SWAINS LOCK (The River Trilogy, book 1) (3 page)

“He’s fine,” she said to Vin, “but I see a
little blood on his gums.” She turned toward Kelsey. “Do you mind
if I take a quick look at your dog? I’m a vet.”

Kelsey gave her assent, retreating a step
while Nicky kneeled in front of Allie. The dog looked back toward
its owner for reassurance. The source of the blood was a small cut
on Allie’s ear. Nicky bent the ear toward Kelsey and pointed it
out.

“Maybe that will teach you not to pick on
chocolate Labs,” Kelsey chided.

“It wasn’t entirely her fault,” Vin said,
remembering the last dog-fight he’d broken up. “Randy’s not as
innocent as he looks.”

“It’s a superficial cut, so I don’t think
she’ll need stitches,” Nicky said, standing up and pulling down her
sleeves. “You can just clean it with soap and warm water when you
get home. We live off River Road by Pennyfield Lock. If you want to
swing by tomorrow, I can give you some gentamicin spray. It’s a
topical antibiotic. You should be OK just treating her with that
for a week or so and monitoring her ear as it heals.”

Kelsey asked for the address as she fished
into her vest pocket for a pen. Vin gave her the number on Ridge
Line Court and told her it was the driveway at the end of the cul
de sac. “My name is on the mailbox. Illick.”

“Illick,” Kelsey echoed, writing the address
on her wrist. She said she’d stop by early tomorrow afternoon and
Nicky said to look for the medicine in the mailbox if they weren’t
home. Vin watched Kelsey flick the leash lightly against Allie’s
ribs, then glide away downstream on the towpath with her dog.

Nicky poked him in the ribs and smiled. “I
brought your stuff. Still up for a paddle?”

“Absolutely.” He took the keys and jogged to
her station wagon to retrieve a daypack with picnic supplies and
their custom-made wooden canoe paddles. They didn’t own a canoe,
but he’d bought the paddles this spring to celebrate Nicky’s
passing grade on the veterinary licensing exam. There was no one in
line at the rental counter and within minutes they were paddling up
the canal in an aluminum canoe, Nicky from the bow seat and Vin
from the stern. Randy sat between the thwarts, eyes and nose
trained on the wooded bank to their right.

Vin watched Nicky’s shoulder blade swell
when her paddle caught the water with each stroke. She had grown up
canoeing during summers in New Hampshire, so her strokes were long
and even. She and Vin had canoed on a lake in Maine while visiting
his parents in June. After a few seconds, he matched her rhythm and
their paddles hit the water together. At the end of each stroke,
their blades released and sliced toward the bow, shedding teardrops
as the canoe glided forward. With their strokes synchronized, he
hardly had to steer to keep the canoe heading straight.

Nicky held her paddle against the gunwale
and pointed to the bank ahead, where Vin saw the olive-black shells
of a string of turtles sunning themselves on a fallen tree arm that
leaned into the canal. Nose to tail, they extended up the branch
from the water, the biggest turtle the size of his daypack and the
smallest the size of his hand. Vin had read that this stretch of
the canal was maintained by the Park Service, and any trees
attempting to take root between the towpath and the canal were
quickly culled. But generations of trees had grown up on the bank
opposite the towpath – the berm – since the canal’s commercial
demise. Many of these trees shed branches into the water or died
and eventually collapsed into the canal. Large fallen trunks were
cut away, but branches that didn’t block the entire canal were left
in place. The rotting limbs allowed the turtles to crawl out of the
water into sunlight, remaining safe from predators while warming
their antediluvian blood.

The canal curved gently and Swains Lock
disappeared behind them. The woods along the berm grew steeper, in
places turning to rock faces that had been blasted or cut away
during the canal’s construction over a century and a half before.
Vin surveyed the stretch of towpath he’d just finished running.
Most of the leaves had yet to fall, so the wide brown river beyond
the towpath and the woods was more sensed than seen.

From the berm he heard a rush of air, like
the sound a sail makes when it suddenly fills with wind, and from
the corner of his eye he saw a tilting of blue-gray shapes. Randy
put his front paws on the gunwale, growling and barking as the
great blue heron extended its wings, leaned forward, and with two
powerful flaps was airborne over the water, long legs splaying
behind. It flew upstream over the canal, ascending slowly as its
legs came together to form a rudder.

