“She’s the youngest daughter of the Diaz family, who owns this place,” he said after she left. “And that was her mother who seated us. They came up from Miami a year ago to open Havana, and their extended family joined them to make a go of it. Everything from supplying seafood to renovating the building, an ongoing project.”
He was sitting beside her in a comfortably padded booth, and she shifted to poke his middle with a finger. His abdomen was hard and flat. “Where do you put all this food? Not an extra ounce anywhere.”
His smile widened, as if they were sharing a joke. “I eat out a lot.”
“I guess cooking for one person isn’t much fun.”
“Actually I like to cook. I tested recipes for a newspaper in San Antonio right out of college and I can make some mean Tex-Mex. But I love trying new things and seeing if the old ones are as good as I remember.”
“So food is your hobby?”
“I’m a down-home guy. I cook. I eat. I garden. I sit by the river and wave at passing boats. Some people think I’m boring.”
She was definitely not one of them. “And you write.”
“That, too.”
Amber trusted Cassie, but something seemed odd here. “So how many different jobs do you have?” She listed the ones Cassie had told her about.
“I love how these stories get started.”
“Finish then. I’m curious.”
“Curious or suspicious?”
“More the first than the second. But truthfully I do have a suspicious nature. I’ve had to develop one.”
“Why?”
“Are we going to trade Q and A?”
He thought it over. “Okay. At the moment I freelance for both the Tarpon Times and the Sun Sentry. It looks like I might get a permanent spot at the Sentry if the managing editor likes the next story I submit. Right now, though, I also help a cousin on his boat, but only if he really can’t find anybody else, and I stay strictly above the water.”
She supposed there was enough income in what he did to keep body and soul together, although restaurant bills had to take a fair share of it. “Do you want that permanent spot?”
“I’m hopeful.”
“What kind of reporting would you be doing?”
“You’re avoiding my question now. Why did you have to develop a suspicious nature?”
She considered what she could safely tell him. Once again a portion of the truth was easier to remember. “When I was a teenager and pregnant with Will, I was forced to leave home. I’ve been on my own ever since, and like every young woman making her way through this world of ours, I had to learn quickly who to trust. Not trusting anybody was safest.”
“That covers a lot of time and an entire philosophy of living. What it’s short on? Details.”
“I didn’t promise details.”
The expression in his dark eyes was warm and concerned. “I can make an educated guess. You’re still suspicious because you have something to fear.”
She supposed fear as a motivator really was clear to anybody who could put two thoughts together, and Travis could put together many more.
“I practice caution,” she said.
“Are you in touch with your family?”
This time she could be perfectly honest. “Both my parents are dead. There’s nobody else.”
He didn’t ask about Will’s father, although it must have been obvious that if she was still suspicious of others, there must be someone or something from her past that was haunting her. Will’s father was the obvious choice.
Travis rested his head against hers for a moment to make sure she knew he wasn’t blaming her. “I think if we slowly peel back these layers, one at a time, we might actually get to know each other sometime in the next decade.”
Their server returned with a local beer for Travis and club soda with lime for Amber, followed quickly by ceviche, which they shared. She was glad they were finished sharing life stories along with it.
“Like the ceviche?” he asked.
“A little more lime than I’m used to, but I like it anyway. What about you?”
They finished the ceviche and discussed the simplicity of it as compared to more elaborate versions. They chatted easily about the restaurant’s decor and the food. When the clams arrived, Amber found them delightful, sweet and juicy with nothing hiding their natural flavor.
“I have this feeling you like discussing the food as much as you like eating it,” she said when the next dish arrived, a seafood soup with rum that Travis had ordered and shared, analyzing each swallow.
“Nothing ever beats good food.” His smile was sly. “Well, some things do, actually. One thing comes to mind.”
She smiled, too. “Both pleasures of the flesh.”
“But unlike food, you really can’t get too much of the other.”
“I’ve never tried. Have you?”
Now he laughed. “To get too much? I never set out to. But like food, when sex just isn’t right, you don’t want a second helping.”
“Are you feeding my appetite so I can feed yours later tonight?”
“We aren’t mincing words. I brought you here because I wanted to spend time with you. The rest of the night is a mutual decision.”
The server returned, and with her, a man wearing a chef’s apron. “Mr. Slade, are you enjoying the food tonight?”
Amber waited for Travis to correct his name, but he didn’t. “It’s as good as it always is.”
“The pompano was an excellent choice. I know your friends enjoyed it the last time you were here, too.” He and Travis chatted, and Amber listened. It was clear from their conversation that Travis had brought a large party with him recently.
She waited until the chef disappeared. “Mr. Slade again?”
“It’s impolite to correct people.”
But her mind had been spinning as he and the chef discussed his last visit, and from that, an idea had taken shape. “Who comes back to the same restaurant with different people and gives a false name? And who orders practically everything on the menu at one visit or another.”
“Is this a riddle?”
“Humor me.”
