Stranded on the Houseboat

I was forty-four years old and wiping down pool filters on a Friday night. That was the sum of it. The HOA paid me decent money to keep the pool clean, the mail kiosk lit, and the grilles in the common area from catching fire, and I did it every week the same way. Rinse, scrub, rinse, log it on the clipboard, go home to the houseboat.

I know how that sounds. A grown man with a clipboard of his own. But the truth is I liked the routine until about eight months ago, and then one day I didn't. The dates I went on had all started to feel like the same date with different women. Dinner, polite talk about work, a kiss on the cheek or not even that, and home by ten. I was reliable. Everybody said so. My sister said it, the guys at the marina said it, and the women I dated said it in that tone that means they were already writing the goodbye text.

So that Friday I finished the filters, locked the pool gate, and walked down the cul-de-sac to the marina thinking maybe I should just cancel the dating apps and get a cat. The water was flat and the dock lights were coming on over the lilies. It was a nice enough evening to waste, which was exactly what I planned to do with it.

That was when the knocking started. Not on my door at first. On the neighbor's dock, on a piling, anywhere a fist could land. Then footsteps on my gangway, fast ones, and a knock on my door that meant business.

I opened it and there was a woman on my step, thirty-nine or so, short dark hair, wearing a carnival company polo shirt and holding a leash with no dog on the end of it. She was out of breath and mad about it.

"I am so sorry to bother you," she said. "Did a dog come this way? Floppy ears, brown and white, about forty pounds, answers to Juniper when he feels like it, which is never?"

"Come again?"

"A dog." She held up the leash like evidence. "He's the fair's dog. The owner keeps him at the fairgrounds, don't ask me why, and I had him out for a walk and he saw a goose or a ghost or something and pulled the leash right out of my hand. He ran down your dock. I watched him run down your dock."

"Huh," I said. "I didn't see him come past. But the door was open and I was out back with the hose."

She looked past me into the boat. "Can I look? Just quickly? I'm Delilah, by the way. I'm inspecting the rides at the fairgrounds this week."

"Marc. Yeah, come look."

She stepped inside and I followed her through the galley. The boat is small, one bedroom, a galley, a living area with a sofa that folds out. I keep it tidy because there's nowhere for mess to hide, though the rolled-up rug leaning against the wall by the galley has been there since spring because I kept meaning to beat it out and never did.

Delilah got two steps in and stopped. "There," she said.

I looked. There was a brown and white ear sticking out from under the rolled rug. Juniper had wedged himself in the gap between the rug and the wall, and he was watching us with one eye like we were the two worst people he had ever met.

"Hey, buddy," Delilah said, crouching. Her voice went soft and high. "Hey, Juniper. Come here, sweet boy. Come on."

The ear withdrew. The entire conversation consisted of that, dog edition.

"He does this," she said, standing up and brushing off her knees. "At the fairgrounds they have to lure him out with lunch meat. I don't have lunch meat. Do you have lunch meat?"

"I have bologna and a block of cheddar."

"Bologna works. He's a snob about nothing."

I got the bologna and tore off a piece and held it near the rug. The ear came back. Juniper stretched one paw out, took the bologna off my palm with the delicacy of a pickpocket, and pulled it back under the rug.

"He's mocking us," Delilah said.

"He's winning," I said.

We tried three more times. On the fourth, Juniper decided the bologna tax had been paid enough and came out, tail down, and let Delilah clip the leash. She sagged with relief and then laughed, a real laugh, the kind that changes a person's face.

"Thank you. Seriously. He's not even my dog and I would have been out here all night."

"No trouble," I said. "Except you now have a new problem, probably."

She frowned. "What problem?"

"The water taxi. It stopped running at six. The old relay in the pilot house finally quit and the repair guy can't come until morning. I heard it from the dock boss. Nothing crosses the water tonight."

Delilah stood there doing math, and I watched the math come out bad.

"The rental car is on the far shore," she said. "The hotel is on the far shore. The fairgrounds open the tilt-a-whirl inspection at eight Saturday and I am not missing it." She blew out a breath. "Okay. Is there a road around?"

"Two hours with traffic. There's no traffic at nine at night, so call it ninety minutes, and no cab will drive out here for less than a fortune."

"Great. Wonderful." She looked at Juniper, who had flopped onto my floor like he owned the deed. "I have forty dollars and a dog who hates me."

I should tell you here that I thought about it for about four seconds before I said the next part, and the four seconds were not about whether she seemed safe, because a woman who chases a runaway mutt in a company polo is not running a scam on a janitor. The four seconds were about me. About whether I could do something out of the ordinary without making it weird.

"There's a sofa," I said. "It folds out. It's not fancy, but it's dry, and I have wine that a date left here last year and never came back for. You can have the sofa and the wine and Juniper can have the floor, he's already claimed it, and in the morning I'll run you across in my skiff. It's small but it floats."

Delilah looked at me for a beat. "You'd do that?"

"Beats a two-hour drive and a forty-dollar cab. And the skiff ride is two minutes."

"Well," she said. "Okay. Yes. Thank you, Marc. I mean it."

So that's how a carnival ride inspector and a dog named Juniper ended up on my sofa on a Friday night. She took the wine, red, and I had a beer, and she sat with her feet tucked under her and the clipboard she