Free The Art of Floating by Kristin Bair O’Keeffe Page B

home.”
    â€œOdysseus,” M whispered. “You’re right, Stuart. Odysseus.” M sat up. “That’s it.” Then she leapt out of bed and raced to the attic.
    Barefoot, Stuart padded along after her. “M? M? What are you doing? It’s three A.M. ”
    She flipped on the light and began rooting in boxes—tossing aside prom gowns and Halloween masks and Christmas decorations—until she came up with her old, dog-eared copy of Lattimore’s translation of
The Odyssey
. She held it over her head triumphantly. “Ta-da!”
    â€œOh, no, not that again, M.” Stuart leaned his head against an exposed beam.
    â€œOh, yes, Stuart. That.” She turned to Book 1. “Tell me, Muse . . .” she read out loud, and in that moment, her second obsession with Homer’s magnum opus began. This one even more passionate than the first.

CHAPTER 22
    â€œWhatdo we want?” Joe Laslow shouted into his megaphone.
    â€œOpen beaches!” the crowd hollered.
    â€œWhen do we want them?” he shouted.
    â€œNow!”
    â€œWhat do we want?”
    â€œOpen beaches!”
    â€œWhen do we want them?”
    â€œNow!”
    â€¢Â Â â€¢Â Â â€¢
    The troupe stomped from end to end of Beach #3’s parking lot and back, realizing after seven laps that the march might have had more impact had they worn Doc Martens or military boots instead of rubbery flip-flops, but feeling pretty good despite the feeble flip-flop-slap because for the first time ever, they were going to have the last word. Every staunch plover lover was off searching for Jackson, and while all of the protesters—even Joe Laslow—would join the search soon enough, they’d chosen not to cancel the march . . . believing, like most everyone, that Jackson would show up soon enough.
    The crowd halted its forward momentum five feet past the “Closed” sign, and after forty-five minutes, a final shout rose up: “Man trumps plover! Man trumps plover! Man trumps plover!”

CHAPTER 23
    As Siashook sand from her shoes just outside the front door, Jillian zipped into the driveway in her lime green Mini Cooper. Perched on two pillows so she could see over the steering wheel, she waved and held up a newspaper.
    â€œI’ve got two of everything,” she hollered out the window.
    â€œSssh,” Sia said, a finger to her lips. “He’s sleeping.”
    â€œStill?” Jilly answered in a shouted whisper.
    â€œI hope so. I just got back.”
    â€œFrom where?”
    â€œThe beach. I wanted to see if I could find any evidence before the tide came in.”
    Jillian tumbled from the car with an armful of newspapers. “Evidence?” she said.
    â€œYes, anything that Toad might have left behind that I missed.”
    â€œThanks, Sia,” Jillian said. “You could have taken me.” She hugged the papers to her chest and trip-trapped up the sidewalk on a pair of red-heeled sandals.
    â€œIt was a quick trip, Jil. Just a reconnaissance mission.”
    â€œStill . . .”
    â€œI’m sorry. I just figured I could do it faster by myself.”
    Her statement was only a little bit true, and they both knew it. Sure, Jilly would have blurred the focus, but if anything, she would have speeded up the journey, bouncing on her springy legs down the beach like a kangaroo, forcing Sia to keep up. But the bottom line? Sia hadn’t wanted company. This was hers. Toad, and whatever his appearance meant, was hers. Just like Jackson and his disappearance. Sharing wasn’t an option.
    â€œDid you find anything?” Jilly asked.
    â€œNothing but our footprints.”
    â€¢Â Â â€¢Â Â â€¢
    After confirming that Toad was still asleep, they settled in the sunroom with the newspapers. Sia was just repentant enough to let Jilly participate, and Jilly felt bad that she’d pushed too hard too fast. As