Chapter Two

 

 

 

Morgan stared at her hand. It remained on the ignition, where it had lingered for ten minutes while she watched Ray Russo’s daughter struggle with the dilapidated dinghy a few moorings over. She quelled the desire to offer further assistance. The look in those brown eyes had been clear: I don’t want your help. That didn’t mean Morgan hadn’t noticed how desperately she clearly needed it. The grief in the other woman’s face had hit Morgan like a mule kick to the gut. She doesn’t need you to save her. The way the woman’s knuckles had whitened on the oars flashed across her mind. What was she afraid of? And her mouth, before it had twisted with determination, with her lips parted and vulnerable—stop. She didn’t normally have this level of empathy for complete strangers, no matter how attractive. Then again, the woman wasn’t exactly a stranger, was she?

“I should’ve said something.” Her dog pricked his ears at her voice, but when she didn’t add anything else, he lay back down on the deck. A lump rose in her throat as she sat in the captain’s chair and let her hand fall to her lap. She still couldn’t believe Ray was gone. Over the sunlit water, his daughter curled up on the bow of his boat. Morgan saw the glint of light on glass and a deep red glow: wine. The sight made the lump larger. Drinking alone on her boat was what had first brought Ray into Morgan's life, back when she didn’t know the first thing about operating her twenty-one-foot Bayliner. She had been afraid to take it out and just as afraid of admitting to herself that she had no idea what she was doing. Ray had set her straight.

Well, not about the drinking. She’d helped him home several times over the past few years. Seeing his daughter with a bottle to her lips roused a bittersweet pang. She hoped the girl knew when to stop. Ray never had. The thought settled the decision. She’d stay in the harbor instead of nipping up the tidal river for a little fishing. Being on the water, even if she didn’t move, was better than the chaos of the house she shared with her friends. She leaned back in the chair and watched the clouds turn pink, then orange, as the sun descended further into the western sky. The late May light softened the grays and blacks of the rocky shoreline with its shuttered summer homes and brooding pines.

Emilia. That was her name, same as Ray’s boat. Ray had mentioned she’d come to stay with him in the summer when she was younger, but Morgan had no memory of anyone who looked remotely like Emilia Russo ever setting foot in Seal Cove. She let her gaze drift back down to the sailboat, remembering the coldness in those brown eyes and the flush of embarrassment across Emilia's olive skin. Hot and cold. She wiped her palms on her pants, aware that the sudden prick of sweat heralded danger.

The majority of the moorings were empty this early in the season. Few of the summer people had arrived, and only the locals and the lobstermen and women had their boats in the water. Morgan preferred it this way. Quiet. Tranquil. It gave her a break from the hectic schedule of the clinic, which had lost its other full-time large animal veterinarian in April, and it also gave her a break from her housemates. It wouldn’t be the same this year without Ray, though. Settling deeper in her chair, she propped her feet on the dash and closed her eyes.

Morgan jerked awake some time later as her phone vibrated on her hip. A message from her friend Stevie glowed on the screen: You’re late.

She ignored it. Sunset brought cold air in from the ocean, and she inhaled the lingering winter chill.

A splash caught her attention. She shoved her phone back in her pocket as a string of obscenities carried over the water. Her dog woke at once and bounded to the rail with his tail upright and alert. Morgan stared around the harbor for the source of the disturbance. The fading sunlight cast long shadows, and the water surrounding the neighboring boats looked nearly black.

Emilia no longer sprawled over the bow of the sailboat. This, paired with the frantic barking of the woman’s dog, clued Morgan in.

“Shit.” She fired up the engine and sprang to unhook her boat from its mooring. The Maine water was still dangerously cold this time of year, especially for someone drinking. She gunned the engine as much as she dared in close quarters, not wanting to slap Emilia with wake, and circled around to bring her boat alongside the Emilia Rosa. She tossed a bumper out of habit and looped a hasty line around a cleat to keep the boats from drifting, then leaned over the bow to extend a hand to the woman clinging to the sailboat’s hull.

“Here.”

“I’m fine,” Emilia said through chattering teeth. The anger in her voice made Morgan flinch.

“Like hell you are. Give me your hand.”

“No.”

“Seriously?” Morgan leaned over further and grabbed Emilia by the wrists. She pried her grip away from the sailboat and hauled Emilia over the rail, thankful for the rigorous requirements of her job. The greyhound stopped barking at once.

