Rising Spirit

by Wayne Stinnett

  She stepped back and wiped her eyes. “That’s why I came down here,” she said. “Eve’s husband told me that you caught the man who killed Kamren. Are you some kind of cop now?”

  “Not exactly,” I replied. “Come over here and I’ll tell you all about it.”

  How does a man introduce his ex-wife to his current girlfriend, a female FBI agent with whom he’d had a one-night stand, a former lover, and his daughter with that former lover?

  I’d been worried about Sara and Sheena; just two women. Now, there were four. Five, if I counted Florence.

  I probably didn’t handle it in the way I should have. Explaining the circumstances around Alex’s death was no easier. I came to realize that her death was the most pivotal moment in my life. My parents made me, my grandparents shaped me, the Corps molded me into a warrior, but it was the loss of Alex that drove me to become the man I was now.

  As the talk wore on, I felt Sara becoming distant. When she said she had to get back to the ship that evening, I knew it was over between us. She’d lost her husband in Afghanistan a few years earlier, and no matter how close we got physically, I was always aware that she was still in love with his memory. She was always the one who’d insisted she wasn’t ready for an emotional commitment, and I’d gone along with it. But I sensed we had now reached some kind of turning point.

  Sheena was married to her job and Florence was too young to have suffered loss. But Savannah, Sara, Sandy, and I were all widowed and broken because of our losses. Losing Alex was probably why I couldn’t bring myself to commit, either.

  Sandy did seem to understand when we told her what happened to Stuart Lane. She termed it Karma; just another snake killing a snake.

  Later that night, after Sara had left to return to the ship, Florence asked if she could go with me to bring Island Hopper home from Virginia. Savannah said it was okay with her—she had some work to do on their boat and didn’t like flying.

  Sheena suggested that Sandy come along, as well. She would have to give a statement to the acting sheriff of Augusta County concerning the murder of Kamren Steele. Sandy agreed and drove back up to Miami to pack. She’d driven down in Eve’s car.

  I called Bruce Carson and told him to fly down to Marathon in the morning to pick us up, and that he’d have a passenger who would meet him at the Miami airport in the morning.

  The next morning, when the plane arrived, Florence was nervous and said that she’d only flown a couple of times in her life. The flight to Shenandoah Regional only lasted a few hours and Florence and I soon found ourselves alone in Island Hopper and headed back south. She said she liked the fancy jet, but really loved my old bird, especially since it could land on the water.

  We talked while we flew back to the Keys. I let her take the controls for a while. She wasn’t quite the natural that Kim was at her age, but she didn’t kill us.

  The trip lasted nine hours and we had to stop for fuel twice and use the bathroom, so we had a lot of time to talk. She said that she preferred to be called Flo, instead of Florence, and went on to tell me about her life, growing up on the water and living on the old trawler. She’d said that although she’d been what she called “boat-schooled,” her mom wanted her to spend a year in an American public high school and graduate with other kids before going off to college. When I’d asked her where she planned to go, she’d told me she was going to apply to University of Florida.

  It was the mention of UF that made me realize that Flo knew nothing about her two half-sisters. I’d told her then that her sister Kim had gone there and then immediately called Kim and Eve and asked if they could come down to Marathon the next day.

  The meeting of the three sisters had been a long time in coming. Flo was younger than Kim by a dozen years, and half the age of my oldest daughter, Eve. But the three of them hit it off instantly. It was amazing how much they resembled one another.

  Two weeks later, I got a phone call from Judge Orville Whitaker. He brought me up to speed on the investigation, and also told me that Pritchard was singing like the proverbial canary. As it turned out, Stuart Lane had been one of Pritchard’s early clients, when he’d worked in the public defender’s office. Pritchard spilled everything about the sheriff’s involvement in the cover-up of the murder of the hooker and the judge’s wife later the same night.

  Stuart Lane had strangled the hooker, and, still high on cocaine and the rush of the first murder, he’d shot and killed the judge’s wife while driving down the street, not even knowing or caring who she was.

  I again invited Ollie to come down so that I could help him get a marlin. He agreed that he’d come right after Christmas.

  Life on the island returned to normal, though I did miss Sara. I knew we’d still see and talk to one another, but that would be it. Whether or not I’d crossed a line was irrelevant. She’d retreated into her work, like a turtle in its shell.

  The morning of December 24th, I awoke feeling a touch of melancholy. Christmas had been a wonderful time as a kid, before I lost my parents. I became more so, when my first two daughters were kids. Now, they were grown and had holiday plans with their own families. I was a bit depressed by mid-afternoon. Jimmy had left the island to stay at Naomi’s apartment.

  As I debated whether to take something out for dinner, or the boat to the Rusty Anchor, I got another phone call. I could tell by the long stream of numbers that it was a sat-phone.

  “Hello,” I said.

  “Dad, it’s me. Flo.”

  I could feel my spirit rise at the sound of her voice.

  “Did your mom get a new phone?”

  “It’s our new satellite phone,” Flo said. “This is my first call on it.”

  “I’m honored,” I said, and meant it.

  There was a moment of silence, then Flo asked, “Will you come to dinner tonight?”

  “Dinner? Tonight?”

  “I know it’s short notice.”

  “Does Savannah know you’re asking?” I asked.

  “She’s right here, if you want to talk to her.”

  I heard shuffling and muffled voices. Then Savannah came on. “It’s nothing special, Jesse. Flo and I usually have a feast the day before Christmas. We used to anchor far from shore, so we could watch Santa fly over, and she wanted to do it again this year. And she wants to share it with you.”

  “Where are you?”

  “Thirty miles north of you,” Savannah replied. “Anchored off Graveyard Creek. It’d mean a lot to her; that is, if you’re not busy.”

  “Can I bring anything?”

  “No, we have everything we need,” Savannah replied. “Lobster and mahi.”

  My spirit soared, and I only considered the implications of the invitation for about half a heartbeat.

  “I can be there in two hours.”

  The End

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  Wayne Stinnett is an American novelist and Veteran of the United States Marine Corps. Between those careers, he’s worked as a deckhand, commercial fisherman, divemaster, taxi driver, construction manager, and commercial truck driver.

  He currently lives on one of the sea islands of the South Carolina Lowcountry with his wife and youngest daughter. They have four children and four grandchildren. Wayne is the founder of the Marine Corps League detachment in Greenville, South Carolina, where he met his wife, and rides with the Patriot Guard Riders. He grew up in Melbourne, Florida and has also lived in the Fabulous Florida Keys, Andros Island in the Bahamas, and Cozumel, Mexico.

  Wayne began writing in 1988, penning dozens of short stories before setting it aside to deal with life as a new father. He took it up again at the urging of his third wife and youngest daughter, who love to listen to his sea stories. The best of those original short stories formed the basis of his first novel, Fallen Palm. After a year of working on it, he published it in October 2013.

  Since then, he’s written many more novels and has more in store. These days, he can usually be found writing or working in his office above Lady’s Island Marina, where he also keeps his 41’ sailboat, Write of Passage.