“A man with lots of friends who like to eat out?”
“How about a man who doesn’t want his real name to be known because maybe...” She covered his hand with hers just as he reached for his fork again. “He writes restaurant reviews?”
He didn’t say anything. He just waited.
“As Dallas Johnson?”
“You really do have a suspicious nature.” He grinned.
“Travis!”
“It wasn’t my job to fool you, Amber. It’s my job to fool them, the cooks and the servers. Some of my friends know what I do, but you work for Yiayia. And this is not something I want her to know. So I had to keep it to myself.”
“Yiayia!” Amber had seen the Sentry’s mention of the Kouzina, and she knew Yiayia was still furious about it.
He watched her expression, as if wondering just how much trouble was in store. “Most food critics use their own name on their reviews and fake names at restaurants. Some critics even wear disguises because their photos are posted on the wall in the kitchen. I may have to resort to that if I get bumped up to full-time critic at the Sentry. I can’t follow the norm and use my real name on reviews because I’ve lived here most of my life and too many people know me. But for now, nobody but my closest friends know I’m writing them. So far no restaurant has moved me to their best table and tried to interest me in their tastiest morsels. No bottles of expensive champagne have appeared mysteriously.”
“Cassie promised me you had no deep, dark secrets. Boy, was she wrong.”
“Deep maybe, but not dark.”
“How did you fall into this?”
“A short trip. I told you I worked on th
e food section in San Antonio. When I came back to Florida, it was on my résumé. I freelanced at the Sentry doing other things, and one day they asked if I wanted to work on their new restaurant column. From there, eventually they started asking for reviews. I like to tell the stories of the restaurants, how they started, what they felt like, not just a list of what foods I liked or didn’t, and the managing editor enjoyed the way I presented them. Now the food critic position is opening up and I hope it will be mine if I want it.”
One fact stood out for her. “Wait a minute. I’m the perfect date, aren’t I? Because I know the restaurant business backward and forward, and you know whatever I say will have merit.”
“Amber... That’s not why you’re the perfect date.” He leaned over and kissed her. She didn’t move away. Only when their server returned did they straighten. The salad was served, and with it, Amber’s pompano and the roasted red snapper Travis had ordered.
“Dallas Johnson?” Her hand was trembling just a little as she cut a piece of the pompano and set it on his plate for a taste. “How’d you come up with the name?”
“Right out of college I moved on to law school in Dallas. I was ambitious, to say the least. Even though I didn’t really love my classes, I thought a law degree would get me where I wanted to go. Big city. Big money. Big dreams. Then one day in my second year I tried to cross a street while I was texting somebody in my study group. I was nearly mowed down by a pickup truck and ended up with broken this and sprained that. I couldn’t finish the year so I had to withdraw while I recovered.”
“And you want to remember that awful moment every time you sign a review?”
“It sounds crazy, but after I adjusted—and I’ll confess that took a while—I realized I’d let ambition consume my life. All the other things that really mattered to me had almost slipped through my fingers. My family and friends, my hometown, my writing. I’d majored in journalism in college because I liked digging for facts and reshaping them in interesting ways, but I let that drop in favor of law school. So now when I sign Dallas Johnson on my reviews, it’s a reminder that life goes on, and sometimes even unwelcome changes work in our favor.”
“I wish I could say the same.”
“I get a strong feeling you can’t.”
“I do have Will. But he was never unwelcome.”
“Then how about unplanned changes.”
The time had come to be absolutely honest. “You’re an unplanned change, Travis. And you need to know something before the evening goes any further. Nobody will ever be able to count on me staying around, not even for a day. And I absolutely cannot hook up with a journalist if I think he’s going to dig for answers. Can you promise you won’t take it on yourself to nose around in my life because you think you can help? Because you can’t. Nobody can.”
“How can that be true?”
“Trust me.”
He took a few moments to answer, obviously running through the ramifications. “You’re living with Cassie. Are the police going to show up on her doorstep looking for you? Could she be charged for harboring a fugitive?”
“No.”
“Then are she and Savannah in danger?”
“I’ve never put anybody in danger.” And it was true, as far as she knew. Would it always be? The moment she had reason to suspect that fake IDs and constant moves were no longer protecting the people around her, she would vanish again. She just prayed that if that moment ever came, she would recognize it.
“You drive a hard bargain.” Travis put his arm around her and pulled her close. “If anything changes and you’re ready to include me in this, you’ll let me know?”
She nodded.
“I don’t want it to be this way,” he said, “but I have to believe what you say.”
Travis didn’t like being kept in the dark, but he was willing to respect her wishes. He hadn’t tried to draw out the truth. He’d only made certain that the people around her were safe from whatever haunted her. He had faith in her, and that was better than any spoken promise that he wouldn’t interfere.
She made her decision. “How much more do we have to eat so you can do your review?”
“Maybe they’ll pack dessert to go.”
She touched his cheek and turned his face to hers. “Then maybe they should.”
