Where the River Ends - Charles Martin [46]
She sat up on the bed, rubbed her eyes and stared past me to my work. “You’ve been busy.” I nodded, unsure of her reaction. She patted the bed. “If you were going to take advantage of me, you missed your chance.”
I smiled over my brush. “Don’t think I didn’t think about it, but then I remembered that your daddy collects shotguns.”
She stood and walked to me, putting her hand on my shoulder. “Yes, he does.” With my brush still in my mouth, she kissed me. “Thank you.”
I spit the brush out. “You’re welcome.”
She laughed. “Will you do me a favor?”
“Is it legal?”
“Yes, but”—she eyed the canvas—“it’ll take some time. And”—the seriousness, returned. Another seamless transition—“…it might test you.”
“Name it.”
She pointed to my paints, brushes and easel. “Is this portable?”
“It can be.”
“You busy this afternoon?”
“Just work, but I can call in sick.” She slipped on her shoes, grabbed her mink and kissed me a second time. “That was better without the brush.” She walked to the door and slid on her glasses. I pointed to the street. “People might start to talk if they see you leaving here at this time. Around here it’s called the walk of shame.”
“They’ll talk anyway.” She pointed at my canvas and the picture of her. “You priced it yet?”
“It’s…it’s not for sale.”
“About five then?”
“Five.”
14
JUNE 2, MIDMORNING
Reynolds Bridge is a single-lane bridge of poured slabs of concrete and iron. It has no railing, no lights and, given that the river has cut deep into the sandy bluff beneath, it sits some twenty-five feet above the river. This doesn’t sound like much, but the bridge is flat. Mature trees have grown up underneath it—their roots protected and their branches arching out around the edges of the bridge and reaching toward the sun.
Confederate flags decorate river shacks built on stilts and tucked back in the trees. A discarded Pepsi machine rested faceup and upside down on the Florida side. The plastic was cracked and somebody had shot it a dozen times with what looked like a large-caliber bullet.
Down here—between the bluffs—you hear little sound. It’s like walking on snow. Muffled echoes mostly, but even then, you’re not sure. The only smell is the decomposition and an occasional bloom. Paddling through, you feel like you’re living beneath the earth’s surface.
The Bare Bottom Resort owned several acres on the downriver side of the bridge. One naked person might be little attraction, but fifty is not. Every third tree held a bright orange or yellow POSTED—NO TRESPASSING sign. The owners hoped it would ward off the unwanted, and create a buffer to keep Peeping Toms at a distance. But telling South Georgia rednecks they weren’t welcome in their own backyard only made matters worse. The woods were usually swarming with local kids hoping to see their first naked woman. I know, I used to be one of them. Problem is that many of the people who join nudist colonies aren’t, and never were, members of the Swedish bikini team. So while we crept through the woods hoping to get a glimpse of the cover girl for Sports Illustrated, that first peek probably did more damage than good. When I was a kid, the POSTED signs should have read, “This ain’t all it’s cracked up to be. Look at your own risk, ’cause when you have, you’ll wish you hadn’t.”
’Course, I’d been away a long time and it’d be my luck that the only constancy is change.
Trees overhung the river forming a thick canopy and the river actually pooled in several places, making good swimming holes. I beached the canoe beneath an old rope swing and said, “Hang tight. Be back in a bit.”
She laughed. “Normally, I’m a size four, but I might could squeeze into a two. And get something that matches my eyes.”
“Don’t get your hopes up.”
“Remember,” she said, starting to laugh, “think like them. Blend in.”
“Very funny.”
I slipped through the woods a couple hundred yards and came upon a row of cabins. I could