Autumn Leaves

by Kathleen Y'Barbo

  Nate grinned and pulled out his phone. “Okay, let’s see where it is.” He punched a few buttons and found what he was looking for. “Ferry landing, 5:37.”

  “Ferry landing?” She looked disappointed. “I’d hoped they’d be over here by the Seawall.”

  “Oh, come on. It’s not that far, and the timing works if you don’t argue with me too long.” Her brows rose. “See, you’re about to, aren’t you?”

  “Oh, hush. I guess you want me to put my bike in the back of your truck?”

  “The thought did occur to me,” he said. “Although I’ll be the one putting the bike back there. You just climb into the truck and let the man do the heavy lifting.”

  She giggled, but didn’t argue. A few minutes later, they were headed down Seawall Boulevard with the wind tossing her ponytail. They arrived at the ferry landing with ten minutes to spare, so he parked, and they found a picnic table nearby. Rather than sit the conventional way, Skye climbed up on top of the table and crossed her legs, and Nate joined her.

  From where they sat, they could see the long, low ferry with its dual pilothouses on each end loading up with vehicles. When the vessel was full, it would make the trip across one of the busiest shipping lanes in the country and then turn around and come back, a free trip courtesy of the Texas Highway Department.

  “I love riding the ferry,” she said, her voice taking on a dreamy quality. “It reminds me of when I was little, before my mama left the second time. She used to love to ride the ferry too, so we came out here a lot. One day she got on at Bolivar and told me to wait over there with my grandma while she went to Galveston for something important. She never came back.”

  “Is that why you’re in Galveston? To trace her footsteps?”

  The question had come out before he could take it back. To his surprise, Skye seemed to take no offense.

  “Maybe,” she said. “I always loved the beach, any beach. But Galveston?” She shrugged. “I was born here. I don’t guess you knew that?”

  He didn’t. But then Stan had told him blessedly little about this woman other than her phone number and last place of employment.

  “John Sealy Hospital. It’s where you went when you couldn’t pay a doctor.” She paused as a ferry’s horn cut through the shrieks of the seagulls. “It still is.”

  “You know,” he said carefully, “if you want to try and find her, I might be able to help.” It was what he did, after all, though reminding her might not be the best idea. “I know some people who could find out.”

  She sighed. “Thank you, Nate. But I know what happened to her.”

  He waited to see if she would say more, but she didn’t seem inclined to. Just when the silence had begun to grow uncomfortable, the Rice Wagon rolled into view.

  “Hey, they’re early.” He stood, helped her down from the table, and escorted her to the truck.

  “There are too many choices,” Skye said. “Want to share?”

  “Sure.” He turned his attention to the kid at the food truck window. “Give the lady whatever she wants, and put two forks in the bag.”

  “Oh no,” she said. “We both pick. But definitely two forks. And lots of napkins.”

  After much deliberation, they chose two kimchi and fajita burritos, two extra-large Italian meatball pot stickers, and one panini with sushi-grade tuna, fried rice, and avocado.

  “Stellar choices, man,” the Rice Wagon employee said as he passed the bag to Nate through the window. “I threw in a few extra packets of sriracha and a package of ranch dressing.”

  “Ranch dressing?”

  “Sure, man. For the pot-stickers.”

  “Right.” Nate bid the truck and its driver good-bye and walked with Skye back to the parking lot.

  “Hey,” she said tentatively. “It would be a shame to come all the way over here and not ride, don’t you think?”

  He nodded toward the ferry. “Why not?”

  “Yeah?” she said, her face brightening. “Really?”

  “Really,” Nate said as he lifted the food bag. “Come on.”

  They left the truck in the parking lot and boarded on foot, climbing up to the second-floor observation deck to settle in for the ride across the bay. Though the deck was full of tourists, they found three seats together and placed their feast in the seat between them.

  Nate lost count of the number of round trips they made across the bay as they enjoyed that meal. It might have been three, but it was more likely four, given the lateness of the hour and the fact that one crossing generally took a little less than twenty minutes.

