Free Twillyweed by Mary Anne Kelly Page A

go,” she called in.
    â€œOkay,” he called out. No Hold on, I’ll walk you home .
    She felt in the dark for her boots, grabbed her jacket, still trembling with the spinning of it, into the blinding brilliant sunlight. Just get away quick was all she could think. On the ladder over the side she hesitated. Just in case he would call up to her. No. No sound. She’d left her panties on the floor. Damn. Nobody around. A crass sound made her jump and she looked up on the prow, but it was only a crane, a small rangy one, watching her. A baby one, maybe. She buttoned up her jean jacket. She ran, footfalls muffled on the deck, past the spot on the beach from where she’d first seen him, alluring and smirking. The wind hit her and she was cold again now, so she continued running, under the cover of sunlight and end-of-May wet wind, up the hill, way, way up the hill to somewhere else, anywhere but here and who she knew she was.
    Claire
    I hung around, spent the day poking around the town, exploring the shops and the library, thinking I might run into Jenny Rose, but I never did. The low clouds had moved along and the evening was sunlit by the time I made my way down to the marina. It was a good way by foot and I was reminded again just how out of shape I’d become. There was a parking lot and then seven or eight rows of boats. I went into a restaurant called the Hideaway that catered to the sailors and occasional townies. It wasn’t serving dinner yet but someone who looked like he might be the owner—collared shirt and mildly prosperous looking—was sitting there with another man, a delivery man in a route uniform.
    â€œExcuse me.” I approached their table in the sudden dark and asked if they knew Noola’s son’s boat. They both shrugged. Behind the bar a wiry old fellow in an undershirt was carting a full pail of calamari entrails. He dumped the slimy lot into a bin, covered it, and shut it tight, then pulled a stogie from his mouth, and said to no one in particular, “That’ll be Morgan Donovan’s boat.”
    â€œOh, Morgan !” they both said at once, sitting taller with the sure air of respect. They pointed me over toward the third dock. “He’s got that forty-foot sloop out there, the Gnomon . She’s docked right next to the schooner, the For Sail . Get it?” The route guy spelled it out. “For S-A-I-L ?”
    â€œHa-ha. I get it. Thanks.” I took off down the walkway and checked off the names of one pretty boat after the next. I don’t know anything about boats except I like to be on one. This sloop was navy blue and white and clean as a whistle. The Gnomon . It rocked gently in the flood of evening gold. “Hello!” I called. “Mr. Donovan!” There seemed to be no one there. I didn’t like to peek below deck. There was a bell, a big brass one, up on the deck and I climbed on board and pulled its cord so it clanged.
    A man’s head popped up, surprised, and whacked on the beam. “Jesus Christ!” he shouted, rubbing his head. He was a onetime redheaded, now amber-haired fellow, weathered tan from years of sun and fuzzed with gold. My first thought was, Uh-oh, he looks like a golfer .
    â€œWhat the hell’s wrong with you?” he yelled, and in what sounded to me like a Scottish accent he raved on, “Can’t you give a cry out before you come on board? You scared the crap out of me!”
    â€œI did.” I took two steps back. “You’re wearing earphones!”
    â€œWhat?” His eyes were greenish gold.
    â€œI said you’re wearing earphones!”
    â€œOh!” He slipped them off and threw them violently down on his bench. “Well, you’ve done a fine job messing up me varnish!”
    I looked down and behind me and saw my own footprints. “Oh my gosh! I’m so sorry.”
    â€œWomen.” He shook his head scornfully. And with that he picked