“That’s amazing,” Nicky said, turning toward
the heron’s abandoned perch. “I was looking right at it and didn’t
even see it! They’re like statues. They blend right in with the
terrain.”

“I didn’t notice him either,” Vin said.
“They’re so skinny that when they look straight at you, their beak,
eyes, and head almost converge to a single point. Imagine if you
were a fish. The beak could be just above the surface and you’d
never see it.”

“I’m glad I’m not a fish.”

“Plus they can stand dead still for a
half-hour, then strike in a heartbeat.” He looked straight at
Nicky, expressionless and silent for a second, then jabbed his
extended fingers toward her as she yelped in surprise.

“I’m really glad I’m not a fish.”

“I’m glad you’re not a fish, too. Though I
do like fish.”

She smiled and they paddled quietly until
Vin steered toward the bank beneath the towpath and proclaimed
their arrival. The grade from the towpath down to the river here
had been cleared of trees. They carried the canoe up to the edge of
the towpath, then waded through meadow grass down to the river as
Randy raced ahead. At the downstream edge of the meadow, they sat
on a fallen tree trunk and stretched their legs toward the water.
Randy zig-zagged along the opposite edge sniffing clumps of grass,
periodically sighting Vin and Nicky to confirm their presence. Vin
spread the contents of the day-pack out on the log.

Watkins Island and its smaller kin severed
this stretch of the Potomac like ragged stitches, but here its
trees had been felled for a buried gas pipeline, so Vin and Nicky
had a clear view across to Virginia. The river sparkled in the late
afternoon sun, with whirls and ripples lacing its surface where the
current poured over rocks hiding just below the waterline.

Vin tore a baguette into small hunks and
sliced off pieces of cheese as Nicky bit into an apple. “So it’s
been a while since Randy’s last dog-fight,” she said between
bites.

“Yep,” Vin said. “But this wasn’t really a
fight.”

“Tell that to the dog who got bit.”

“Yeah, I know. It couldn’t have lasted more
than five seconds and he still managed to draw blood.” He exhaled
and swept his hand back through his hair. “I didn’t see it coming,
because two other dogs had just walked past us and nothing
happened.”

“Maybe Randy wanted you to meet the dog’s
owner,” Nicky said, narrowing her eyes in a suspicious squint.
“Kelsey, wasn’t it? She looked like your type. Slim, outdoorsy,
blondish.”

“And older!” Vin protested. “And she said
her dog provoked it!”

He put his hand on her thigh and confided,
“You’re right that I trained Randy to meet women, but I was
training him to meet you!” It always surprised him when Nicky
speculated about his attraction to other women, since, physically
and mentally, she really was his type. Part of the attraction was
that Nicky seemed to know what she wanted in life and where she
wanted to go. A clear direction, tempered by occasional flashes of
self-doubt. Opposites attract – on both fronts! – he thought with a
resigned sigh. He grabbed her shoulders in a wrestling clench and
squeezed her, then nibbled on her ear without relaxing his grip.
Her short brown hair smelled like lilacs, and he felt her twinge
and giggle as his nose rubbed her ear.

A fanfare of barking broke out and Vin
released Nicky to scout the upstream side of the meadow, where
Randy stood looking intently at the river. Nicky rolled her
eyes.

“What’s he barking at now?”

“I don’t see anything,” Vin said, hopefully.
“He’s just a little high-strung today.”

Nicky shaded her eyes from the dissolving
sun and pointed to a spot a stone’s throw offshore. A small
triangular face was pushing downriver in their direction. It had
slicked-back fur and rounded ears above dark eyes and a whiskered
nose. Its upper back barely broke the surface. “It’s a beaver!”,
she said, leaning forward for a better view.

“Cute little guy,” Vin said, chewing a hunk
of bread. “Nature’s engineer.”

The beaver’s head made a tiny V-shaped wake
as it was driven across the water by a submerged, undulating tail.
As they watched, its head and upper back dove beneath the surface.
A flat tail rose from the water and smacked down with a thwack that
echoed against the nearby trees. The tail sank and the beaver
disappeared before emerging further offshore, its nose plowing
upriver now. The beaver curved shoreward and curled its head
underwater again. Its tail flexed up and fell immediately with
another echoing thwack. The beaver resurfaced to complete the top
portion of a figure eight, then dove again. While finishing their
apples and bread, they watched the beaver trace three full figure
eights and slap the water a dozen times before swimming away
downstream.

