours mostly miserable as paddling goes. The harness began cutting into my shoulders because I spent as much time out of the canoe pulling and portaging as I did inside and paddling. Abbie lay there and laughed. A little after noon, the rain let up, then stopped altogether and the sun poked a hole in the clouds. Steam burned off the water, which had begun moving slightly faster, and the heat jumped into the upper seventies. The change in barometer did strange things to animals—including snakes. They’d be looking for higher ground, which meant they’d be out of their holes and moving.
The river made a hard right turn, leaving a sandbar, so I took advantage of both the topography and the sun, beached the canoe and carried Abbie to a spot where she could soak in the sun and sink her toes in the river. She was feeling pretty good, so she sat up when I set her down.
One of the gadgets I’d bought from Gus was a little gizmo called a Jetboil, developed by high-altitude climbers. It was a self-contained, self-lighting propane unit, about the size of coffee can, that could boil two cups of water in less than ninety seconds. I clicked it on, started peeling a hardboiled egg and then poured the tea while Abbie licked the chocolate off a Snickers bar and fed the rest to the minnows nibbling on her toes.
She scanned the underside of the canopy, her skin white against the sun and her veins blue against the surface. “I think I remember it here.”
I nodded. “This canopy runs a few more miles and then the river widens, spreads the trees and lets in the sun, warming the water.”
She sniffed the air and pointed with half a Snickers. “And somewhere along here, a pasture runs down to the water’s edge. Seems like I remember something about some cows.”
“You do.” I thumbed a fleck of eggshell off my thigh. “There’s a chicken farm not too much further. Depending on the wind, we’ll either get the cows or the chicken. Sort of a hit-or-miss thing.”
She chewed slowly. “How long before you’ll remarry?”
Abbie was far more comfortable with her not being here than I was. “What kind of a question is that?”
“Come on, this is not a news flash. You’ve had four years to get used to the idea.”
“That doesn’t mean I am.”
“So?”
“So what?”
“Have you?”
“Have I what?”
“Gotten used to the idea.”
“Yeah, honey. Just peachy.”
“Seriously. You could live another fifty or sixty years.”
“And?”
“What’re you gonna do?”
“To begin with, I figured I’d start smoking and drinking like a fish to cut the time in half.”
She saw she wasn’t getting anywhere. A minute passed. “You should, you know.” It was a statement, not a question.
I handed her a mug. “Next time, you can make your own dang tea.”
She hovered above the steam. “Seriously. We need to talk about this. Now”—she batted her eyes—“here are the names of five people I think you should consider.”
“I’m not talking about this with you.”
“Mary Provencal. Pretty, smart, probably keep you out of trouble. But you’d have to learn how to make a better martini.”
“I’m not believing this.”
“Karen Whistman.”
“Honey, she’s married.”
“Yeah, but she won’t be for long. She’s tall, outdoorsy, knows a thing or two about art and has more money than God.”
“Would you stop it?”
“Three. Stacy Portis. A little short but always the life of the party and from what I hear, great in bed. Which”—she laughed—“she’ll need to be after you’ve been married to me.”
“You’re