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The man picked up his backpack on the way to her and slung it back over his shoulder, and Charley ran up to the woman and sniffed her ankles, circling round and round while he walked.
The woman sat down on the white sand and looked at the pup once; the woman’s eyes were full of tears and she was breathing in deep, ragged gulps, and Charley could see the woman had a kind, if troubled soul.
Something still wasn’t right; she could see his distress within the shimmering air all around his body, feel it in the way the colors around him changed. Startled, the woman shook her head, then looked up and let go of Charley. That sounded like like some kind of fight out there.” Charley watched closely as the woman spoke now, clearly interested in what was going on, but the woman looked away and she couldn’t see her eyes any longer.
She slowed her pace a bit more and pretended to take more than a passing interest in the few clumps of grass they passed, and she looked up at him as he stopped, as he took a few deep breaths through his mouth, then her eyes followed his as he looked down the beach. I think there’s a good piece down there,” he said as he pointed down the beach. She took off at an ambling, curious pace, but then heard something that stopped her where she stood. She stared at the boat, her concern now evident to the man walking well behind her on the beach.
Charley understood, but looked at her own human as he walked up to them.
His skin was very pale now, and clearly concerned, she focused on his eyes once again.
For a Christmas morning in the British Virgins, the bay and the boat presented a serene, if marginally holiday-like picture, to the man and the Springer emerging from a shrubby, overgrown trail at the south end of the bay.
The dog, an ancient Spaniel named Charley, walked dutifully by the man’s side.