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By Root 857 0

like we were on display. Our boat, The Empty Canvas, became our escape. We’d motor back up into the flats or beach it on Deweese Island and disappear. Oftentimes, we’d overnight beneath the stars. I outfitted Abbie in her own fishing getup. Wide-brimmed hat, vest, she took to a fly rod like Brad Pitt in A River Runs Through It. Give her a flood tide and she’d spend all afternoon sight-fishing for reds. I’d stand on the poling platform, push us in close, point out the fins poking up through the water’s surface, and she’d throw right on top of them. She’d roll the line, drop the fly and slowly pull the retrieve. I loved to hear her hook up, hear the bail peeling itself empty and then hear her howl at the top of her lungs as the fish headed for deep water. For Abbie, “wet a line” meant standing in knee-deep water and sight-casting.

Seems like I blinked and we celebrated our tenth wedding anniversary. Abbie had established herself as the premier designer in Charleston, which meant South Carolina. I quit guiding, began painting full-time, she decorated her studio with my art and once a month when her body told her it was “right now” time, we snuck away and tried to start a family.

It was better than Camelot.

Then we flew to New York for what we thought was a routine shoot. Some cosmetic line needed her face and shoulders. So we spent the day shopping and gazing at polar bears.

It was spring, most of Central Park was a wave of color and powdered in pollen. Ducks, birds, cyclists, double strollers, runners and lovers were everywhere. We had stolen a few hours between photo shoots and were shopping somewhere on Fifth Avenue. One of those high-dollar stores Abbie dreamed about and the kind I couldn’t wait to get out of. Abbie leaned against the counter, sprayed some perfume onto a small sheet of paper, waved it dry, then held it to my nose. My nose has never been really good at smelling much of anything, so she was excited to have found something I not only could smell but liked. I paid the man, we walked across to the park, bought ice cream and spent the rest of the afternoon staring through the four-inch glass wall watching the polar bears swim. Every now and then someone would ask her for an autograph. Eventually, a small crowd gathered, so we slipped away and wandered the park, passing Balto and the brick fountain where Stuart Little flew his plane into the hawk.

Later that night, we found it.

Abbie had finished shooting and met me at the Ritz. We had a suite on the club floor that overlooked the park. I had just finished running and we were getting ready. Dinner at the Spice Market followed by the 8 p.m. of Les Misérables. I untied my running shoes and found her in the tub. She turned, lifted her hair off her shoulders and lifted the bar of soap above her head. “Wash my back.”

After ten years of marriage, I didn’t need a translator. It meant, Wash my back, rub my shoulders, take that little pumice thing and rub the rough spots off my feet, then leave me alone. But only after you refill the tub with hot water. And if you’re good, and don’t turn this into something else, I’ll let you shave my legs.

Abbie wasn’t selfish about much, except this. Tub time was her time. She might as well have hung a No Trespassing sign across the bathroom door. No matter how seductive the whole wet, bubbly, sweaty, hair pulled up picture might look. I sat on the edge and scrubbed her back. Abbie’s problem is that she’s a lot like a dog. When she doesn’t want you to stop, she’ll find places that don’t itch.

I don’t guess you need me to paint you a picture.

A little while later, we sat in the tub, having missed our dinner reservation and chances were slim for the show. I refilled the hot water and she lay back against me.

While the steam and heat spoke to us, I wrapped my arms around her waist. Her back to my chest. She placed my finger on her temple and said without a sound Trace me. So I did.

And there it was.

Just beneath the nipple on her left side. I pretended not to notice, but later that night, after the show, there it was again.