The clouds are darker now, hanging low over the harbor. Gulls crisscross the sky, moving frenziedly. I follow the instructions of my GPS and pull into a parking lot that reaches to the waterâs edge, where thereâs a long, wooden dock lined with boat slips.
I shoot off an e-mail. âIâm here.â Then I grab my duffel bag, lean against my hood, and wait.
What will Gertrude look like? I watch the boats docked, serviced by fluttering figures, heads bowed against a muggy but swift breeze, and I wonder which of the boats could be hers.
My phone vibrates. âWalk closer to the dock. The boat name is âFog.ââ My heart hammers. My mouth feels dry. I tuck my hair behind my ears, adjust the bag on my shoulder, and start walking. I walk along the long plank of the dock, passing boatsââDouble Trouble,â âChoppy Cass,â âStupid Does.â The wind blows my hair across my cheeks. A few strands stick to my lips. Iâm pushing at them with my fingertips, looking down a few slots, watching for a woman with gray hair and my motherâs mouth. Iâm walking slowly I see him: a tall man with broad shoulders, a short beard, and piercing black-brown eyes. Heâs wearing a pair of slacks and a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up, so I can see his muscled forearms. His face is partially shaded by a baseball cap. And even so, I know heâs here for me.
Before his eyes even meet mine, my body flares like a lit match. He takes a few strides toward me, and his gaze touches my face. The heat fades from my cheeks, replaced by bloodless cold.
âYouâre Red,â a low voice says.
âYouâre not my grandmother.â