“Mama was a wonderful cook.”
Margaret saw an opening. She looked at Lydia and smiled. “Was she?”
Lydia nodded.
“What did she cook?”
The girl shrugged. “Stuff.” Lydia started to walk away.
“Where are you going?”
“Hank said we needed driftwood. I see some down the beach.”
“I’ll help.” Margaret stood up.
“That’s okay,” Lydia said. “I can do it by myself.” She kept on walking.
Margaret sat on a rock, her chin in her hand, her elbow propped on a knee, thinking about everything and concentrating on nothing. Annabelle plopped down next to her and was getting ready to eat a handful of waxy kelp leaves.
Margaret snatched the leaves away. “No!” She shook her finger. “No.”
Annabelle blinked at her, then frowned at the leaves.
Margaret picked up a banana and peeled it. “Look, Annabelle. See? Bah-nan-nah. A banana. Here. Eat this.” She held it out.
Annabelle stared at her.
Margaret took a big bite and made her eyes go wide. “Mmm, good.”
Good grief. I sound like a moron.
Annabelle must have thought so too because she was busy playing with her own feet and completely ignoring her.
Margaret tossed the banana over her shoulder. Lord, how life could change almost overnight. Here she was talking baby talk, thinking unfathomable thoughts about a convict, a man who held in contempt everything in which she believed. She was trying desperately to communicate with a young girl who wanted nothing to do with her.
She picked up Annabelle, then stared bleakly at the ocean. Nothing was right, she thought. A few minutes later, she walked down the beach.
* * *
On the northsideof the lagoon, Hank walked down the stretch of sand pulling along a makeshift wagon—a wooden crate with a piece of rope. It was half filled with stones, rope, and driftwood—anything that they could use to build a better shelter on the island.
He figured last night’s storm should have stirred up the seas and washed up plenty of debris they could put to good use. So he walked along the section of fine sand that was still wet from the rain but fast growing warm and steamy in the bright sun.
“Hank! C’mere! Here’s one! Come see!” Theodore stood a few yards away, his shirt flapping in the slight breeze and pants rolled up like Hank’s. He’d tried to make a cap from banana leaves and kelp, but the trade wind had loosened his childish weaving and the leaves were trailing down the sides of his head like lop ears. His bare feet were half covered by the foamy tide and a long, wet piece of old weathered rope dangled from one hand.
He walked over to the kid.
“See?” He held the rope up proudly.
Hank ruffled his red hair, and more banana leaves slipped free. “Yeah. You did good. Put it in the crate with the driftwood.”
Before he had finished his sentence, the kid put the rope in the crate and was back at the tide line, bent over, and rummaging through the kelp and shells that littered the beach.
“Hank, c’mere! Look at this!”
At this rate, he thought, he would only find enough wood to build a small fire. He moved over and looked at the seashell that the kid wanted him to see. It was just like the last twenty he’d showed him.
Hank stood there for a moment, then said, “Listen, kid.”
