“Destiny,”
Gator whispered on the wind. That’s what this was all about.
Moving from one life into another, replacing the old with the
new. Destiny made a man do crazy things. And if he paddled the
rowboat deep into the swamp, if he rowed to the old burnt-out
house where all of this began, then maybe, just maybe no one would
hear Lindy Beth’s raving when he broke up with her, and
he could ease into a new life full of destiny.
Gator let go of the oars and ran a rough palm through his sweaty,
short-cropped hair. Bright sun beat down on the bayou. It kept
the skeeters away, but it wore a man down. He grabbed a hunk of
ice from the cooler and slapped it on the back of his neck. The
melting ice soothed his leathery skin and sent a glacial trickle
across his shoulders and down his muscular back. Tomorrow he would
turn thirty-two, but the bayou with its hollow echoes and thick,
quaggy air somehow made him feel ancient. He sighed and looked
at his wristwatch.
“How far will we go?” Lindy Beth asked. She lay on
her back, head nestled in the rowboat’s bow. When she sat
up, she adjusted the spaghetti straps of her yellow sundress and
angled the white umbrella just enough so Gator could see her freckled
face. The umbrella formed a bright halo behind her head, and even
though she was only a few years his junior, her soft, cherub eyes
and rosy cheeks kept her looking like a twelve-year-old.
Gator had always regarded her as a child, as more of a little
sister than a grown lover. Sometimes that was sexy: a little name
calling, pigtail pulling, and hand slapping after he’d gotten
a good buzz going. Nothing beat cracking open that first beer
after a long haul across country in a Peterbilt, the hiss of the
compression brakes as the truck roared to a stop in the driveway,
kicking in the front door and shouting “Daddy’s coming
home!” only to be greeted by Lindy Beth’s tiny, white-knuckled
fists and a slough of curses spewing from her startled baby face.
And after the cussing and scratching and a few of her feeble,
girlie punches, sometimes they would go at it like a couple of
mangy dogs right there on the hardwood floor. Yes, Lindy Beth
could be a hootin’, hollerin’ hayride sometimes.
But most of the time she just annoyed him. Like right now. She
always carried that damned umbrella with her, always complained
about her fair skin, the raw Louisiana heat, the sweat beading
on her upper lip. Damn, she could sure sweat it up. Gator had
never been with a woman who perspired so much. Sweat pooled under
her armpits, dampened the back of her dress, and sprang from her
brow like she was some grubbing farmer hoeing onions in the July
scorch. She had sweated like a fevered hog even before he screwed
up and got her pregnant.
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