adulthood. In this snapshot—Alex was to decide later as she studied her mother’s expression—Mary was looking at an adult. Not a peer, but at least a grown companion. An equal of sorts. She wore that expression a lot, in fact, and Alex just had not recognized it before. 13 At a village with the ludicrous name of Spawn, a dock and gas pump served boaters on the Florida River, which ›owed from a small lake through Spawn and then through a marsh into Achill Lake. This marshy stretch was still wild and beautiful when the summer tourists left. Some of the wealthier property owners considered it a bird sanctuary and had nailed up signs that begged boaters to leave no wake. The Florida was shallow and ‹lled with reeds, cattails, and lilies. When you stopped paddling, a de‹nite current ferried you ever so slowly downriver, but when it was time to turn around and paddle upstream , it wasn’t a major effort. Mary knew they’d ‹nd the marsh absolutely deserted on a weekday with school back in session. Deserted except for loons and ducks, swans, painted turtles piled on the snags, otters and muskrats. Red-tailed hawks in the treetops, watching, and yellow warblers ›itting over the leatherleaf bushes. Pleasure at being alone on the water with Alexandra ›ooded through her as the Grumman hit the water. Because it was fed with warmish springs, the Florida never froze over. You could come here all year round, paddle this river in January with mittens on, if you wanted to, between cattails sticking above the snow. Oh God, it was beautiful then, the water slate gray under the winter sky. She had described the Florida River marshes in her journals in every season of the year. But the younger kids were increasingly reluctant to leave their own activities on a weekend. And she had so much paperwork all the time, and housework , it seemed, that she’d give in to inertia herself, stay home all day on a Saturday. Mary sat in the front and took several long, deep strokes away from the dock, then rested her paddle across the bow to gaze at the marsh, while Alex pointed them downriver. What a wonderful idea, to come 121 over to the Florida this morning. Alex always liked to push things a little further, try something new. That sense of adventure would see her through, out there in Seattle. But how Mary would miss her! A neon-blue damsel›y took a rest on the green-painted handle of her paddle. Mary thought she saw a muskrat’s head. She turned back to Alex, ‹nger to her lips, and pointed. Alex nodded and smiled. If it weren’t for this nagging sore spot about Chris, Mary’s elation would be complete. What was wrong with him, to do that—and so close to her own house? To unsettle her like this. He was working in the area and covered with paint and sick of the paint. We all know he likes a cold swim. Somehow she didn’t believe it. And where in the hell was Mary’s own empathy this morning? But she wanted to enjoy her favorite activity in the world with one of her favorite people, damn it; she did not want to worry about Chris Olivet. Alex was talking about living in the big city during the next few years, wondering how that would be for her. Mary had missed a few words. “. . . trying to ‹nd my way around, stay out of unsafe neighborhoods like Grandma said to do,” she called to Mary from the stern of the canoe. “Seattle’s not like Chicago,” Mary said, twisting around again. “It’s smaller, and Nat says it’s beautiful, and out there in the West things are . . .” How were things in the West? She didn’t really know. “There’s the mountains. And Puget Sound.” “I hope I can learn the ropes,” said Alex. “Indeed, you can,” said Mary. Did Alex need a pep talk? If so, it had been years since she needed one. Years. Mary set her paddle down again. “I tried to make sure you kids knew about the wider world,” she said, “even living up here. This is my church, this wilderness—don’t tell Grandma I said that. But there are huge advantages in a city, like Chicago or Seattle. I tried to make sure you kids knew about things...