Free Grave Concern by Judith Millar Page A

back to the stern. He sat down and took the tiller, pumping it back and forth. He backed the sails to get the boat moving.
    Dr. Enderby called, “Hey, I forgot to ask. J.P.: you’re a good swimmer, right?”
    â€œSure am, sir!” J.P. yelled. Oops, Nicholas had forgotten. They hardly ever brought lifejackets, just took swimming skills for granted. He sure hoped J.P. was actually telling the truth, and not just being charming.
    Suddenly, the wind caught the mainsail and the boat heeled up, alarming J.P., who threw himself to the high, dry side.
    â€œWhoa, man, is it s’posed to do that?”
    â€œOnly when we beat upwind,” Nicholas laughed. “It’s called heeling. Get your ass up here and lean out like this. It’s pretty cool.”
    J.P., who had only ever had an occasional ride in an uncle’s motorboat, looked terrified as the mast groaned and the taut sails strained against the wind. His face spoke his thoughts: their lives were now on the line and clearly soon to end.
    â€œYou can swim, right?” Nicholas said. “You weren’t just bullshitting.”
    J.P. sneered. “Would I bullshit about a thing like that?” Then he grinned, and Nicholas noticed a broken tooth toward the back of his mouth. Had he always had that?
    Nicholas set the boat on a firm course, and J.P. seemed to calm down. It didn’t take him long to figure out that a “sheet” was a rope, and a “cleat” could save the hands from a nasty shredding. Pretty soon, they were whipping along, the water whizzing below their wet bums on the tilted deck, laughing and singing at the top of their lungs dirty songs J.P.’s dad had brought back from the war.

    There was much more to it than Kate had told Nicholas. There’d been, in fact, a second assignation. A mild April evening, snowmelt pouring from every rain gutter, roadside ditches full of dark earth-smell. Kate had just curled a full ten ends, persuaded by her father to fill in for the vacationing Third on his team. She’d done all right, but still wasn’t that enamoured of the game.
    Kate left first and stood outside the arena, waiting for her dad. The night was dark, no moon or stars. Not a breath of wind. Out of the quiet, an echo of male voices, guys swaggering along the road below the hill. Big flapping army coats, f-word frequent, boot steps loud on the dank air. Behind Kate, the arena door opened and closed for no apparent reason, briefly illuminating a rectangle of ground — and Kate herself. On the road, an explosion of laughter, lowered voices. Her father still had not emerged. Kate continued to stare blindly into the night. The voices and footsteps softened and faded out.
    Then he was there. Somehow, in Kate’s eye-dark, J.P. had materialized. Left his friends, she supposed, and returned, climbing the silent, snowy hill to where she stood on the gravel drive.
    â€œMy dad’ll be out any second,” she said, glancing worriedly behind.
    â€œTell him you got another ride,” J.P. said.
    Kate smiled and went inside. When she emerged from the arena, J.P. was gone. She groaned and clenched her fists. He stepped from the shadow of a cedar, barely touched his lips to hers and took her hand. Kate was electrified.
    They descended the hill J.P. had just climbed, flailing through the crumbling snow. Once down on pavement, they swam through pools of street light. House after house glided by. People watching TV. People eating. Someone pumping iron. Someone holding a baby, playing peek-a-boo. But these activities were of another world. Nothing looked the same to Kate as before.
    They’d walked along quite a while before Kate was able to follow a single line of reason in her head. When she did, it wasn’t comforting: My dad’ll be expecting me when he walks in. And my mom will wonder why I’m not with him.
    â€œTell your folks a friend asked you to sleep over,” J.P. said,