“Yes, I did,” I said, my voice almost a whisper. There was something magical and fairy tale–like about that place of black mud and marshes, of insect symphonies and long-legged birds with elegant necks, where dolphins leaped from the water right in front of you. It made me feel as if everything in my life, all the gains and all the losses, had always been leading me there.
Owen continued to stare out at the water, as if by doing so he could make the dolphin reappear. “We used to have a bench swing in our backyard that Mama called her happy place. She says that wherever we live, we should always find a happy place—kind of like ‘base’ in a game of tag, where you can go and all of your problems and worries can’t touch you.” He opened his eyes wider, mirroring the ceiling of blue sky that was big enough to fall into. “I think this dock would be mine.”
Gibbes placed a hand on his shoulder. “And you’re welcome to come here anytime, Rocky.” He looked at his watch. “We should get going. I checked the tide schedule to make sure we don’t get shortchanged on our time. You can always tell the tourists, because they put in on the side of the sandbar that gets covered up first when the tide comes in, and I want to make sure that we’re not right there with them.”
Gibbes and Owen helped Maris and me into the boat before settling in themselves. I kept my hands pressed between my knees, trying very hard to keep my mouth closed and not shout in alarm every time Owen or Maris put their hands in the water. I watched the water carefully from under the brim of my visor, keeping an eye out for any alligators that might have the idea of eating children’s fingers for breakfast, and felt the soft slap of my silk chiffon scarf against my shoulders as we moved out into the river.
“You okay?” Gibbes shouted over the sound of the motor.
I gave him a thumbs-up, feeling the sun and the spray of water on my skin. I took off the visor and tilted my face, imagining myself rising from the dark depths beneath and guided upward by the light of the sun.
Despite the early hour, the sandbar was crowded as we neared—although not nearly as crowded as it would be in another half hour, Gibbes assured me. It looked like an abstract painting while we were still far away, with splotches of bright nylon colors dotted against the sandy background, and white bouncing shapes tethered closely to the strip of sand, bobbing and dancing to the rhythm of various songs playing at the same time. It should have been garish and loud and overwhelming, but I felt my stomach leap with excitement.
Cal had come there as a boy and a young man growing up. Maybe somehow I’d find in the waves and the sand the boy he’d been, the boy I’d seen glimpses of. The boy I’d loved and the parts of him that had loved me back. If I were to make any sense of my seven-year marriage, I needed to find him.
Because our boat was small, Gibbes was able to maneuver it to the front row of watercraft—including a couple of yachts, a few larger motorboats, and some stump-knockers like ours that looked even older—and dropped anchor in the direction of the incoming tide. He did it with a precision of movement, a sleek show of muscle that made the roof of my mouth like flypaper to my tongue.
He took off his life jacket and tossed it in the boat, then kicked off his topsiders while the children shed their own jackets and shoes. Then Gibbes hopped out of the boat, standing in water that wasn’t even up to his knees. He lifted Maris out and then Owen—keeping the wrapped ankle dry was already a lost cause—and watched them until they were completely up on the sand before turning to me. I looked down at the water, wondering how high it would be on my legs.
“Are you going to take off your life jacket?” he asked softly.
I looked at all the people on the sandbar, noticing that not a single one of them wore a jacket. I looked uncertainly at Gibbes.
“I’ll hold your hand the whole time and not let go. But I won’t carry you.”
His words would have provoked anger in me only a few weeks before. But I saw them now not as a challenge, but a direction on a path. A path I’d been wandering ever since the night my mother died.
I quickly undid the buckles of my life jacket, then looked over the edge of the boat. While I was wondering what the most graceful way would be to get into the water, Gibbes placed his hands on either side of my waist and lifted me over. Instead of plopping me in the water as he’d done with Owen and Maris, he held me for a moment, then slowly slid me into the water until my toes touched the soft, wet sand.
“How does it feel?”
His voice was close to my ear, his breath warm on my neck. My tongue was finding it hard to dislodge itself from the roof of my mouth. “Fine,” I finally managed, feeling only his hands on my waist and my chest pressed against his.
“Good.” He pulled away and took my hand, just as he’d promised, and led me to the sand. When I was safely standing next to Owen and Maris, Gibbes regarded me closely. “If I’m going to unload the boat, you’re going to have to let go of my hand.”