| OCR Text |
Show Woodworth/268 "Let's do it." "Are you coming in?" she asks when they pull up to the curb at the airport, and Rachael shakes her head. Marty hesitates, her hand resting on the jagged plastic of the broken car door handle. When she lets go, Rachael will drive away. She will have no choice but to go inside. Check baggage. Seat selection. Fasten seat belts. Boston, Westfield, Massachusetts getting smaller, and smaller, like doll's furniture. "Call me," Rachael says, and she nods. "Anytime," Rachael adds, and she nods again. "Good luck," Rachael says. "Thanks," she says. She still holds the door handle. "For Christ's sake, will you let me get out of here?" Rachael demands. "I'm about to burst into tears, and you're only going to Nantucket for the fucking weekend." Marty laughs, falling backwards towards the pull of the airport. "Bye," she calls. Rachael pulls away, waving over her shoulder, then stops. Marty runs after the car. "What?" she asks. "Call me if you want me to pick you up when you get back." "I will. I will." She watches the car merge out into traffic again. T^Jftj,' haa lattin inn long **ri-mt* nf watehj-ngcjjj^o vy. She turns her back to the~retreating car, her face into the wind, and closes her eyes. A good sailing breeze today. She pictures Jake, dressed in his yellow foul-weather gear, moving from cleat to halyard, testing, coiling, adjusting. He checks the pennant, looking up the mast and then, hand over hand , the muscles across his back creasing and crossing under the oiled s>efc JbaciMat the^rain jacket, cleating, moving to the |
