The truck was parked to the seaward side of the cabin to conceal it from eyes on the mainland, and a part of the winter provisions taken inside. Not until several weeks of complete isolation had passed did Gary and Oliver abandon the habit of standing guard each night; occasionally the fast-moving roar of a speeding automobile could be heard along the highway paralleling the coast, but none ever stopped, none ever investigated their island. Vigilance slowly relaxed and a sense of halfsecurity overcame them.
The cabin contained in addition to a small stove, one narrow bed which had been awarded to Sally without discussion, while they bunked on the ground beside it or sometimes out on the sandy beach. Sally, in complete if silent submission to the partnership agreement, was compliant with the wishes of both but as time went on she found herself favoring Oliver rather violently, and had some difficulty in concealing it.
Sally was lost in the enchantment of the sea, and enjoyed wading barelegged into the rolling surf with them while they fished. Fishing was a daily occurrence.
“That lieutenant…” Oliver remarked once to the far horizon. He baited his hook and cast the line into deep water.
“What about him?”
“Keep thinking of his precious bridge.”
“He can have it,” Gary retorted, wading in deeper. The white sandy slope of the beach continued underwater, forcing them to wade out fifty or seventy-five feet to reach a depth fit for fishing. The sea was clear and unruffled and so transparent Gary could see his feet dug in on the bottom. “He's welcome to it. This is for me.”
“Unhappy position, though,” Oliver insisted. “Wouldn't want to be in his shoes — suppose he had a family on the wrong side of the creek? What would you do in his place?”
“I'm damned if I know. Join ’em, I guess.” He tugged on his line thoughtfully. “I don't like the idea of shooting up our side.”
Sally waded over to stand behind him, watching.