Free Without a Grave by Marcia Talley Page B

drunken trail in the sand that would send Daniel scurrying for his rake – and propped the wood up against her generator shed where it could dry out.
    The previous day, I’d run into Molly coming out of the post office carrying a grocery sack of mail and a huge parcel with ‘Molly Weston, Bonefish Cay, Abaco, Bahamas’ printed on the side in black Magic Marker.
    â€˜You must be my neighbor, Molly Weston,’ I said.
    â€˜How . . . ?’ Then she blushed. ‘Might as well be wearing a name tag, huh?’
    I relieved her of the package, and followed her down to her dinghy. Ten minutes later, we’d bonded instantly over tea and Scottish shortbread on the porch at Windswept .
    Now I stood at the end of my new friend’s dock where she’d hung a bronze bell of the sort used by teachers in olden days to call children in from recess. I grabbed the leather thong attached to the clapper and gave the bell a vigorous ding-dong-ding-dong-ding before starting up the sidewalk that led to Molly’s deck.
    â€˜I’m he-ah!’ Molly drawled from somewhere inside the house. ‘Come in!’
    I slid the screen door to one side and stepped into a brightly lit kitchen that opened into a pine-paneled living and dining room area offering a spectacular panorama of the sea.
    Molly (or some Weston before her) certainly had a knack for interior design. A white wicker sofa and two matching chairs covered with flowered chintz and a scattering of pillows were arranged in a conversational grouping around a pot-bellied stove. Paintings by local artists decorated the walls. On a credenza behind the sofa Molly had arranged a collection of photographs. One, framed in sea shells, was an obvious family grouping. Everyone posed informally, arms draped casually around one another. I was trying to figure out where and when the photo had been taken when Molly entered the room.
    â€˜That’s me at six,’ she explained. ‘With my mom and dad.’
    â€˜You look very tropical. I assume it was taken on Bonefish Cay?’
    She nodded, pink lips parted in a wistful smile. ‘A very long time ago.’
    In the photograph, a muddy-kneed but otherwise immaculate Molly wore a white pinafore with red rick-rack trim, white ankle socks and white patent-leather Mary Janes. Six decades later, she seemed to favor the same color combination – white clam diggers, a red T-shirt, and white lace-up tennis shoes. Instead of pigtails, though, the grown-up Molly’s hair was cut in a stylish wedge; silver strands feathered attractively over the tips of her ears.
    â€˜I found a sheet of plywood in the woods,’ I said, getting straight to the point. ‘I was wondering if it belonged to you.’
    â€˜Could be. There’s a lot of trash in there. Found a sink once, and a rusted-out water heater.’ She grinned. ‘Where is it?’
    â€˜Down by your generator. Come see.’
    When Molly surveyed the plywood a few minutes later, she said, ‘From the nail holes I’d say it’s an old hurricane shutter. Washed ashore. Can you use it?’
    â€˜Do you mind? I promised Winnie I’d find some wood she could use for a replacement “El Mirador Go Home” sign.’
    Molly’s blue eyes sparkled. ‘Why shu-ah. Need help?’
    â€˜Thanks. I was wondering how I was going to get it over there.’
    â€˜We can use my Zodiac. It’s a little wider than Pro Bono . And I have bungee cords we can use to strap the wood on.’
    I rubbed my hands together briskly. ‘Let’s do it!’
    When I get to be Molly’s age – seventy-two – I plan to be as spry and nimble as she. Barely one hundred pounds soaking wet, it was said Molly could single-hand her Zodiac inflatable in the worst of weathers, schlep bags to and from the grocery, and lift items so bulky that even Daniel stood in awe of her. ‘Miz Molly, she work like a