Free The Color of Water in July by Nora Carroll

what she discarded. “You’re right,” she said, reluctantly closing the album and placing it back on the pile. “I don’t think I’ll keep them. I just don’t have the space.”
    “They’ve got some sale value,” Russ said. “You’d be surprised how many people are poking around antique stores shopping for likely-looking ancestors.”

    Later that afternoon, the sun came out, and Jess and Russ went into town. Russ wanted to see if he could find more books about local architecture, so they headed for the bookstore. When they got there, the shadowy interior didn’t look as appealing to Jess as the bright day outside, so she decided to take a walk down along the marina while Russ was looking for books, and to meet him at the coffee place in a few minutes.
    The day was balmy and the air was dry, so pleasant in contrast to the humidity of the New York summer. She looked at the boats in the little city marina—big, hulking cabin cruisers with folding lawn chairs on the decks, enormous sailboats with their names painted in gold leaf:  The Harriet Ruth , Tipsy Topsy . There was an art fair going on in the park in front of the marina, artists with their wares spread out under white tents. The paintings were mostly bright watercolors with summery themes: sailing boats and lighthouses, children in striped bathing suits with sand buckets on the beach.
    Jess saw families walking around, dressed in crisp vacation clothes, bright white tennis shoes and polo shirts in pastel colors. Jess saw two brothers, certainly twins, maybe about six years old, throwing pieces of bread to the ducks that swam along in the sullied water just at the marina’s edge. Both children had tousled brown ringlets. She saw one boy bending forward on chubby legs, fingers wrapped around a bit of bread he was getting ready to throw, the other hand pressed down on the blue baseball cap he was wearing. His brother, his brow furrowed in concentration, was holding the bag carefully.
    Some of Jess’s colleagues at the library had children. She would sometimes see them on their way to private schools, the boys wearing blazers, the girls bare legged with knobby knees above their woolen kneesocks. That was probably how she had looked as a child—crossing city streets with her hand gripped roughly in a nanny’s hand, or climbing awkwardly into a taxi with her satchel, her violin case whacking her uncomfortably in the knee.
    The boys ran out of bread and sprinted back to their mother, who was wearing black bike shorts and a white sweatshirt with pictures of sailboats on it.
    “Come on, guys,” the woman said. “Let’s go meet Daddy for a Happy Meal.” And off they walked.
    Jess imagined that if she and Russ ever had a child, it would be more likely to slurp sesame noodles out of a paper takeout carton than to ever eat a Happy Meal. A Happy Meal . . . Well, she and Russ hadn’t discussed having children much, except for the obvious fact that in New York City, they would never be able to afford to have more than one.
    Jess walked back to the coffee place, where she saw Russ sitting at an outside table with a black coffee and a stack of books in front of him.
    “What did you find?” she asked him.
    “There is some pretty good small-press stuff here. Look, here’s one about the history of lumbering in this area. This one’s about the Earl Young houses, these cottages on the north shore made out of stone. This one’s even up your alley—it’s got some poetry in it.”
    Russ handed Jess the slim paperback volume, bound in shiny blue paper. She turned it so that she could see the title : Cathedral of the Pines: Musings of a Sometime Woodsman . She didn’t even need to read the author’s name, because there was his face, on the back cover.
    She opened the book slowly. The dedication caught her eye.
    For J .

CHAPTER NINE
    J ESS , AGE SEVENTEEN
    As it does in the north part of Michigan, the weather had suddenly turned colder and stormy, and there