But she mumbles these words instead, a soft admission: “I don’t really hate the rain,” she tells me.
And then she falls back asleep, there in my arms, and I wish for her to have happy dreams.
26
I drift in and out. Dreams mix with the wild scene outside—pirate ships plying the coast; men in slickers with treasure maps digging greedily at the wet sand; thunder transmuting into cannon-fire as my imagination melds the real and the unreal.
At one point, a man appears at the window in a yellow raincoat and yellow rain cap. He looks nothing like a pirate. He looks like Ness. It is much later that I realize it was him, that he came back home to find the note from his ex, the house empty, and checked on us here before deciding to leave us sleeping.
Even though I’m wide awake now, I let Holly doze with her head on my arm. I’m struck again by how quickly she took to me, and I hope it’s a healthy thing. It could be that she’s perfectly well adjusted, that she’s bright and courageous and comfortable in her own skin. Or it could be that she is desperately seeking something that’s missing from her life. I’m no expert in child psychology, so I have no way of knowing which is more likely.
And maybe I’m looking too far for the culprit. Maybe the one desperate to connect is me. I push this question aside, not caring to examine it. When Holly stirs, I wiggle my arm free and get up to use the bathroom. She’s outside the door when I get out, rubbing her eyes and yawning. We trade places without a word between us.
“I think your father is home,” I say when she emerges. “And we napped through lunch. Should we go up to the house?”
She nods, looks out at the rain, then back to me. “Maybe we should just run for it,” she says.
“Let’s do it.”
We squeal and laugh all the way to the house, getting soaked. We arrive at the living room to find folded towels set out for us and one on the floor just inside the door. Ness appears while we’re drying our hair. “I’m going to my room to change,” Holly announces. “Let me know when lunch is ready.” She drops her towel in a heap and marches toward the north breezeway.
“How about a hello?” Ness asks his daughter. “Maybe a hug?”
Holly makes an exaggerated turn, like a jetliner banking through the clouds, and steers toward her dad. She gives him a perfunctory hug, rolling her eyes at me, and then pads off for her room.
“I am so sorry,” Ness says. “Something came up, and I had no idea Holly would be—”
“It’s okay,” I tell him.
“—hate you had to babysit—”
“It was fine. We had a good time. The rain probably messed up whatever you were going to show me anyway.”
“Well, not really. It’s supposed to storm all day tomorrow as well, but it won’t affect us. In fact, we have a series of flights to take tonight.”
He glances at his watch. I’ve noticed that he does this constantly. It’s a trait I’ve seen in a lot in the people I’ve interviewed over the years. For some, it’s because they live by appointments: you’re lucky to get fifteen minutes of their time. For others, it’s ambition: they’re in a race to get all they want accomplished. Ness is a playboy without a schedule, so he fits neither of these easy molds. Perhaps he’s a third type: the schoolboy wondering when class will get out and he’ll have his freedom again. Maybe he only does this around people like me, obligations he’d rather not have.
“Where are we going?” I ask. Funny, I expected to travel someplace exotic when I first got here, and now I don’t want to leave.
“It’s a surprise,” Ness says. “Besides, if I told you the name of the place or where it was, you still wouldn’t have a clue about our final destination.”
“Will we be diving?”
Ness cocks his head. “In a way. Now stop asking questions—”
“I’m a reporter,” I remind him. “You stop picking up shells.”
“I just might,” he says. And before I can press him on this, he’s telling me what to pack. “One change of clothes, toothbrush, toiletries, no makeup, no perfume, no mask or fins, no wetsuit, no bathing suit.”
“That’s a list of what not to pack,” I say.
“Comfortable clothes. Shorts. T-shirt. Nothing too warm.”
I’m confused. Nothing warm, but no bathing suit?
Again, he glances at his watch. “We’ll leave in half an hour.”
“What about Holly?” I ask.
“Monique will watch her until her mother picks her up. Speaking of which, I got an earful from Vicky about who was in my bed this morning when she got here.” He lifts an eyebrow in a Care to explain that? sorta way.
“I wasn’t in your bed,” I say. “I was … I got drenched running up here after I found your note. I went in search of a towel, found your bathroom first—”
“And my robe.”
“And your robe, yes. My clothes are in the dryer. I was looking at pictures of Holly on your desk when your ex came in.”