  This time when the ferry’s horn blew a warning that they would be docking soon, Skye rose and moved toward the exit. Nate followed, depositing their trash in the receptacle on his way to the deck.

  “Just one more time,” she said when he stood beside her at the rail.

  The ferry followed the sun’s shimmering orange trail across the bay as dolphins danced in the water below and gulls flew overhead. They were alone on this trip, all the tourists having chosen to either remain in their cars or feed the gulls on the lower level.

  He stole a sideways look at his companion. Oh, but she was beautiful, even with the smudge of ranch dressing on her chin.

  He pulled a napkin out of his pocket and leaned over to dab at the spot of dressing just as a gull dove toward them. Skye ducked into Nate’s arms, hiding her face in his shirt until he assured her the bird was gone.

  She looked up at him, her face bathed in the soft gold of the setting sun. He’d known some beautiful women, but this one, with her carelessly done ponytail and not a stitch of makeup, was breathtaking.

  Nate had already leaned down to kiss her before he decided it would be a bad idea. He kissed her anyway.

  Skye broke the kiss, turning around in his arms to lean back against him. They stood like that all the way to Bolivar and back. When it was time to go, Nate snagged her wrist and escorted her down the narrow stairway to the lower level and then out into the parking lot.

  Twilight had descended by the time the truck stopped in the driveway of the duplex. He expected their parting to be awkward at best, since neither of them had mentioned their kiss. Instead, Skye leaned over to kiss him on the cheek and then bounded out of the truck and up the stairs with, “Good night, Nate,” trailing in her wake.

  Chapter Eight

  A few days later, Skye awakened to a soft plink, plink, plink sound. After throwing on her clothes and taming her hair in a messy bun, she slipped on her sandals and stepped out onto her balcony. Mindful of the broken railing, she looked down to find the hood open on her Jeep and Nate bent over, tapping on something inside the engine.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Kind of obvious, isn’t it?” Nate’s voice echoed beneath the hood.

  “But how did you . . .?” She shook her head. “So much for hiding a spare key in one of those magnetic box things.”

  “Exactly.” He straightened and wiped his hands on a towel. He looked at her. She’d expected a smile, but his face was all business. “I’ll take you to work. By the time you’re done, I’ll be done. No charge.”

  Her heart soared at the hope of an inexpensive fix. “Really?”

  “Really.”

  She swatted at a bee and then ducked when it buzzed past her. “I won’t let you do this unless I can pay you, Nate. I’m serious.”

  He ignored the statement to slam the hood closed and then tossed the towel over his shoulder. Without a word, he began putting his tools back into his toolbox.

  “Come on and let me take you to work. I’ll have your car finished when you get home.”

  “Seriously?” she said.

  “Seriously,” he responded.

  True to his word, Nate was right on time in picking her up. “Thank you,” she said as she climbed in and buckled her seatbelt. “I guess you got the Jeep fixed.” Since he was driving it . . .

  “Yes,” he said tersely. “I did.”

  What happened to her
talkative friend? Nate certainly seemed grumpy compared to this morning.

  “Was it more expensive than you expected?”

  “No.”

  “All right. What do I owe you?”

  “Nothing. It was free.”

  Skye slid him a sideways glance. “That’s not possible.”

  “I said it was,” he snapped.

  “Would you at least let me make you another pie?”

  He paused to look at her over his shoulder, his expression grim, and then turned into the driveway and shifted the Jeep into park. “No, Skye,” he said as he removed the keys from the ignition and climbed out of the truck.

  Skye? She inhaled a sharp breath as she tumbled out after him. How could he know? No one in Galveston knew.

  “Nate,” she said as evenly as she could manage. “Why did you call me Skye?”

  For once, the witty surfer did not have a response. Instead he leaned against the side of the truck and said nothing. In fact, he’d said very little this afternoon. Something wasn’t right.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Wrong?” Nate crossed both arms over his chest. “Well,” he said slowly, “I notice things, that’s what’s wrong.”

