Weeks dragged by, and still Roy received no word from Mullet Fingers. Every so often Beatrice would assure him that her stepbrother was fine, but Roy wasn't satisfied. He wanted to see his friend again. Finally, one hot Friday afternoon, he hopped on his bike and pedaled off, a plan only half-formed in his head.
Without a clear idea of what he was actually planning to do, Roy biked to each of the places that reminded him of Mullet Fingers. First he stopped by Jo-Jo's Ice Cream Trailer, and than at Beatrice's house, and then at the golf course. There was no sign of Mullet Fingers in any of these places, and Roy hadn't really expected there to be. He got back on his bike and headed for the final place Mullet Fingers might have hidden.
Roy wasn't surprised to find that the Molly Bell appeared deserted. It had hardly been likely that Mullet Fingers would have been sitting there on the boat's hull, waiting for him. Roy clambered up onto the boat anyway, enjoying the view. It was so peaceful here, and quiet, as if no one had ever disturbed the place and no one ever would. Bugs chirped, fish flitted by in the stream, and birds flew past overhead. Roy drank in the scene, enraptured. For once, Montana was far from his mind. Really, Florida was great, if you looked in the right places.
The tiniest splash made Roy turn his head, wondering if he would look in time to see a jumping fish or diving bird. As it turned out, neither a fish nor a bird had made the noise. Instead, Roy found himself looking directly at Mullet Fingers.
"I wondered if you'd come back here," Mullet Fingers murmured as he climbed on top of the Molly Bell, settling in next to Roy.
"I wondered the same thing about you," Roy replied.
There was a companionable silence as the two boys sat side by side and admired the beauty around them. The silence, the sunlight-it was all so relaxing that neither could help but enjoy it.
"Everything all right with you?" Roy asked finally.
"Yeah. Don't worry, everything's cool," Mullet Fingers replied.
"Good," Roy responded. "How come you didn't tell me where you were? I would have come out here a long time ago, if I'd known."
"Beatrice wanted you to know," Mullet Fingers admitted. "But-I've been on my own for so long. I'm not used to anybody knowing where I am or if I need anything, besides my sister. I didn't really like the idea of adding anyone, even you."
"Yeah, I get it," Roy answered. "I didn't really expect you to be here."
"I thought about leaving, cowgirl, I really did. But some places are harder to leave than others. Man, this place is awesome. How could I give it up?"
Roy cast his mind back to Montana. How could he give it up? A long look around him answered the question. For Florida, he could-not forget Montana, but adjust. Florida was already a part of him, the same way Montana had been and maybe always would be.
The boys lapsed into silence again. Roy had so many questions, but he preferred to just sit here and be. It was easier that way, and more complete. The surroundings washed over him, blending together in a perfect, uniquely Floridian harmony, with the sights, sounds, and smells all jumbling together at once. Roy felt that all was right with the world.
"Mullet Fingers! Mullet Fingers!" Beatrice's yell cut like a knife through Roy's inner peace. "Napolean Bridger Leep, where the heck are you?"
Mullet Fingers scrambled down from the Molly Bell, a wry expression on his face. "Here!" he called, splashing out of the stream with Roy at his heels.
Beatrice darted out of the forest, looking red-faced and frustrated. "You could have told me you wouldn't be-" She noticed Roy. "Oh."
"Yeah," Roy said. He still hadn't gotten completely used to the way Beatrice and her stepbrother didn't seem to need as many words as other people.
"Care to join us?" Mullet Fingers offered to Beatrice. "It's low tide, so I'm pretty sure we could fit three people on the Molly Bell, if we don't mind being squished."
Beatrice kicked off her shoes and peeled off her socks. "Yeah, that would be great."
The threesome waded back to the Molly Bell and perched themselves on the hull. They all fit, though it was a bit tight. Beatrice had the sense not to say anything, so the only sounds were the babble of the stream, the buzz of the insects, the cries of the birds, and the breathing of the three kids.
It was perfect. The moment was serene and fragile and incredibly, wonderfully perfect, qualities Roy had come to appreciate in the environment. He wanted to freeze time right there on the Molly Bell in the dappled sunlight on that glorious Friday afternoon, so he could capture the perfection.
Time didn't freeze, but Roy promised himself he would never forget. That was the next-best thing.