Emilia looked too startled at the sudden change in her circumstances to speak right away, and instead stood in a steadily growing puddle on the deck of Morgan’s boat. The thick wool sweater she wore—one of Ray’s, Morgan realized—sagged on her slender frame, and her brown hair dripped into her face. Morgan rummaged through the storage cabinet in the bow and pulled out a beach towel. Surfing penguins emblazoned the worn cotton, but if Emilia found it insensitive she kept it to herself.

“Your dog okay with other dogs?” she asked Emilia. She didn’t love the idea of an unknown dog on her boat, but neither did she like the thought of leaving an animal behind. If it was anything like Emilia, it might decide to go for a swim, and greyhounds were notoriously cold intolerant. Two hypothermia victims weren’t on her docket for the evening.

Emilia nodded.

“What’s her name?”

“Nell.”

“Nell, come,” Morgan said in the soft but firm voice she reserved for skittish animals. The greyhound leapt onto the boat in a scrabble of claws and flung herself at her owner. Her own dog, Kraken, grumbled at this invasion of his space, but obeyed Morgan’s sharp command to stay put.

“There’s a shower at the boathouse. It’ll warm you up.”

“I don’t have a change of clothes,” said Emilia through chattering teeth.

“Makes sense. I assumed you weren’t planning on going for a swim?”

Emilia grimaced in reply.

“I can lend you something to wear.”

“You don’t need to do that.”

Morgan stifled the derisive snort before it could escape. Emilia’s clipped politeness, which bordered on bitchy, obviously covered up the woman’s embarrassment. Morgan wanted to call her on her bullshit like she would have done with Stevie. That, however, didn’t seem like it would go over well. She untied her boat from the Emilia Rosa and took them into the dock a short distance away. Emilia stared at her soaked feet the entire ride, huddled in the seat next to Morgan and shivering in the wind. Even soaking wet and draped in tropical penguins she was gorgeous; an observation Morgan couldn’t help making despite her better judgment.

“Okay.” She killed the engine and tied up. “Let’s get you warmed up.”

“I’m fine,” Emilia said again.

“Look. Emilia, right? You’re not fine. The water is fucking cold, and no offense, but you look like you drank a bottle of wine.”

“Half a bottle.”

“Close enough. Do I need to explain vasodilation to you?”

Indignation flashed across Emilia’s face. Good, thought Morgan. Indignation was proof she wasn’t totally wasted—and that she had a decent vocabulary. Morgan held out her hand, and despite the resentment evident in Emilia’s eyes, this time she allowed Morgan to help her off the boat and up the ramp to the boathouse. Morgan told herself she didn’t notice the strength in Emilia’s hands or the way her cold fingers locked around her own. Noticing things like that would only get her in trouble.

 

•   •   •

 

Idiot, Emilia berated herself as hot water from the grimy shower chased the cold out from underneath her skin. You’re a fucking drunken idiot. This was lower than she’d been in a long time, and the irony of the situation gnawed at her. How many times her mother ranted about her father’s irresponsible drinking? How many times had she herself asked him to be more careful? And yet, here she was, drunk and freezing in a boathouse shower.

Nell whined and poked her head underneath the gap in the shower stall door. She bent over and stroked her dog’s head with a wet hand, wishing she was anywhere but here.

At least Morgan was a woman. Emilia didn’t think she would have been able to stop herself from throttling one of the salt-of-the-earth types she’d seen eyeing her around the harbor, or worse, one of the hipster men who gathered around the bars and talked about building their own boats with money from their trust funds, though they never put it that baldly. She would have preferred, however, to be rescued by a less attractive woman, or at least someone who wasn’t Morgan Donovan.

Or to not have required rescue at all.

You’re lucky there was someone here, an irritating and logical part of her brain informed her. She shut the thought down, but not before an icy wave of nausea washed over her. If she’d drowned, her mother would have thought she’d done it intentionally, and Emilia never wanted to see that kind of fear in her mother’s eyes again.

The wine made her head spin in the cramped space of the shower. Morgan probably thought she was an alcoholic. Just like my dad. She closed her eyes and let hot water beat against her lids. Yes, she downed half a bottle of wine while sitting in the boat her father had named after her, but sitting in the boat sober had been out of the question. It had too much of her dad in it. Next time I’ll wear a life jacket, she promised herself. And I’ll leave the wine behind. That wouldn’t prevent the dinghy from sinking or a bank of fog from whisking her blindly out to sea, but it was a start.