  Nate walked around to the passenger side of her Jeep, opened the door, and then opened the glove compartment to retrieve a photograph.

  Of Pansie.

  Skye sank against the vines, not caring that the bees were buzzing around her. Nate held the photograph, one that Sessa had slipped into her purse two years ago, and then turned it over to show her the back.

  “Right here it says to Skye from Pansie. I couldn’t help but notice the artist who did those paintings on your wall had the same name. I figured the artist wasn’t you, which meant you must be . . .”

  “Skye,” she said for him.

  “Yeah.” He returned the photograph to the glove compartment and then closed it and the car door.

  How could she explain her need for an alibi? Would he understand why she wanted to put Skye behind her? “Nate—”

  “I need to be honest with you,” Nate said. “I know this is crazy, since we just met, but I really like you.”

  Maybe he did understand. “I really like you too.” She stepped closer and reached across to clasp his hand. He didn’t resist, but didn’t respond with the enthusiasm she’d hoped for. “And I haven’t exactly taken it easy on you. I hit you with a bicycle, and I may have broken your nose.”

  “It’s not broken.” He paused. “Broken noses hurt like the dickens. I know this from the time I fell off that bronc my buddy was trying to teach me to ride.”

  She let go of his hand. “I used to know a bronc rider. Those horses are hard to stay on.”

  “That’s what my buddy told me, too.” Nate shoved his hands in his pockets and looked beyond her. “But then he died.”

  She reached across to touch his shoulder. “I’m sorry.”

  He turned to face her. “What about your bronc rider friend? Is he still riding?”

  Skye looked away. “No, he died, too.”

  “That’s too bad. I keep in touch with my buddy’s family and go up and see his daughter when I can. She’s getting to be a real beauty. Looks a lot like her mama.”

  Why was he telling her this? Why did the memory upset him so?

  “Skye,” he said gently. “My friend’s daughter?”

  “Yes?” She wrung her hands and hoped she might have something comforting to say in response.

  “Her name is Pansie.”

  Oh. She felt herself begin to sway and gripped the vine tighter.

  “Yeah.” He opened his mouth to say more and then must have thought better of it, because he clamped his lips together and looked away. Skye tried to think of words to say. Or words to pray.

  Then he swung his gaze back toward her. “I’ve lost count of the times I’ve held that little girl in my arms and asked God why she didn’t have a mama or a daddy.”

  “Nate,” she said, not knowing what else she would say. “You don’t understand.”

  “You’re right,” he said. “I don’t. And I don’t think I want to.”

  And there it was. The rejection that always managed to come around to hit her square between the eyes. This time, however, she’d truly been blindsided.

  This time she thought she’d found the one who wouldn’t leave.

  How she got back to her kitchen, Skye couldn’t exactly recall. She remembered wondering if her feet would carry her as far as the staircase. Then she vaguely recalled racing up those stairs to end up here.

  Alone.

  Staring at her daughter’s artwork on the wall.

  Pictures of a phantom mama drawn from an accidental peek through a window. Bonnie Sue was wrong. This little girl didn’t need someone like her. She needed someone who could stay and be a mama to her.

  And her friend Nate?

  Skye carefully removed the pushpins from one of the drawings and held the paper to her chest as tears fell. “Oh Pansie girl, I want to be that kind of mama. I just don’t know how.”

  She reached to take off another pushpin and heard Nate’s truck start up. “Why, Lord?” she whispered.

  And this time, there was no response.

  Nate pulled up at the back door of Stan’s Bail Bonds and spied a strange sight. Mr. Than was seated in his usual place, his radio tuned to the sports station in Houston. Seated beside him was Myrna, the gift shop owner, who was carrying on a lively conversation with Stan.

  None of them paused to greet him as he stalked by, although Mr. Than did wave. Sully looked up from his crossword puzzle as Nate sat at his desk and turned on his computer.

  “What’s the password?” he demanded of Sully.

  “Password for what?”

  “For Stan’s skip trace program.” He hit the on button and demanded under his breath for the computer to hurry and boot up.