“I love it when we get to see animals play
in the wild,” Vin said. “When you consider what they have to do on
a daily basis just to survive, it’s almost like an
affirmation.”

Nicky looked at him quizzically, her blue
eyes darkening a shade. “That’s not an affirmation,” she said
softly. “It’s a warning.”

***

Sunset was imminent when Nicky pulled into
the driveway on Ridge Line Court. Vin opened the back hatch for
Randy, who hopped down and shook off a spray of canal water.

“If you clean him off, I’ll set us up for a
glass of wine on the back deck,” Nicky said.

Vin grabbed an old towel from the back of
the car and took Randy around to the backyard to hose him down.
“Feels good, doesn’t it buddy?” He toweled the dog and circled to
the unlocked sliding glass door on the lower level of the
house.

Crossing through his office, he felt
momentarily depressed as he passed the books and papers on his
desk. It was a consulting project from his old life and it already
felt alien. He shuffled up the stairs and through the living room
to the deck. Nicky was sitting in one of the chairs, and an
unopened bottle stood on the patio table next to two champagne
glasses and a plate holding crackers and red grapes.

“Champagne?” he said, cocking an eyebrow and
approaching the table. “Mais oui.”

“Well it is Saturday,” Nicky said. “And
tomorrow is your birthday…”

“Does that mean you actually get the day
off? You worked the last two Sundays.”

“Yeah, I got stuck with Mondays off instead.
It sucks, but that’s how seniority works. Or I guess for me that
would be juniority. But Abby said she thought Carlos could cover
for me tomorrow, so as of now I’m just on call.”

Vin twisted the cork out with a flourish,
then filled the glasses and raised his for a toast. “To our new
life in Maryland. And our first house together, even if it’s just a
rental.”

“To an eventful next year,” Nicky said, as
they clinked glasses and sipped. She tipped her glass toward Vin
and added, “and to the next stage of your career.”

He sighed, propping his elbow on the arm of
his chair and bracing his chin with his fingers as he looked at
Nicky. “I’m thinking I could be a dog trainer.”

She took the bait, as he knew she would;
deadpan humor was one of Nicky’s endearing traits. “You’ve already
got the ‘how-to-break-up-a-dog-fight’ thing down. How much more
could there be to learn?” He nodded and they discussed the pluses
and minuses of a business catering to the idiosyncrasies of dog
owners. Nicky suggested that he might not be suited to chaperoning
lapdogs wearing argyle sweaters, so they agreed that dog taxidermy
might be a more promising career. If she could secure a supply of
deceased canines from the clinic, maybe Vin could build some
inventory and put together a catalog.

“I need to give this some serious thought,”
he said, refilling their glasses.

“While you’re doing that, you can assemble
one of your birthday presents,” Nicky said, reaching under the
table and pulling a gift bag toward the base of her chair. She
peered inside and extracted a bone-shaped piece of smooth wood,
which she placed in the center of the table.

“Is that… driftwood?” He walked around the
table to share her perspective. The stick was a bit asymmetrical,
with a knob at one end, but so smooth it could have been
sanded.

“Yep. I think that piece is part of the N,”
she said, reaching back into the bag. “So this must be part of the
V.” She pulled out a slightly larger stick and laid it at an angle
to the left of the first. “And here’s the other half of the V.” She
withdrew a femur-sized stick and set it symmetrically to form a V.
She used two more driftwood sticks to form a wobbly N to the right
of the V. Fishing once more into the bag, she found two
finger-sized sticks, which she placed on top of each other at right
angles in the center.

“V plus N,” Vin said. “I love it.”

“It’s a mobile. I found a big pile of sticks
in a crevice between two rocks on the Billy Goat Trail next to the
river. For some reason I couldn’t take my eyes off them. I wanted
to bring a few pieces home, but I couldn’t think of anything to do
with them. Then I remembered your birthday.”

“It’s brilliant,” he said. “We can hang it
in the living room.”

“I was thinking the basement.”

“Hey wait,” he said, squinting at Nicky. “Is
this a symbolic gift?”