On the other hand, at least she’d gotten her first swim of the season out of the way. She used to compete with her dad to see who could brave the cold water first, both of them shrieking and shouting as the frigid water of the Atlantic closed over their belly buttons. Hot tears joined the water flowing over her body.

A dry towel appeared over the door a second after she shut off the shower. The reminder of Morgan’s existence helped distill the fresh bout of grief, and she fanned the spark of irritation because she preferred it to the alternatives. Morgan didn’t know anything about her. Sure, she was grateful for the rescue, but the smugness in the other woman’s bearing galled her. She clearly found Emilia incompetent, and while nothing that had happened tonight, admittedly, suggested otherwise, the assumption hit too close to home.

“Thank you.” She whipped the towel over the side of the door and around her body. Now please leave.

“No problem. I’ve got some clothes, too. They’ll probably be too big, but they’re dry.”

“I don’t—” she began, but a green flannel shirt and a scuffed pair of work pants followed Morgan’s words. She contemplated putting her wet clothes back on. The idea felt childish as well as cold, and so she shrugged into the soft, worn shirt and tried to ignore the shiver of gratitude from her traitorous body. The fabric smelled like pine and salt and something else—sandalwood? She shook her head to free her hair from the collar. The pants, unlike the oversized men’s shirt, fit snugly. Almost too snugly. She cursed Morgan’s slimmer hips as she shimmied into the dungarees.

Nell thrust her snout into her hand when she emerged, barefoot and still shivering, into the darkness of the boathouse.

“Still alive,” she told the dog as she shoved her feet into her sodden sneakers. Morgan was nowhere in sight. “Think we can sneak away?”

Her dog licked the lingering salt from her skin and did not offer comment, but hearing her own words out loud sobered Emilia more than the cold water. Her humiliation was no excuse for downright hostility. She owed Morgan a thank you for the clothes, and more importantly, slipping away would make her look even more ridiculous than she already did. She squared her shoulders and walked out of the boathouse.

The tiny Seal Cove marina boasted lockers, a bathroom and shower, complimentary parking, and a few picnic tables in various stages of decay. Morgan sat at one of the tables idly scratching her dog’s ears. The easy confidence in the way she lounged on the bench made Emilia want to grind her teeth. She would kill for an ounce of that self-assurance. Instead, her feet slipped in her wet sneakers, and her soaked clothing dripped from her hands.

“Better?” asked Morgan.

“Yes. Thank you for . . . well, you know.”

“No problem. Do you need a ride?”

Shit. Her keys, wallet, and phone were still in the boat, and her skiff bobbed on the mooring out of reach and probably taking on water. She could wait around until Morgan left and then borrow another skiff, retrieve her possessions, and pretend that none of this had ever happened, or she could ask Morgan for more help. Not happening.

“I’m fine.”

“You keep mentioning that.”

“I mean, I don’t need a ride. I walked here. You don’t need me taking up any more of your time.”

“Actually, you’re doing me a favor. I’m avoiding my least favorite social event of the year.”

“High school reunion?” Emilia guessed, wondering how she could get out of this increasingly mortifying situation.

“I think you have to go to an event for it to get ranked, and I’ve managed to avoid those reunions. I’m Morgan, by the way. You might not remember me, but you’re Ray’s daughter, Emilia, aren’t you?”

“I remember you,” she said to forestall the kick that came with the words Ray’s daughter. The German shepherd tilted his head as he appraised them. Knowing the next words out of Morgan’s mouth would be condolences, she seized on the opportunity. “What’s your dog’s name?”

“Kraken.”

“Kraken?”

“My housemate named him. She wanted to be able to use the phrase ‘release the kraken’ at least once a day.”

Emilia couldn’t help the smile that tugged at her lips. The idea was ridiculous, and therefore made her feel slightly less so. “Well, I appreciate that you didn’t let him pull me into a watery grave.” Not that I needed the help.

“I keep his tentacles trimmed.”

Emilia opened her mouth to crack a joke about the veterinary politics surrounding declawing and if they applied to de-tentacling, but stopped herself. She wasn’t Dr. Russo, here. She wasn’t sure if she ever wanted to be Dr. Russo again.

“I’ll get the clothes back to you. And wash them.”

“Don’t worry about it. Just drop them in my skiff. Last name Donovan is painted on it.”