  Sully folded the newspaper and set it aside. “Who’re you trying to find, kid?”

  “Just somebody, okay? What’s the password?”

  “You know I can’t give you that,” he said slowly. “But if it’s that girl you’re looking to check up on, you don’t need a password.” He nodded toward the battered green filing cabinet that hadn’t moved from the corner of the office since the place was built—or so the story went.

  “You’re kidding?” Far as he knew, the old cabinet was full of junk. Or empty. No one touched it, not even Stan. In fact, Nate had once asked if he could have it for his place, and Stan said it was jammed shut and too heavy to move.

  Sully shook his head. “Nope. Stan’s old school. He likes a file he can hold in his hand.”

  Sure enough, the cabinet marked with an H opened to reveal a file marked Autumn Skye Hudson. He picked up the file, shut the cabinet drawer, and carried it over to his desk.

  “That’s a bad idea, Nate,” Sully said.

  “I don’t care if this gets me in trouble with Stan. I need to know who she is.”

  “You won’t find it out that way,” he said. “There never has been a woman born—or a man, for that matter—whose life story could be told by reading a dossier. What is it you think you’ll find out from that? Where she was born? Who she married?”

  “She hasn’t married anyone.”

  “You sure?”

  Nate paused, his finger tracing the battered file folder that had been used at least a dozen times before. And those were just the names that were readable.

  “Have you read this?” he asked Sully.

  “Doesn’t matter if I have or if I haven’t. What matters is you either read some facts or you go find out who she is.” He paused to lean back in the chair. “Me? I figure if someone’s going to judge me on who I am, I’d at least like some input.”

  Nate opened the file. Stapled to the left side of the folder was a color photograph of Skye riding her bike down the seawall. Taped beneath it was a smaller photo of her leaving the gift shop. Both were likely initial surveillance, which had to have
been done by Sully, because Stan never went out on jobs. That’s what he hired employees for.

  On the right side was a stack of papers, the first being the standard information form that was completed on each subject. He looked over at Sully. “I didn’t know he printed these out.”

  “You didn’t ask, did you?”

  “Well, no.”

  “Seems to be a habit of yours.”

  Ignoring the jab, Nate went back to the file. There was precious little information here beyond her name, her current address at the duplex, and her telephone number. He turned the page and found a photocopy of a birth certificate from John Sealy Hospital that he recognized as Pansie’s.

  “Mother, Autumn Skye Hudson, age sixteen. Father, Ross Chambers, age twenty.”

  “Surprised?” Sully asked.

  Again, he ignored the older man to turn the page. “Wow.”

  “Now you’re surprised, aren’t you?”

  He held up the certified copy of the marriage license. Ross’s. To a woman who wasn’t Skye.

  He’d forgotten—or ignored—the first rule Stan had given him on day one. No assumptions.

  Heart pounding in his ears, Nate looked over at Sully. “He dumped her.”

  “Yeah,” Sully said.

  “But she never told anyone.”

  “How do you know that?”

  He shrugged. He hadn’t meant to mutter the statement out loud. Maybe it was arrogance to think he knew Skye—especially after the mistake staring up at him from the papers—but somehow he knew that she’d never told Sessa or Bonnie Sue about this.

  Ross had done some pretty lousy things, but running off with another woman when the mother of his child was in the hospital having his daughter was low even for him.

  “Think so?” Sully asked. “Keep reading.” He shrugged. “I mean, long as you’ve already opened the can of worms, you might as well let them all wiggle out.”

  “Charming analogy,” he said as he turned the marriage license over and took note of the next page. Hospital records from John Sealy. A thick stack of them.

  “She almost died,” Sully supplied. “Yeah, okay, I read them. Apparently she was told when she went in for her first prenatal visit that carrying this baby to term could kill her. She ignored all those experts and had that baby. But they were right. She paid the price for giving that little girl life. Did you get to the part where she checked herself out against doctors’ orders because they were going to put her daughter in foster care until she was well enough to care for her?”