Bridge of Clay

He retreated, still as he was. “No. Nothing.”

It was too late, though, because now she was up on an elbow. “Come on, Clay, what is it?” She reached across and poked him.

“Ow!”

“Tell me.” She was poised for another strike, right between the ribs; and there was once when this happened before, in waters still to come, when things had turned out badly.

But this was the beauty of Carey, the real beauty; because forget the auburn hair, and the sea glass—she would take the risk a second time. She would gamble and do it for him.

“Tell me or I’ll hit you again,” she said. “I’ll tickle you half to death.”

“Okay! Okay…”

He said it.

He told her that he loved her:

“You’ve got fifteen freckles on your face, but you have to look hard to find them…and there’s a sixteenth one down here.” He touched that piece of her neck. When he attempted to take his hand away, she reached up and trapped his fingers. The answer was how she looked at him.

“No,” she said, “don’t move it.”

* * *

—

Later, much later, it was Clay who got up first.

It was Clay who rolled over and took something, and placed it against her, on the mattress.

He’d wrapped it in the racing section.

The lighter was in the box.

A gift within a gift.

And a letter.

TO BE OPENED ON MONDAY NIGHT.

* * *

—

On Easter Monday she was on the back page of the paper: the auburn-haired girl, the broomstick trainer, and the horse, deep brown, between them.

The headline said MASTER’S APPRENTICE.

On the radio, they played an interview with McAndrew, from earlier in the week, in which they queried the choice of jockey. Any professional in the country would have ridden that horse, given the chance, to which McAndrew said simply and stiffly, “I’m sticking with my apprentice.”

“Yes, she’s a prospect, but—”

“I’m not in the business of answering that kind of question.” The voice, pure dryness. “We swapped her last spring in the Sunline-Northerly, and look what happened there. She knows the horse and that’s it.”

* * *

—

Monday afternoon.