She watches the gold slipping out of the river in bands, like the unweaving of a loom. Replaced by invisible hands with stripes of pink. They radiate toward her. The colors on the far shore flatten to a thalo green wash of trees, bordering the glacier-blue blur.
The water pleats slightly near the dock, with a slight push of a breeze.
Activity. A skiff hurtles itself across the water halfway from the other shore; its sound carried by the change of wind. The boat's vivacious captain barks an enthusiastic tale upriver. Everything about the craft presses forward as if eager for his story--boat, listeners, chocolate Labrador at the prow. Their ripples slap her rock pier moments later.
The craft disappears behind the cedar stand bordering her lawn. A closer rumble and thrum of the outboard. The motor percolates. Churns. Stills.
The river resumes its sleepy pace; showing no signs of either storytold travelers, or the hurricane that, just yesterday, surged its waters over the retaining wall and five feet onto the grass.
Except for a roll of seaweed and flotsam at the edge of the gray blades, there is very little indication that 75 mile and hour winds ripped through the town.
Bristling with hooks, an otherwise passive plastic minnow stares up at her when she toes the pile. Snaking up from the tangy tangle is a small length of purple rope. Arrested serpentine motion next to the fluorescent orange fish. A 7-foot-long piling lies there too. Once a boat mooring, the salted gray tree stalk bears a loop of rusted iron at one end.
White hydrangea heads--scattered like a thrown bridal bouquet--are strewn over the front lawn. The bride, Irene, had a strong arm, as there are pieces in the back yard too. Or maybe the bouquet was thrown by her grandmother; whose spirit is very palpable in the cabin. For Erin's "as if" wedding. "As if" Sean's and her lives were simpler and they could just be like normal people and get married.
All because of the McGregor curse.
Friday, September 16, 2011
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