“Okay.”

“Look, Emilia . . .”

“It’s fine.”

“No, I mean—” Morgan paused and took a deep breath. “Your dad was a friend of mine.”

“Oh.” At home in Boston, no one had known her father. She’d accepted that coming here things would be different, but this was the first time she’d had to face the reality of the life Ray Russo had led when she wasn’t with him. Of course he and Morgan were friends; they kept their boats at the same marina. Had he talked about his daughter? She didn’t remember seeing Morgan at the funeral, but then again she hadn’t paid much attention to the other mourners. Her own grief and its ensuing complications had consumed her.

The problem with condolences, she’d learned, was people expected the bereaved to say something in return. For a while she’d said “thank you,” but as the weeks passed and things didn’t get easier, “thank you” grew harder to say. She observed how other people responded in situations like this, watching movies and listening to podcasts, but how could she say “yes, he was a good man” when his drinking had deprived her of a father? How could she say “I am sorry for your loss, too,” when she had no idea what he had meant to these people?

Isn’t that why you came here? asked the voice in the back of her head that enjoyed playing devil’s advocate far more than conscience. No. She’d come here to settle his estate and get away from the dumpster fire of her own life, not to immerse herself in his. She didn’t want to know about his legacy.

Too much time had passed since Morgan had spoken and she had said “oh,” that terminal word, killer of conversations the world over. A chorus of peepers filled the silence of the chilly late May evening. She wrapped her hands around Nell’s collar and clung to it, feeling the warmth from her dog’s body against the backs of her fingers.

“Well, it was nice to meet you,” said Morgan, in a voice too full of understanding for Emilia to tolerate. “I’ll see you around?”

“Yeah. Sure.”

“And you might want to think about taking a boating safety course.”

Heat exploded in her chest. A boating safety course? Really? Who did this woman think she was? She glared at Morgan, who visibly flinched. She savored the small victory.

“I’ll consider it,” she said in a clipped voice. “Nell, come.”

 

•   •   •

 

Morgan pulled into the long, winding gravel drive of 16 Bay Road, wincing as the truck nearly disappeared into a pothole. She’d have to see if Bill would grade it for a discount on his herd’s spring exam again. The grass needed to be cut, too—something else she didn’t have time for. The patchy spring growth shot up in some places and remained stunted in others, a testimony to the cruelty of the past winter. There were four of them in the house, Lillian and Angie in addition to Morgan and Stevie—someone else could do it. Lillian liked plants. Grass was a plant.

Her shoulders tightened as she saw the number of cars parked in the small gravel lot in front of the barn-turned-doggy-daycare and boarding facility for Angie’s start of the summer season staff party. She didn’t actively dislike Angie’s employees, but after a day like today, all she wanted to do was curl up on the couch or crash into her bed. Mingling with a group of teenagers and college-aged kids who still believed in their dreams didn’t enter that picture.

She parked in her customary spot in front of the sprawling farmhouse. White paint peeled off the northwest side of the house, but they’d gotten the gardens under control last fall, and carefully pruned shrubs and lilac bushes covered up the worst of the rotted siding.

“Let’s get this over with,” she said to Kraken. He leapt out after her and performed a quick inspection of the darkening yard before bounding onto the porch. He waited with obvious impatience for her to kick off her boots. Kraken didn’t mind Angie’s employees. They all showed him the admiration he felt he deserved.

Inside, voices clamored to be heard above the bursts of laughter. The sound of claws skittering on the hardwood floors alerted her to the arrival of the house’s other resident canines. Stevie’s brindle pitbull wagged his tail enthusiastically with his face split in a goofy grin. Lillian’s two dogs followed: an obscenely fluffy seventy-pound mutt and a tiny Italian greyhound. Both were one leg short of a complete set.

“’Sup, gang,” Morgan greeted the dogs. Kraken raised his muzzle and sniffed. Morgan’s nose caught the same scent: pizza. In order to snag a slice, though, she had to pay her dues.

“Ange?” Morgan said as she entered the farmhouse kitchen. Exposed beams and cluttered granite countertops were eclipsed by Angie herself as she pulled Morgan into a hug.

“I feel like I haven’t seen you in ages,” Angie said. Her messy bun of wavy brown hair tickled Morgan’s nose.

“That’s because you haven’t.”

“Pizza? Beer?”

“Yes pizza, no beer. I’m still on call.”