29
THE TOWN OF BLAYNEY was in the Red Hills region of Georgia, north of Florida’s state capital by an hour. Or it would have been an hour if Will had exceeded the speed limit at any point.
The brakes had been thoroughly tested by the time they drove past a sign that read “Welcome to Blayney,” and below that “Y’all Come Set a Spell at the Hulk Hogan Film Fest.”
“Cute. Very down-home,” Savannah said.
“Local. Hulk Hogan’s from Georgia.”
She had learned the hard way just how many useless facts Will kept in his head. Either he had a photographic memory, or he was an even bigger nerd than she’d realized.
“Too bad a film fest’s not as exciting as the Rattlesnake Roundup back in Whigham,” she said. “Maybe we can go next year.”
Will pulled into a parking spot about three blocks down the main street and turned off the Mustang’s engine. His head flopped back against the seat, and he closed his eyes. Will’s little naps were another reason a trip that should have only taken five hours had taken more than eight.
Savannah had envisioned their trip to Georgia like the ones she’d taken with her father and Cassie through upstate New York and New England. Adorable little towns. Scenic roadways. Quaint tourist attractions. Instead Will’s eyes had been riveted to the road when he wasn’t napping at rest stops. He’d only left the car to use the restroom. He’d insisted on eating drive-thru burgers in the car.
She felt like a vampire who had sucked all his blood so she could watch him deflate like a limp balloon. The combination of a long drive in an unfamiliar, not-quite-stolen car and the reality of a past he knew little about had done the poor guy in.
“We have about an hour and a half until sunset,” she said, after a few minutes. “We have tomorrow to explore, too, but if the trip home takes another eight hours, and we need to be back in Tarpon Springs when the buses are supposed to arrive, then we’d better start back tomorrow afternoon so we can get to Roxanne’s by noon on Sunday in time to stow the car and walk to school.”
He didn’t open his eyes. “You must be a whiz at word problems.”
She dug into a store of patience fast approaching empty. “Look, that gives us options. We can look around town now, and then go out to the grave tomorrow. Or we can do the cemetery first.”
While she waited for him to decide, she examined the street. Blayney’s downtown was dusty and old-fashioned, not exactly Mayberry R.F.D., but with touches of the same dubious charm. She noted old brick buildings with trim painted white or green, huge shade trees and paved sidewalks with newish lampposts mimicking vintage models.
Unfortunately, two of the nearby storefronts had “Closed” painted across their windows. The road they’d come in on had been filled with potholes, and the first stop sign they’d reached had been bent double, like a man with an overpowering bellyache. Obviously, effort had been expended to make Blayney more welcoming, but she saw no signs that additional work was in progress.
From research she had read aloud to entertain Will, she had learned that agriculture was a big part of the local economy, with peanut, cotton and pecan production near the top. She wondered how many of Blayney’s college graduates returned to live and raise their families here.
“Do you suppose the internet makes it easier to live in a place like this?” At least Will’s eyes were open now. “Maybe people move here and start businesses from home. They can be in Atlanta in half a day if need be. But I guess it wouldn’t have been all that exciting when your parents lived here.”
Will didn’t answer. S
he shifted so she was facing him. “Look, we need to do something, okay? You need to decide.”
He heaved a sigh. “Let’s walk around and see what we can find out. We passed a diner when we turned onto Main Street. We can eat dinner there and maybe figure out a place to stay.”
Will had packed sleeping bags for both of them. She had a bad feeling that the “place to stay” was going to be a clearing somewhere. Or the car.
She got out, and he followed, carefully locking the car behind them. “We ought to stay close,” he said. “The car’s kind of exposed.”
They started down the sidewalk looking into store windows. Savannah didn’t know what she’d expected. A friendly old general store with an old man behind the counter who had grown up in Blayney and knew everybody? With the exception of a drugstore with a soda fountain along one wall and no customers, the majority of buildings housed offices and a few discount stores Savannah had never heard of.
“I think we ought to try the library,” Will said. “They might have phone books or old newspapers online or on microfilm.”
She was relieved. Back at the car she looked up the address and saw that the downtown library was open until six. They covered the required blocks and parked beside the building, which was small but modern. People were still going in, and she and Will joined them.
The reception desk was just to the left with two grandmotherly women standing behind it. Will had agreed that Savannah should do the talking. Both of them knew she was a better liar.
She waited her turn in line, and then she beamed her most winning smile when the older of the two women, wearing a bright red flowered blouse that complemented her dark skin, asked if she could help.
“My brother and I are just passing through. We’re meeting our parents in Atlanta tomorrow, but we’ll probably stay here for the night. I remember Mom telling me she had relatives in Blayney. We thought it might be fun to see what we could find and surprise her tomorrow.”
The woman asked exactly what Savannah was looking for, and she pretended to think for a moment. “Well, her maiden name was Blair. I think she said there were a lot of Blairs in the area.”
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