The statue had made them stop and ponder, all right, she and Mike, and she hoped their marriage would survive the pondering....

"Something that makes us question the wonder of life becomes unique when it falls to the artist's eye...."

This artist's eye was on her husband's vacant seat. How could he? Her throat was tight.

"Art transforms the ordinary into the unique." He took a breath. God, he was putting Jake to sleep.

"We see a sunset in all its glory, yet the artist, perhaps because she comes from another land, sees something that isn't there for the rest of us...."

This artist sees a shark and hopes that no one else does.

It stood with its sailcloth cover flapping, an enigma to them all, including her.

Suppose it was a shark to the rest of them, and not a bird, or a free form, or just a shape, to be cherished and admired?

Her heart began to beat harder. And then suppose Mike's shark came back and ruined the tourist trade and there's a statue in the town square to commemorate him...

Did they still burn witches at the stake in the Bahamas?

***

The great white had returned to Pretty Sally Bay from Bowsprit Cut. Now he lolled offshore, digesting the blond on the Windsurfer and parts of his board as well.

A steel-drum band was pounding reggae somewhere on the water, to a beat stolen from Bob Marley and the Wailers. The thumping interested the shark. He cruised from the quiet of Pretty Sally around Harbor Point. Here he swam into a cacophony of sound.

He did not know where to head, but he was back where the action was.

***

Carla was growing more uncomfortable on the stand with every word of the mayor's praise.

From the government barge that would review the Aquatic Parade she heard the steel-drum band.

Closer yet, on Kingston Street, a goombay drummer began a deep, slow jungle pounding.

Boom... boom... boom...

Something tugged at her memory. Mike said they'd tagged the shark. How? With one of their little transmitters, like a conch?

Would the heartbeat sound like a conch's? Or deeper, slower...

Boom... boom... boom...

An awful thought plucked at the back of her mind. Something forgotten, some error she had made?

The drums were making her head ache. The mayor droned on. She flashed on Ellen, dancing out of her head on the moonlit beach...

Boom... boom... boom...

Witherspoon's voice rose. "Today we are privileged to dedicate a work of art that I am sure will reflect the true tone of our community."

Last night, on the beach, she had done something just as weird as Ellen. What was it?

Witherspoon dithered on. "A work of art that none of us has yet seen but which we know reflects the true spirit, the free expression of life here in the Bahamas."