The Raft

  #

  Maggie's toes curled against the fiberglass hull of her launch.

  The silhouette of Rachael was growing larger. Maggie kept the bow pointed towards her. Rachael, wrapped in some large, bulky overcoat with a brown scarf snapping behind her in the biting wind, was standing in the surf. A large bag sat in the sand next to her and she wore knee-high rubber boots, as instructed.

  As Maggie approached, slowing her launch in the shallows, Rachael scooped up her bag and strode out into the water. Five yards from the shore, Rachael met Maggie's boat, tossed her bag inside and agilely hopped up and over the gunwale.

  It all happened so fast. Suddenly, Rachael was sitting before Maggie, large as life, tugging strands of hair out of her mouth and smiling.

  Maggie brought the launch about. She throttled the small, high-pitched engine to life and began the return journey out into the bay.

  “Don't start,” Rachael said, watching the skyline of West Seattle fade away behind Maggie's back.

  “I wasn't,” Maggie grinned.

  “Just... don't start,” Rachael repeated.

  “I wasn't. You look good.”

  “I said-”

  “Okay!” Maggie held up her free hand in a gesture of surrender.

  Rachael did look good. Five years older perhaps, but still beautiful. Like Nicole Kidman with laugh lines, Maggie remembered. That was how Maggie had often described Rachael. Back then. She had more crow's feet now, sure, and some gray in amongst the red hair. But still, she looked perfect. Maybe a little thin.

  They let the rain and the waves stream past them, sitting in silence. The boat bobbed on the wakes of passing craft. Five years and so much to say. Neither one spoke.

  “Married?” Maggie finally broke the silence.

  “I said don't start.” Rachael refused to make eye contact, looking out at the passing ships.

  “It's just... to a man?”

  “Maggie...” Rachael said, finally turning to face Maggie.

  “I know. Don't start.” Maggie focused on her navigation, falling in behind a fast-moving speedboat, staying within the V of its wake. “How old is your girl?” Maggie asked.

  “Three,” Rachael replied.

  “Children, huh?”

  “It happens.”

  “So I've read,” Maggie smirked.

  “Don't-”

  “I know. I know.”

  They both looked to port to watch a sailing dinghy, its sheets billowing in the breeze as it cut a speedy course perpendicular to their own.

  Then, without warning, Rachael blurted out, “I called her Margaret.”

  The revelation stunned Maggie. She sat in silence, her mouth slightly ajar.

  Rachael backpedaled, realizing she'd put her foot in it. She stammered, “Maggie, I- I can explain...”

  But the tears were already coming. Any chance of Maggie keeping her composure had taken flight with that last bombshell. She couldn't hold back. She sniffled and steered and tried to pick a path through the busy bay. Back towards her sailboat. But the tears kept coming.