“Ouch. Pizza it is, then.” Angie waved her hand toward an open box and a stack of paper plates. She’d put on more clothes than she usually wore around the house, thanks to the presence of her employees, but she’d paired her work polo with yoga pants and a pair of thick wool socks Morgan recognized as her own.

“Nice socks.”

“You’re welcome for doing your laundry.”

Morgan couldn’t argue with that. She’d been too busy the last month to do more than brush her teeth. The clinic desperately needed to hire another large animal vet, or at least someone comfortable working in a mixed practice.

“You’re late.” Stevie flung an arm around her shoulders and shoved a beer in her hand.

“I’m not drinking.”

“Course you’re not. Don’t worry. I drank half of it for you.”

Morgan eyed the can of beer. She wanted nothing more than to relax. Maybe half a beer wouldn’t kill her. It wasn’t like she’d, say, downed half a bottle of wine and fallen out of her boat. A vivid image of Emilia’s brown eyes filled her vision.

“Fine,” she said, taking a sip. “And I’m not late. I was delayed.”

“Delayed?”

“Someone fell off their boat. I pulled them in.”

“Brrr.”

Morgan considered telling her more, knowing Stevie would get a kick out of teasing Morgan about rescuing a damsel in distress, but Morgan remembered the grief and humiliation in Emilia’s face and kept her mouth shut. She also recalled how Emilia had looked wearing Morgan’s spare clothes. Down that road lies peril. Her mind quoted one of the books or shows her friends were so fond of.

“They okay?”

“She’ll be fine.” Morgan hid the smile that rose to her lips behind her beer as she repeated Emilia’s favorite words.

“Anyone we know?”

“No. Nice dog, though. How’s the party?”

“It’s devolved into Cards Against Humanity.” Angie jabbed her thumb toward the living room, where her employees lounged on the mismatched couches and armchairs that filled the space. “I forgot how vulgar Alexa is.”

“Is she the one with the dildo earrings?” asked Stevie.

“Yes.”

“And you hired her why?”

“Because it is hard to find people who enjoy getting barked at all day for minimum wage. Plus, those earrings double as earplugs.”

“Among other things.”

“You’re gross.” Angie swatted at Stevie, who had ducked behind Morgan who fielded the blow.

“Pizza me, Ange,” Morgan said.

Angie grabbed three slices at random and piled them on a plate. Morgan devoured the first slice of pepperoni in four bites. Coming up for air, she asked, “Where’s Lil?”

“Still at the clinic. Emergency came in right before close.”

“I love that you still know more about the clinic than we do,” said Stevie. Morgan had to agree. Angie had been a vet tech before inheriting this house and enough money to open the clinic’s affiliated boarding and daycare facility. Despite this, she always seemed to have a line on what was going on back at the office.

“One of my many skills.” Angie crammed an entire slice of pizza into her mouth to illustrate yet another skill, smiling around a rogue olive.

“Why is that so gross and yet so sexual?” Stevie asked Morgan.

“Only in your mind.” Morgan tousled Stevie’s hair, which she had taken out of her ponytail. The blond strands still bore the crease from their long day.

Angie examined Morgan more critically. “Fuck this party. You look exhausted, Morgan. Lillian will be here soon to play vet. You need to get some sleep.”

“You sure?” Since Angie’s business was technically a part of the clinic, she advertised on-site veterinarians. This meant one of those veterinarians had to show up for staff events occasionally.

“Of course. Stevie will defend me from my minions.”

Stevie gave Morgan an exaggerated look of horror.

“Thanks, Ange,” said Morgan.

Alone in her room, she eyed her bed, weighing the pros and cons of a shower. She smelled like horse and cow manure. Those smells hadn’t bothered her for years, but she’d feel better if she at least rinsed off.

The bathroom she shared with Lillian had been cleaned recently. She made a mental note to thank Lillian as she shucked off her clothes and stepped into the claw foot bathtub, which had been effectively, if inelegantly, retrofitted with a shower head and a hideous, dinosaur-themed shower curtain Stevie had bought as a gag gift. Hot water sluiced down her shoulders. She let it soak her hair and run down her face, washing away the grime of the day. Emilia’s profile with its tight jaw and taut smile drifted across the backs of her eyelids again. Wary. Guarded. Morgan wondered what the hell she’d been thinking when she fell into the water. Emilia obviously didn’t know her way around a boat well, although maybe she had at one point. Drinking on top of inexperience was downright stupid. On the other hand, Morgan had seen the spasm of grief that seized Emilia’s entire body when she’d mentioned Ray. Emilia had lost her father. That was reason enough.

