Free Brine by Kate; Smith Page B

said.
    “Allen, beneath all that confidence, you know she’s afraid.” Diane lowered her voice to a whisper. “Her life’s been turned upside down.”
    Allen cranked the car and then pressed the gas pedal, revving the engine.
    “And you don’t think mine has?” he asked.
    “You’re being selfish.”
    Allen struck the steering wheel with the palm of his hand and then looked over at Diane.
    “Am I?”
    Ishmael admired his tousled hair through the slit in the curtain. She had to admit, he looked handsomely tortured in the moment.
    “Sugar, I can think of far worse things,” Diane said. She put a hand on his shoulder. “Now let’s get this mermaid to the Atlantic before she dries out.”

 
PART TWO
East Coast

12
    SLOWLY ROUNDING THE LAST TURN, the truck navigated the dirt road toward number 38 White House Road, an address obviously stemming from the fact that it was the only house at the end of the road—and it was white. Thirty-eight ancient oak trees lined the road, nineteen on each side, left over from pre-Civil War days when the property had been a magnificent plantation with rice fields and slave quarters.
    The house, built before hurricane building codes, was two storied but sat low to the ground, vulnerable to floodwater, and was topped with a gabled roof that was known to act like a sail in the high winds of a seasonal gale. The roof miraculously hadn’t been ripped off, and number 38 stood sturdy and unscathed.
    The truck pulled to a stop in a cloud of dust, and Ishmael rose from her cocoon in the camper to peer out the window. Overflowing potted plants were scattered all over the property, growing vibrant and untrimmed. A garden was off to one side in the only spot of the dirt yard not shaded by the sweeping oak trees. A tall woman with deep walnut skin swept the back steps in the shadow of these trees: there was something arresting about the way she moved in the dappled light, her apron strings swaying with her movements. Ishmael grabbed the art supplies Allen had bought for her in Albuquerque and turned to a fresh page in her sketchbook.
    Diane got out of the truck, adjusting her shirt, and immediately started to apply lipstick in the side mirror. She and Allen obviously hadn’t noticed the woman.
    Ishmael peeked out the window, blowing on the page to get rid of the charcoal residue. Her hand slid across the paper, a character coming to life with swift, dark lines. The woman was hefty, sturdy like a tugboat. Her hair was short, wiry, and winter white—a dust of snow cresting on a mountain of a woman. Ishmael admired her quick rendition and set the sketchbook aside just as the woman on the steps rested her broom against the banister.
    “I feel so rude,” Diane said. She fixed her hair in the mirror and then tossed the lipstick in her purse and shut the door. “Not calling ahead. How do people not have a phone these days?”
    Ishmael climbed out of the camper, squinting in the white afternoon light.
    The woman on the steps crossed her arms over her large breasts. It was apparent she wasn’t expecting any visitors.
    “Thank y’all kindly for stopping by, but this here ain’t no motel.” The woman’s voice was strong. The words came out thick, like blackstrap molasses—bitter but good for you.
    “Oh my! How do you do?” Diane fluttered right in with all her Southern charm once she saw the woman. “Name’s Diane Dunaway. And this here is Allen Wilson.”
    The woman on the steps didn’t move or speak.
    Diane giggled nervously, “Our apologies for showing up unannounced. We’re looking for the grandmother of our friend here. Any chance you’re hiding a long-lost grandmother in that lovely house of yours?”
    Diane pushed Ishmael closer to the woman on the steps. “Lord, have mercy,” the woman whispered, staring at Ishmael. “Good- ness be.”
    The woman came down the steps. She got right in Ishmael’s face, studying it. She was taller than Ishmael and much heavier, with muscle and