The Last Song (18 page)

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.”

“You included?”

“No. Fishing is… contemplative. Gives me time to think without interruption. And besides, I enjoy watching the clouds while
I wear my NASCAR hat and chew tobacco.”

She wrinkled her nose. “You don’t really chew tobacco, do you?”

“No. I kind of like the idea of not losing my lips to mouth cancer.”

“Good,” she said. She swung her legs back and forth. “I’d never date anyone who chewed tobacco.”

“Are you saying we’re on a date?”

“No. This definitely isn’t a date. This is fishing.”

“You’ve got so much to learn. I mean, this… is what life’s all about.”

She picked at a sliver of wood on the dock. “You sound like a beer commercial.”

An osprey glided over them just as the line ducked once and then a second time. Will jerked the rod upward as the line went
tight. He scrambled to his feet as he began to reel it in, the rod already bending. It happened so fast that Ronnie barely
had time to figure out what was happening.

“Did you get one?” she asked, jumping up.

“Come closer,” he urged, continuing to reel. He forced the rod toward her. “Here!” he shouted. “Take it!”

“I can’t!” she squealed, backing away.

“It’s not hard! Just take it and continue to turn the reel!”

“I don’t know what to do!”

“I just told you!” he said. Ronnie edged forward, and he practically forced the rod into her hands. “Now keep turning the
reel!”

She watched the rod bob lower as she began to turn the crank.

“Hold it up! Keep the line tight!”

“I’m trying!” she cried.

“You’re doing great!”

The fish splashed near the surface—a small red drum, he noticed—and Ronnie screamed, making a scene. When he burst out laughing,
she started laughing, too, hopping on one foot. When the fish splashed again, she screamed a second time, jumping even higher,
but this time with an expression of fierce determination.

It was, he thought, one of the funniest things he’d seen in a long time.

“Just keep doing what you’re doing,” he encouraged. “Get it closer to the dock and I’ll take care of the rest.” Holding the
net, he got down on his belly, stretching his arm over the water as Ronnie continued to reel. With a quick motion, he was
able to scoop the fish into the net, then he stood. As he inverted the net, the fish dropped onto the dock, flopping as it
hit the surface. Ronnie continued to hold the reel, dancing around the fish as Will grabbed for the line.

“What are you doing?” she shrieked. “You’ve got to put it back into the water!”

“It’ll be fine—”

“It’s dying!”

He squatted and grabbed the fish, pinning it to the dock. “No, it isn’t!”

“You’ve got to get the hook out!” she shrieked again.

He reached for the hook and began to pry it out. “I’m trying! Just give me a second!”

“It’s bleeding! You hurt it!” She danced around him frantically.

Ignoring her, he began to work the hook out. He could feel the tail moving back and forth, flopping against the back of his
hand. It was small, maybe three or four pounds, but surprisingly strong.

“You’re taking too long!” Ronnie fretted.

He carefully freed the hook but held the fish pinned against the dock. “You sure you don’t want to bring it home for dinner?
You should be able to get a couple of fillets out of it.”

Her mouth opened and closed in disbelief, but before she could say anything, Will tossed the fish back into the water. With
a splash, it dove and vanished. Will reached for a hand towel and wiped the blood from his fingers.

Ronnie continued to stare at him accusingly, her cheeks flushed with excitement. “You would have eaten it, wouldn’t you? If
I weren’t here?”

“I would have thrown it back.”

“Why don’t I believe you?”

“Because you’re probably right.” He smiled at her before reaching for the rod. “Now, do you want to bait the next hook or
should I?”

“So Mom’s been going crazy trying to plan my sister’s wedding and make the whole thing perfect,” Will said. “It’s been a little…
tense at the house.”

“When’s the wedding?”

“August ninth. It doesn’t help matters that my sister wants to have it at our house. Which, of course, only adds to my mom’s
stress.”

Ronnie smiled. “What’s your sister like?”

“Smart. Lives in New York. A bit of a free spirit. Pretty much like another older sister I know.”

