The Deepest Waters, A Novel by Dan Walsh Page B

beside her and snapped the reins. “Let’s go, boy.”
    They lurched forward, and she fell back against the seat.
    “Sorry, Shasta’s still getting used to this. And I’m afraid, so am I.”
    “How long have you had him?”
    “I got him as soon as I moved out here. He’s half Arabian. As soon as I saw him, I said ‘You are mine.’ We ride in the country together every Sunday after church. He can run like the wind.”
    “He’s beautiful.”
    “He is.” They turned down Third Avenue.
    “Where are we going?”
    “First to a very fine restaurant . . . not like those other places I’ve taken you.”
    “I didn’t mean—”
    “I’m just being playful. They were just nice. Tonight will be exquisite. After dinner, we’re going for a ride. Have you ever been out to the Mission?”
    “No.” She’d wanted to, but it was way beyond the outskirts of town. She’d never feel safe taking a carriage there by herself.
    “Well, the plank road out there is a bit bumpy. When we talk, it will sound like we’re shivering. But they’ve turned the Mission into a wonderful place, especially at night.”
    Shasta had found his stride. That and the night wind made her cold. “I don’t think we’ll have to wait for the plank road to sound like we’re shivering.”
    “I’m sorry. It takes a lot for me to feel the cold. Here, I brought a blanket for you.” He reached under the seat and pulled it out. With the reins in one hand, he began to wrap it around her shoulders. She helped. He kept his arm around her shoulder a moment and drew her close. “I hope you don’t mind. I don’t want you catching a cold.”
    “I don’t mind,” she said, leaning in, trying to hide her smile.
    Later, they had the most wonderful meal at the nicest restaurant she’d ever visited. Everyone dressed like they were going to the opera. It had chandeliers and rich burgundy curtains, china plates and white linen. She felt out of place at first, but John seemed perfectly at ease. The way he looked at her and the things he said soon put her at ease.
    On the ride out to Mission Dolores, John told her about the places around San Francisco he wanted to take her in the coming weeks. Down the beach toward Black Point, then to Fort Point and the Golden Gate. The sand by the beach there, he’d said, was as hard and smooth as pavement. He rattled off a half dozen other spots, places she’d heard people talk about in town but she’d never been able to see. It thrilled her heart to hear it; not so much the thought of seeing all these sights, but the level of excitement in John’s voice and the anticipation of going to all these places with him.
    He had her back home by 10:30. The whole night, he was the perfect gentleman. But the whole night, she could tell . . . he was hers, her John . They were most definitely together now. All his language and mannerisms had said so. Why, he’d bought a carriage, just for them. After she’d closed the front door, she ran up the stairs so she could see him pull away.
    She had done the very same thing on every one of their dates for the next year, right up to the night before their wedding. That night, his last words had been a delightful question: “Do you realize, my love, after tonight, we will never part again?”
    She looked out at the sea now and tried but could not suppress the memory of a phrase from their wedding day: till death do us part.
    Surely, God could not have intended them to part so soon. But here she was alone, with no reason to imagine she’d be anything but alone from now on.

13
     
    Since he’d already slept a bit, John said he’d take first watch that night. The others were already asleep. He was responsible to make sure the bowl shape of the coat remained intact throughout the night. This meant all three men could barely move. If even one rolled over, a sidewall could collapse and the water would be lost.
    John estimated an hour had passed. It was peaceful and quiet. The night sky