Page 27 of The Wild Beneath

She taps the side of her soft-boiled egg with a spoon and makes a delicate crack in the shell. “Henry needs a deckhand. Get you out of the house and make yourself useful.”

Annie looks up from her plate. She doesn’t want Walker out of the house. “But Henry’s nearly out of diesel.”

“He’s planning to tow a sailboat down from the shipyard.”

“I’ve never seen him sail.” Annie tries to remove the shell from her egg, but it sticks to the white membrane.

“He used to crab off a Sunfish when we were kids. Five a.m. every Saturday with a brown bag lunch and a thermos.”

“What’s a Sunfish?” Walker asks, scooping his shells into the compost. His appetite is still voracious—­he’s finished five eggs. He doesn’t use a spoon, doesn’t like the clang of metal against ceramic.

“It’s a little board sailboat... only one halyard and one sheet.” Annie stops herself. A vision ofAmphitriteclamps around her heart. Small things: the weather-worn planks, and the look of her sails. Confident, unstoppable.

Ruth has a smile on her face. “He used to call herPegasus. Like a trusty steed.”

Annie tries to shake the memories.

“There’s a boat on the beach,” Walker says.

Ruth nods once. “Henry asked that you show him the ropes, honey.”

“The sailing dinghy?”

“He asked for you,” Ruth says, “but I thought you wouldn’t want to deckhand yourself yet.”

Annie shivers. Her temperature has been out of whack. The idea of being on the water makes her feel even colder. “No.”

Walker moves his stool toward her. His shoulder touches hers, and even through the fabric of his shirt, his heat is a furnace.

“Teach him the basics.” Ruth spoons out the hot, yellow yolk, then gives it a short blow. “Not far from shore, and not too long.”

“I don’t know what shape that dinghy’s in.” Annie puts her egg down. She’s lost her appetite.

“Go look at it.” Ruth has a way of pushing forward. “Henry thinks it’ll be good for you.”

Annie grimaces.

“I’ll come with you,” Walker says.

“Let her go alone, first,” Ruth says firmly.

Annie stands, takes the tackle box under her left arm and toes into her old running shoes. “I don’t know if I can do it.”

“You can,” Walker says, encouraging.

“Report back.” Ruth takes her last bite.

Annie forces herself to push open the screen door, walk out on the bluff, and climb down to the beach. The sun is out.

After the tsunami, they found the sailing dinghy tossed up on the bluff, wrapped in snakes of bulbous seaweed. They lowered it back down to the beach with the pulleys they used tohaul Walker up. Now it lies sideways on the high, dry part of the shore. The sail is tightly furled and tied.

Annie lays her hands on the hull and it sends a chill up her arms. She closes her eyes and tries to relax her abdominal muscles, lower her tight shoulders. Why can’t she unclench? She wants some kind of sign that it’s okay, that even though the ocean stole everything once, it won’t do it again. Not that she has anything left to give.

Annie doesn’t know how to wrestle herself through this fear. Ruth needs her to inch forward toward something less emotional. More functional. Annie can tell. She tries to make a silent deal with the boat that nothing terrible will happen—­not if she stays close to shore, not if she doesn’t lift the sail.

It doesn’t make any deals.

Walker’s on the bluff, at the top of the ladder, waiting for her to decide. Despite the distance between them, and the roll of the surf, his sound reaches out and reassures her, even when she doesn’t look up.