Free Float by Joeann Hart Page B

brother-in-law, who went down in the storm. Must be his foot, too.”
    “Why would he be in little pieces from a drowning?” asked Syrie. “Sounds like a shark.”
    “Bodies,” Osbert said, shaking his head. He put his cigar back in its case, then picked up his walking stick and used it to stand. He adjusted the crease in his pants and examined the wafer-thin watch on his wrist. “I’d like to come down and have a look at your operation, Leland. Why don’t I swing by on Monday, see the place, take you out to lunch? We’ll go to Manavilins!” He raised his stick to Judson Drake coming up the lawn, back from his conjugal visit with L’ark . “I have to talk to Judson. See you Monday, Leland.”
    He bowed to Syrie. “My dear.”
    And then he stepped over Chandu and was gone before Duncan could either agree or disagree. Duncan watched as a few more racers disembarked from the launch, balancing sail bags the size of futons on their shoulders. Others were already rolling out their mainsails on the lawn to dry as they talked about race rules and the foot. Nod was still at the mooring untangling his ropes and would be for a while. Usually he’d be at their own dock, but the rusty chains that held the float at their pier gave way in the storm, and it still hadn’t washed up.
    Syrie got up from her sofa and dropped down upon Osbert’s vacated seat as if she were a nymph sinking onto a lush mink throw.
    Duncan was acutely aware of being alone on the porch with Syrie. She was not pretty in the usual way—her face was mostly lips and chin, but the whole package was quite appealing. It always had been. Chunks of gold hung from her ears like figs and made her eyes sparkle. Did she think he was available? He knew how Club gossip swirled and eddied around every little disturbance in the social waters. His separation from Cora must be causing all sorts of speculation. They probably made more sense of it than he had. “Nice weather,” he said finally.
    “We’ll pay for it,” she said, talking slowly, as if she were charging him by the minute. “I saw you on TV.” Her movements were unhurried and deliberate as she slipped off her shoes and crossed her legs. “Nice moves with that seagull. You were a real hero.”
    “Not TV, exactly,” said Duncan. “YouTube.”
    “No, real TV. You were on the local news this morning. ‘Area businessman rescues seagull’—and then they showed you dancing with it. They interviewed Josefa to ask how the seagull was doing. It’s still alive, thanks to you.”
    Duncan looked out over the cove. Nearly invisible skeins of shore birds swooped close to the water and up again, driven by a communal sense of urgency as they prepared for their trip down south. He envied them their fixed routine. He wished he had somewhere to escape to. “I hope they happened to mention that it was art,” he said, not looking at her. “It wasn’t just me being ridiculous.” He turned toward her to make his case and was struck by the intensity with which she was looking at him.
    “Indeed,” she said, shifting in her rocker until she showed nearly all that was possible of her legs. “They also interviewed the adorable college kids who were running the project. Who knew so much theory could be wrung from so little art?” She sipped from her straw and watched him over the lip of her glass. “What is it that Osbert wants to wring out of you?”
    Duncan shrugged. “I’ll find out on Monday, I guess. Do you know him?”
    She pressed her lips together and looked up without moving her chin. “I wonder about him.”
    “What do you mean, wonder?”
    “He seems so normal, and then he doesn’t. And his only friend that I can tell is Beaky, that little guy with the rodent.”
    “It’s a ferret, not a rodent,” said Duncan. “His name is Fingers.”
    Syrie shuddered slightly. “At any rate, Osbert seems to have a mysterious disposal problem.” She leaned in closer to Duncan and put her mouth to his ear.