Will led the way onto a steel-grated platform that circled the tank and climbed down the industrial steps. On the far side of the tank was a medium-size Plexiglas window. The lights above provided enough illumination to make out the slowly moving creature.
He watched Ronnie as she eventually recognized what she was seeing.
“Is that a sea turtle?”
“A loggerhead, actually. Her name is Mabel.”
As the turtle glided past the window, the scars on her shell became apparent, as did the missing flipper.
“What happened to her?”
“She was hit by a boat propeller. She was rescued about a month ago, barely alive. A specialist from NC State had to amputate part of her front flipper.”
In the tank, unable to stay completely upright, Mabel swam at a slight angle and bumped into the far wall, then began her circuit again.
“Is she going to be okay?”
“It’s a miracle she’s lived this long, and I hope she’ll make it. She’s stronger now than she was. But no one knows if she can survive in the ocean.”
Ronnie watched as Mabel bumped into the wall again before correcting her course, then turned to face Will.
“Why did you want me to see this?”
“Because I thought you’d like her as much as I do,” he said. “Scars and all.”
Ronnie seemed to wonder at his words, but she said nothing. Instead, she turned to watch Mabel in silence for a while. As Mabel vanished into the back shadows, he heard Ronnie sigh.
“Aren’t you supposed to be at work?” she asked.
“It’s my day off.”
“Working for Dad has its perks, huh?”
“You might say that.”
She tapped the glass, trying to get Mabel’s attention. After a moment, she turned to him again. “So what do you usually do on your day off?”
“Just a good old southern boy, huh? Going fishing, watching the clouds. I feel like you should be wearing a NASCAR hat and chewing tobacco.”
They’d spent another half hour at the aquarium—Ronnie was especially delighted by the otters—before Will had taken her to a bait shop to pick up some frozen shrimp. From there, he’d brought her to an undeveloped lot on the intracoastal side of the island, where he’d pulled out the fishing gear he kept stored in the truck box. Then he’d led her to the edge of a small dock, and they sat, their feet dangling just a couple of feet above the water.
“Don’t be a snob,” he chided her. “Believe it or not, the South is great. We have indoor plumbing and everything. And on weekends, we get to go mudding.”
“Mudding?”
“We drive our trucks in the mud.”
Ronnie faked a dreamy expression. “That sounds so… intellectual.”
He nudged her playfully. “Yeah, tease me if you want. But it’s fun. Muddy water spraying all over the windshield, getting stuck, spinning your wheels to soak the guy behind you.”
“Believe me, I’m giddy just thinking about it,” Ronnie said, deadpan.
“I take it that’s not how you spend your weekends in the city.”
She shook her head. “Uh… no. Not exactly.”
“I’ll bet you never even leave the city, do you?”
“Of course I leave the city. I’m here, aren’t I?”
“You know what I mean. On the weekends.”
“Why would I want to leave the city?”
“Maybe just to be alone now and then?”
“I can be alone in my room.”
“Where would you go if you wanted to sit beneath a tree and read?”
“I’d go to Central Park,” she countered easily. “There’s this great knoll behind Tavern on the Green. And I can buy a latte just around the corner.”
He shook his head in mock lament. “You’re such a city girl. Do you even know how to fish?”
“It’s not that hard. Bait the hook, cast the line, then hold the pole. How am I doing so far?”
“Okay, if that’s all there was to it. But you have to know where to cast and be good enough to cast exactly where you want. You have to know what bait and lures to use, and those depend on everything from the type of fish to the weather to the clarity of the water. And then, of course, you have to set the hook. If you’re too early or too late, you’ll miss the fish.”
Ronnie seemed to consider his comment. “So why did you choose to use shrimp?”
“Because it was on sale,” he answered.
She giggled, then brushed lightly against him. “Cute,” she said. “But I guess I deserved that.”
He could still feel the warmth of her touch on his shoulder. “You deserve worse,” he said. “Believe me, fishing is like a religion to some folks around here.”