Sanibel Flats

'Well . . . you have to allow me some creative latitude. Not much, though.' Smiling as she found him, inspecting. 'I've decided to call the piece Sanibel Flats. I thought about Littoral Zone, one of those marine biology terms. Doc—' The touching stopped now, but she was still holding him. 'There's something else I need to tell you.' An edge in her voice, as if she had put it off long enough.

'Umm . . . it's getting tough to concentrate.' But listening carefully.

'I'm leaving for New York day after tomorrow. It was Benny's idea, but I think he's right. I need to circulate more. People don't just buy art, they buy the artist. There's a big show and an auction on Wednesday. It's a private show, but they'll let anyone in who looks like they have lots and lots of money. A few of my pieces are going to be included. I'll be back by Friday. Benny flew out this morning, made the reservations. I insisted on a Friday return. I just don't want you to worry about Benny and me. There's nothing there. Do you believe me?'

Ford said, 'You have no reason to lie to me, Jessi,' looking for a reaction that didn't materialize. Jessica kissed him and they didn't talk anymore.

Her nose touching the cool glass of the upstairs window, Jessica McClure watched Ford go down the porch steps, across the dark yard to the dock where moonlight broke free of the trees and showed him plainly. She liked the look of him, the shape of him and the way he moved, and when he stepped into his boat she could almost feel the weight of him on her; a good feeling both comforting and sensual, and she cultivated the feeling, reluctant to let it go, as she watched the little skiff carry him away.

'Why don't you stay the night, Doc?' asking even though she knew his mind was made up; could tell by the methodical way he buckled his belt and found his shoes, but interested in what his excuse would be.

'Because ... I don't want to.'

That simple. It made her smile, the honesty of it. Maybe that's what she loved in him most—his honesty, or at least his frankness; and just thinking that surprised her a little.

What I love in him most. . . .

She was in love with him, though she hadn't said it to him, or even admitted it to herself. In love with him . . . the way he looked, the way he felt, the way his hard hands touched softly, softly, and the way he settled onto her couch, his distant, driven expression slowly replaced by a look of contentment as she lighted the candles and put on music. He was becoming home to her, and maybe she was becoming home to him —and perhaps that's what love was.

Jessica pulled jeans on over her panties, a baggy T-shirt, and went downstairs thinking about what it would be like to live with Ford, thinking she wasn't getting any younger, thinking of the way it might be: him out in his lab (a new lab in an old house they would buy and she would decorate) while she finished her own work, and they would take turns with the cooking (he was a good cook, that she already knew); two professionals with different work but one life, and she needed to start having children soon . . . and that was part of this new realization, that she was in love with Ford. Her biological clock was ticking away, and she needed to get started. She needed a husband. Ford liked children—he'd said so. The way he talked about those poor Indian kids in . . . Guatemala, was it? . . . hunting in the garbage dumps for food. The memory had hurt him; she could see it in his eyes. He was a strange man in a way, and his coldness sometimes frightened her, but he would be a good father. And at night, when the kids were in bed, they could sit together outside on the porch, talking about future things, things they would do together, and about their past. . . .

Their past . . .

The thought of that crackled through her fantasy, shearing it at the foundations and scattering it like so many leaves.

You stupid, lonely hitch—mooning around like some soap-opera housewife.

Why the hell didn't Ford ever ask her any questions about it? That would have made it so much easier. Would have made it seem less like a confession. But that was wrong, too, and she castigated herself: You call him out here to explain things to him, but instead you lie to him and hustle him into bed. He would have understood! He could help! Nothing surprises that man. . . .

Jessica put the kettle on for tea, then walked back into the living room, patting each cat and whispering its name. She stood before the easel, flipped back the dust cover, and considered the painting. The wading man stared back at her, his faceless expression a pale void. She hand-cranked the canvas higher on the easel wings and began to prepare the palette cups, the smell of gesso primer and linseed oil coming strongly from the sketch box. But then the telephone rang.

Well, the big softy is calling to say good night.

Smiling, she went to the phone, picked it up, and her expression changed. She said, 'What do you want?' Then: 'Goddamn it, Benny, I'm done with all that. No more! Absolutely not! You said we had a deal!' She listened for a time, and her voice grew dull: 'Okay . . . okay . . . okay.' Then she said: 'Don't ever call me this late again, you son of a bitch,' and slammed down the phone.

The kettle was screaming, and she ran to the kitchen. She was trembling; she wanted to throw something, she wanted to curl up in a fetal position and bawl like a baby.

Instead, she turned off the stove and went back to the easel, forcing a coldness upon herself, knowing that the only escape, for now, was in the oblivion of work, thinking: You've survived worse. . . .

It was nearly 1 A.M. by the time Ford got back to the stilt house, dropping his boat off plane way early just in case the happy sea cow was around. The marina looked sleepy, all the lights shimmering and a few solitary silhouettes on the docks. He turned on the lights of the fish tank. There were the squid, back in among the rocks and the sea anemones. They looked a little pasty, lethargic. That worried him. He'd do a salinity check tomorrow. Check the oxygen content, too.

He went upstairs, put hot water on for tea, tuned in Radio Havana, stripped off his clothes. The fresh water supply was a wooden cistern above and beside the tin roof, heated by the sun. The shower was outside on the side deck, and Ford stood under the shower lathering, rinsing, lathering again. Singing a little bit, too: 'Moon River' in Spanish; good old Radio Havana. He was just reaching for his glasses when he heard a noise, someone clearing a throat. And there stood Dr. Sheri Braun-Richards, looking starched and athletic, holding one hand against her face like a blinder.

'Hey!'

'My gosh, I thought for sure you had a bathing suit on or something.' She was laughing, not looking at him.

'Hold it . . . I've got a towel here—' 'People don't do this sort of thing in Iowa, you know. Walking around naked, singing in the middle of the night. I think there are laws against what you do in Iowa. I'm almost sure of it.'

'I just put it . . . someplace. Glasses all wet . . . wait; no, that isn't it—'

'It's okay, it's okay, I'm a doctor.' Laughing harder, coming up the stairs. 'Here—here's your towel,' handing him the towel. She stared directly into his eyes as Ford dried himself, amused, but a nice touch of frankness. Ford liked that. He said, 'I have some clothes inside.' 'That's one way to keep them clean. Very innovative.' 'You and your friends stayed late. I was hoping I'd see you again, but I got held up.' Already lying about Jessica. But he was just being friendly, he told himself, a good host, and there really wasn't any question of morality because he expected nothing from Jessica and she expected nothing from him . . . and now he was lying to himself, too.

Dr. Braun-Richards was saying 'Two of my friends went back to the hotel. Another is on the blue sailboat . . . probably for the night. For the first couple of hours, I stuck around hoping to see your lab. Then I didn't have a ride. So I've been talking to Jeth. I've heard all about you.'

Ford wrapped the towel around his waist, adjusted his glasses. 'I can give you a ride. Or you can borrow my bike, my ten-speed. ' Which sounded as if he were trying to get rid of her; he could see it in her face. So he added, 'But, if you're not in a hurry, I could show you around. I usually stay up late working. ' Which seemed to make her feel better. 'Jeth told me that. He said you're like a hermit out here. All you do is work in your lab and drink a quart of beer every night. Sounds like a nice life to me, Ford. Oh yeah, he told me something else; told me several times, in fact. He said you never take any time for fun, not even women.' Giving that a wry touch, aware of what Jeth was trying to do. 'He said you're just too involved with your work. I admire that kind of dedication, but Jeth says you need to relax more. The people at the marina worry about you. Yes, they're very worried about you, Doc