Douglas Preston - Riptide

Ican't believe the place is still here, he thought to himself. His eyes caught a crumpled beer can peeping from beneath a rock; still here, and still apparently used for the same purposes.

He sat down on the fragrant grass. A beautiful late summer afternoon, and he had the glen all to himself.

No, not quite to himself. Hatch became aware of a rustling on the path behind him. He turned suddenly, and to his surprise saw Claire step out into the glade.

She stopped dead as she saw him, then flushed deeply. She was wearing a summery, low-cut print dress, and her long golden hair was gathered in a French braid that reached down her freckled back. She hesitated a moment, then stepped forward resolutely.

"Hello again," Hatch said, jumping to his feet. "Nice day to bump into you." He tried to make his tone light and easy. He wondered if he should shake her hand or kiss her cheek, and in the period of hesitation realized the time for doing either had already passed.

She smiled briefly and nodded.

"How was your dinner?" he asked. The question sounded inane even as it left his lips.

"Fine."

There was an awkward pause.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I must be intruding on your privacy." She turned to go.

"Wait!" he cried, louder than he'd intended. "I mean, you don't have to go. I was just out wandering. Besides, I'd like to catch up."

Claire looked around a little nervously. "You know how small towns are. If anyone were to find us here, they'd think—"

"Nobody's going to find us," he said. "This is Squeaker's Glen, remember?" He sat down again and patted the ground next to him.

She came forward and smoothed her dress with the self-conscious gesture he remembered.

"Funny we should meet here, of all places," he said.

She nodded. "I remember the time you put oak leaves over your ears and stood on that stone over there, quoting the whole of 'Lycidas.'"

Hatch was tempted to mention a few other things he remembered. "And now that I'm an old bonecutter, I throw medical metaphors in with the obscure poetry."

"What's it been, twenty-five years?" she asked.

"Just about." He paused for an awkward moment. "So what have you been doing all this time?"

"You know. Graduated from high school, planned to go to Orono and attend U Maine, but met Woody instead. Got married. No kids." She shrugged and took a seat on a nearby rock, hugging her knees. "That's about it."

"No kids?" Hatch asked. Even in high school, Claire had talked of her desire for children.

"No," she said matter-of-factly. "Low sperm count."

There was a silence. And then Hatch—to his own horror, and for some reason he couldn't begin to understand—felt an irresistible wave of mirth sweep over him at the incongruous turn the stumbling conversation had taken. He snorted involuntarily, then burst out laughing and continued laughing until his chest hurt and tears started. Dimly, he realized that Claire was laughing as hard as he was.

"Oh, Lord," she said, wiping her eyes at last, "what a relief it is to just laugh. Especially over this. Malin, you can't imagine what a terribly forbidden subject this is at home. Low sperm count." And they broke once again into choking peals of laughter.

As the laughter fell away, it seemed as if the years and the awkwardness fell with it. Hatch regaled her with stories of medical school, gruesome pranks they played in human anatomy class, and his adventures in Suriname and Sierra Leone, while she told him the various fates of their common friends. Almost all of them had moved to Bangor, Portland, or Manchester.

At last, she fell silent. "I have a confession, Malin," she said. "This meeting wasn't a complete accident."

Hatch nodded.

"You see, I saw you walking past Fort Blacklock, and . . . well, I took a wild guess where you were headed."

"Not so wild, it turns out."

She looked at him. "I wanted to apologize. I mean, I don't share Woody's feelings about what you're doing here. I know you're not in it for the money, and I wanted you to hear that from me. I hope you succeed."

"No need to apologize." He paused. "Tell me how you ended up marrying him."

She sighed and averted her eyes. "Must I?"

"You must."

"Oh, Malin, I was so ... I don't know. You left, and you never wrote. No, no," she went on quickly, "I'm not blaming you. I know I stopped going out with you before then."

"That's right. For Richard Moe, star quarterback. How is old Dick?"

"I don't know. I broke up with him three weeks after you left Stormhaven. I never cared for him much, anyway. I was mad at you, more than anything else. There was this part of you I could never reach, this hard place you kept from me. You had left Stormhaven long before you really left, if you know what I mean. It got to me after a while." She shrugged. "I kept hoping you'd come after me. But then one day, you and your mother were gone."

"Yup. Off to Boston. I guess I was a pretty gloomy kid."

"After you left, it was all the same old guys in Stormhaven. God, they were so boring. I was all set to go to college. And then this young minister came. He'd been to Woodstock, been tear-gassed at the '68 Chicago convention. He seemed so fiery and sincere. He'd inherited millions, you know—margarine—and he gave it all to the poor, every penny. Malin, I wish you'd known him then. He was so different. Full of passion for the big causes, a man who really believed he could change the world. He was so intense. I couldn't believe that he could have any interest in me. And you know, he never talked God to me. He just tried to live by His example. I still remember how he couldn't bear the thought of being the reason I didn't get my degree. He insisted I go to the Community College. He's the only man I've ever met who would never tell a lie, no matter how much the truth might hurt."

"So what happened?"

Claire sighed and dropped her chin onto her knees. "I'm not sure, exactly. Over the years, he seemed to shrink somehow. Small towns can be deadly, Malin, especially for someone like Woody. You know how it is. Stormhaven is its own little world. Nobody cared about politics here, nobody cared about nuclear proliferation, about starving children in Biafra. I begged Woody to leave, but he's so stubborn. He'd come here to change this little town, and he wasn't going to leave until he did. Oh, people tolerated him, and looked on all his causes and fund-raisers with a kind of amusement. Nobody even got mad about his liberal politics. They just ignored it. That was the worst for him—being politely ignored. He became more and more—" She paused, thinking. "I don't know how to say it, exactly. Rigid and moralistic. Even at home. He never learned to lighten up. And having no sense of humor made it harder."

"Well, Maine humor can take some getting used to," Hatch said as charitably as he could.

"No, Malin, I mean it literally. Woody never laughs. He never finds anything funny. He just doesn't get it. I don't know if it's something in his background, or his genes, or what. We don't talk about it. Maybe that's one reason he's so ardent, so unmoving in the things he believes in." She hesitated. "And now he has something to believe in, all right. With this crusade against your treasure hunt, it's like he has a new cause. Something he thinks Stormhaven will care about."

"What is it about the dig, anyway?" Hatch asked. "Or is it the dig? Does he know about us?"

She turned to look at him. "Of course he knows about us. A long time ago, he demanded honesty, so I told him everything. Wasn't all that much to tell." She gave a short laugh.

Serves me right for asking, Hatch thought. "Well, he'd better start looking for another cause. We're almost done."

"Really? How can you be sure?"

"The crew historian made a discovery this morning. He learned that Macallan, the guy who built the Water Pit, designed it as a kind of cathedral spire."