That seemed to please her. As they strolled the beach, the sun was setting and Will could tell that Ronnie was feeling more
relaxed. They’d ended up catching and releasing three more fish before he drove her to downtown Wilmington, where they’d enjoyed
lunch on a deck that overlooked the Cape Fear River. Drawing her eyes to a spot on the opposite bank, he’d pointed out the
USS
North Carolina,
a decommissioned battleship from World War II. Watching Ronnie inspect it, Will was struck by how easy it was to spend time
with her. Unlike other girls he knew, she said what she meant and didn’t play stupid games. She had a quirky sense of humor
that he liked, even when it was directed at him. In fact, he liked everything about her.

As they approached her house, Ronnie ran ahead to check on the nest tucked into the base of the dune. She paused at the cage—it
was made of chicken wire and secured into the sandy dune by extralong stakes—and when he joined her at the dune, she turned
to him doubtfully.

“This is going to keep the raccoon away?”

“That’s what they say.”

She studied it. “How do the turtles get out? They can’t fit through the holes, can they?”

Will shook his head. “The aquarium volunteers remove the cage before the eggs hatch.”

“How do they know when they’ll hatch?”

“They’ve got it down to a science. The eggs take around sixty days to incubate before they hatch, but that can vary slightly
depending on the weather. The hotter the temperature is all summer, the quicker they’ll hatch. And keep in mind that this
isn’t the only nest on the beach, and it wasn’t the first one, either. Once the first nest clears, the others usually follow
within a week or so.”

“Have you ever seen a nest hatch?”

He nodded. “Four times.”

“What’s it like?”

“It’s a little crazy, actually. As the time approaches, we remove the cages, and then we dig a shallow trench from the nest
to the water’s edge, making it as smooth as possible, but high enough on the sides so the turtles can only go in one direction.
And it’s weird, because at first only a couple of eggs are moving, but it’s like their movement is enough to set the whole
nest going, and before you know it, the nest is like a crazy beehive on steroids. The turtles are climbing over each other
to get out of the hole, and then they hit the sand and head toward the water in this little crablike parade. It’s amazing.”

As he described it, he got the sense Ronnie was trying to picture the scene. Then she noticed her dad stepping onto the back
porch, and she waved.

Will motioned to the house. “I take it that’s your dad?” he asked.

“Yup.”

“Don’t you want to introduce me?”

“Nope.”

“I promise to have good manners.”

“That’d be good.”

“So why won’t you introduce me?”

“Because you haven’t taken me to meet your parents yet.”

“Why do you have to meet my parents?”

“Exactly,” she said.

“I’m not sure I follow what you mean.”

“Then how on earth did you ever make it through Tolstoy?”

If he wasn’t confused before, he was completely baffled now. She started walking slowly down the beach, and he took a few
quick steps to catch up with her.

“You’re not exactly easy to figure out.”

“And?”

“And nothing. Just noting it for the record.”

She smiled to herself, glancing toward the horizon. In the distance, a shrimp trawler was making its way to port. “I want
to be here when it happens,” she offered.

“When what happens?”

“When the turtles hatch. What did you think I was talking about?”

He shook his head. “Oh, we’re back to that. Well, okay, when do you leave for New York?”

“Late August.”

“That’s cutting it close. Just hope for a long hot summer.”

“It’s off to a good start. I’m boiling.”

“That’s because you’re wearing black. And jeans.”

“I didn’t realize I’d be spending most of the day outside.”

“Otherwise you would have worn a bikini, right?”

“I don’t think so,” she said.

“You don’t like bikinis?”

“Of course I do.”

“Just not around me?”

She tossed her head. “Not today.”

“What if I promise to take you fishing again?”

“You’re not helping yourself.”

“Duck hunting?”

That stopped her. When she finally found her voice, it was disapproving. “Tell me you don’t really kill ducks?”

When Will said nothing, Ronnie went on, “Cute, sweet little feathered creatures, flying toward their little duck pond, just
minding their own business? And you blow them out of the sky?”

Will considered the question. “Only in the winter.”

“When I was a little girl, my favorite stuffed animal was a duck. I had duck wallpaper. I had a hamster named Daffy. I
love
ducks.”

“I do, too.” he said.

She didn’t bother to hide her skepticism. Will responded by counting on the tips of his fingers as he continued, “I love them
fried, roasted, broiled, with a side of sweet-and-sour sauce—”

She gave him a shove, knocking him off balance for a step or two. “That’s terrible!”