The ancient water heater needed replacing, and she knew from experience that the sudden drop in temperature indicated that approximately forty-five seconds remained before it went from warm to frigid. Wouldn’t that be fitting, all things considered? Her mind conjured up the way the wet clothes had clung to Emilia’s body when she pulled her from the freezing ocean, and how she’d gasped as the wind had hit her.

Damnit. It had been too long since Morgan had let someone else touch her, and this was the result. Her mind had reverted to desperate measures, even while her heart and her schedule insisted there was neither time nor space for anyone else right now and hadn’t been since the collapse of her last relationship six months ago. Besides, what was the point of going on a date that could be interrupted at any moment by a call from the clinic? That likelihood was exactly why Kate called off their engagement in the first place.

She shut off the water. Thinking about Kate still made her jaw ache, and she forced herself to unclench her teeth. Kate had moved on, leaving Morgan here, living in a house with three other people instead of the apartment she had shared with her fiancée. She stepped blindly out of the tub and elicited a yelp from the dog lying on the bath mat.

“Sorry, bud.”

Back in her room, she set her pager and her phone on her nightstand, then shoved her head through the worn hem of her favorite Cornell T-shirt (the one that featured a donkey’s head on the front and its rear on the back, courtesy of the livestock club at school). Barely conscious, she measured out Kraken’s dinner, ruffled the hair around his ears, and slipped into an exhausted sleep.

 

•   •   •

 

Emilia unlocked the door to her father’s house with shaking fingers. After Morgan had left, she’d borrowed her skiff and rowed back out to her boat to retrieve her bag and tow her leaky dinghy to the dock. Nell looked up at her reproachfully and made a beeline for her dinner bowl as soon as Emilia hefted the old wooden door open. Entering her father’s house still felt strange. Set back on an acre of land that abutted a small corner of the estuary, the log cabin-style home smelled like old tobacco and musty leather furniture. Taxidermy animals adorned the living room walls, and one corner of the sunroom was dedicated to his fly fishing supplies. She’d have to decide what to do with it all at some point, but not while she wore a stranger’s clothes.

Not a stranger. Morgan Donovan.

“Eat, you monster,” she said as she fed Nell in the dim kitchen. Painting the dark wood white would be the first thing she did, she decided. Her father had liked the constant twilight of his home, but she did not enjoy living in a cave. Her therapist would no doubt agree. White curtains would help, too.

She changed into an old sweatshirt and sweatpants, dumped her wet clothes and Morgan’s into the washing machine, and curled up in the recliner that overlooked the window to the yard. It was more of a meadow than a yard really, overgrown with tall grass and old dry stalks painted silver by the moonlight.

“Well, Dad,” she said to the room, “I fell off the boat.”

He would have laughed at that. Prior to the divorce he’d laughed a lot. Even after, during the years when she had spent the summers with him, he had been full of laughter. She hadn’t spent much time with him during the intervening decade and a half. Vet school and work made it hard to get away, but she imagined his laugh would have remained the same—so long as he hadn’t been drinking. Not that I can judge right now.

A deer crossed the meadow, followed by a fawn. Nell finished her dinner and settled herself on the vacant couch to watch the deer with interest. The peepers chirped in the gathering night, joined by the calls of animals Emilia didn’t recognize. It was louder here in its own way than the city, though she didn’t miss the omnipresent serenade of distant sirens.

Her phone buzzed. She scanned the notifications. A missed call from her mother, and a text from her stepsister, Anna Maria. Both could wait, as could the emails mustering their forces in her inbox. At least one would be from a shelter director, reminding her that she had a job waiting whenever she was ready to return. Whenever. Not if. So far only her therapist had acknowledged the possibility that she might not be ready to return to any of it: Boston, her job, even the veterinary field. Remembering what her therapist, Shanti, had taught her about thought blocking, she redirected her mind away from her breakdown and the responsibilities she’d put on hold, and back to the present.

Tomorrow she would stop by the hardware store and pick up some paint palettes. While she was there, maybe she’d see about grabbing a fiberglass repair kit to fix the leak in her skiff. One day at a time as Ray Russo was fond of saying—not that he’d ever managed to stick with AA. No major decisions. She could do this.