CHAPTER FIVE: THE EMPTY WATER
On Friday morning Nina drove to the old municipal aquatic center where Harborline had advertised its final practical assessment.
The facility stood behind a chain-link fence topped with faded plastic flags.
Its outdoor pool had been drained for repairs in April.
A handwritten notice on the gate directed customers to a new address without naming the company that had booked the space.
Nina called the center’s current manager, Rosa Benitez, and waited in her car.
Rosa arrived with a ring of keys and a mug of coffee balanced on the dashboard of a small utility cart.
“I thought Harborline was finished with us,” Rosa said.
“Why?” Nina asked.
“They wanted exclusive access on weekends but wouldn’t pay the deposit for reopening the pool.”
“Did they ever use it for instruction?”
“They held a classroom meeting in the lobby,
” Rosa answered.
“I watched a man demonstrate a rescue throw using a dry lane rope.”
“Any swimming assessments?”
“Not here.”
Rosa unlocked the gate and invited Nina to view the facility from the deck.
The pool floor was streaked with pale mineral marks, and two workers were repairing an expansion joint near the deep end.
Nina photographed the posted closure notice with Rosa’s permission.
She was careful to include the notice’s date.
Rosa glanced at the photograph.
“The day they asked us to reopen, their director said he needed a blue background for publicity pictures.”
“What did you tell him?”
“I told him he could photograph the sky for free.”
Nina almost smiled.
“Did he come back?”
“With a portable backdrop.”
Rosa led her into the lobby, where a faded rectangle on the wall showed where temporary signage had been removed.
“They photographed students holding flotation devices in front of that wall,” Rosa said.
“People online thought they were beside a pool.”
“Do you have the booking dates?”
“I can provide confirmation of what our facility rented and when.”
Nina thanked her.
The answer was not dramatic, but it was useful.
An empty pool could not have supported the water assessment printed on Owen’s certificate.
At the parking lot, a woman in a navy tracksuit was waiting beside Nina’s car.
She introduced herself as Tessa Rowan, the director of Lakeshore Day Camp.
“Denise told me you were investigating Harborline,” Tessa said.
“She said you’d be here.”
“I wasn’t planning an investigation when I woke up yesterday.”
“Neither was I,” Tessa replied.
She had a list of eighteen seasonal hires and a Monday opening date she could not change.
Seven candidates had certificates from Harborline.
Three had never mentioned in-water training.
“What happens if I can’t staff the lake?” she asked.
“Then you don’t open the lake,” Nina replied.
Tessa exhaled sharply.
“That’s easy for a private instructor to say.”
“It isn’t easy for me to say.”
“I have eighty children booked.”
“Then eighty families need accurate information.”
Tessa stared at the empty pool through the fence.
“I’ve already told parents we’re ready.”
“You can still tell them what you’re doing to make sure you’re ready.”
Tessa pulled a folded brochure from her pocket.
It advertised a discounted Harborline refresher test to be held Sunday afternoon.
The location was Nina’s home address.
“They offered to come to our camp if we didn’t want to travel,” Tessa said.
“When did they offer that?”
“Yesterday evening.”
Nina unfolded the brochure.
It displayed a photograph of a turquoise pool with a painted dolphin on the tile.
Her pool had a painted dolphin.
The photograph showed the shallow end of her own yard, with the left edge cropped to remove her patio furniture.
“That’s my pool,” Nina said.
“Are you certain?”
Nina pointed to a repaired tile near the ladder.
“My son chipped that corner trying to move a toy boat.”
Tessa stepped closer.
“Why would they advertise your property without permission?”
“Because an address looks more convincing when people can see a real place.”
Tessa looked sick.
“I’ve already sent this to twenty parents.”
“Then send a correction,” Nina said.
“Tell them not to go there.”
Tessa watched the wind move the flags over the empty basin.
“I wanted my opening day to look organized,” she admitted.
“I didn’t ask enough questions.”
Nina understood that kind of pressure.
When she had launched her own business, she had borrowed chairs, printed brochures at midnight, and pretended her bookkeeping was less chaotic than it really was.
But she had never signed off on skills she had not witnessed.
“You can still protect the children,” Nina said.
“That’s the part that matters now.”
