by Glen Carter
22
When he opened his eyes, the clock said seven thirty. He lay still until the cogs in his brain finished meshing, then wiped the sleep from his face and sat up. It was good to see sunlight instead of the perpetual darkness of the tunnels. He got out of bed and headed for the shower. Ten minutes later, fully invigorated, he dressed and descended on squeaky stairs to the first floor. He breathed in the odours of coffee and frying bacon and headed down the hall to a cozy little dining room. He walked in and did a double take. She was sitting there with a plate full of food in front of her, even more beautiful than the night before. Her eyes sparkled, and her lips were a deep red that matched her business suit and auburn hair.
Bolt couldn’t restrain his delight. “Good morning Ms. Munroe.”
The look was a mix of pleasure and surprise, mostly surprise. “Good morning Mister Bolt.”
“Smells great.”
“Tastes as good as it smells. Sleep well?”
“Like a corpse,” he said, taking his seat at the table.
They both laughed.
“Call me Liz.”
“Call me Samuel.”
Liz lifted a silver carafe and poured, making it the best coffee he had ever smelled. Or was it her perfume? Seductive and captivating like the night before.
The door to the kitchen suddenly flung open, and the woman from the night before deked through. With a big “good morning,” she glided to Bolt’s side of the table and placed a plate in front of him. Wiping her hands on an apron. “I’m Diana Doody,” she said.
Bolt introduced himself.
“I hope you like a good old-fashioned breakfast.”
“Like it just fine.”
She fumbled with the glasses hanging around her neck and gave him a good long look. Eyes suddenly wide. He wondered if it was the way he’d dressed.
Liz must have caught it, too. “Samuel and I were on the same flight. He was the only gentleman aboard.”
Diana stood, awkwardly staring. Way too long before the words came out. “What brings you to Harbour Rock?”
“Here for some sightseeing.”
Diana only nodded.
“Which reminds me,” Bolt added. “Any idea how I can find the cabbie who dropped me off last night?”
Diana had slipped into a fugue state. After a moment, she came back to them. “Sully. I’ll call.”
Bolt thanked her, then got busy with his breakfast.
Liz asked a few questions, but Diana wouldn’t stop staring. She was a widow. When her husband passed away, she turned the family home into a bed and breakfast. Sully sometimes brought guests to her doorstep, especially when places got filled up because of you know who.
“Which is my cue,” Liz said. “I’m off.” With that, she was up. Halfway out the door, she turned, eyes flashing and a large bright smile. “Enjoy your sightseeing, Samuel.” Then she was gone.
Diana removed the plates to the kitchen. A moment later, she returned with her own cup and sat. They made small talk for a while, until Bolt was certain there was something she needed to ask. He allowed the conversation to die away, giving her the opportunity.
“Can I ask where you’re from, Samuel?”
“Las Vegas,” he replied. “Hate the sin. Love the sinner.” His stock answer needed an upgrade.
“Family in Vegas?”
“I’m afraid not. A bit of a lone wolf.”
“How about parents? They’re family.”
“I was orphaned at birth,” he replied, wondering why the interrogation.
Diana lowered her cup. It rattled on the saucer. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered. “It’s just . . .” She halted at some stop sign in her mind.
“Are you all right?”
“Fine,” she said.
She didn’t look fine.
“I don’t mean to pry,” Diana said. “But you remind me . . .” The words suddenly lost air.
Bolt waited.
“And I’m a little rattled right now.”
“Do you need me to call someone?”
“No.” Diana reached out to touch his hand. “Maybe I should explain. Can I show you something?”
He nodded.
Diana left. A moment later, she returned with a large photo album and placed it on the table in front of him. “Please don’t think I’m some weird old woman.”
“Never.”
“I’m really quite sane.”
“I would never doubt it.”
Carefully, she opened the album. “This might explain my nosiness.” They were looking at a head-and-shoulders shot of a soldier in full military dress. Maybe a few years younger than Bolt, but it was hard to tell with the hardened features. Unyielding in intensity, his steely eyes commanded the camera. Diana stroked the photo. “My son. Kallum.”
Bolt’s breath caught. Now he got it.
23
Samuel Bolt stood with his hands in his jeans pockets on the boardwalk that encircled the harbour. He leaned against the railing and closed his eyes. The smells tugged at him. Seaweed and brine. The odours of frying fish and the fumes from oily outboard motors. A damp, woodsy smell from the ancient, rough-hewn planks he was standing on. What a peculiar feeling, he thought. The queer familiarity, like he was wearing someone else’s warm boots. He guessed charm worked that way, made you feel right at home. He allowed it to soak in, the sunshine on his face, feeling just right in that sliver of time. For a moment he conjured images of a young boy standing in that exact spot, with a bamboo fishing rod and the dark shadows of tiny fish darting around in the water. Bolt thought about his strange morning. The photo was like peering into his own face. The man’s demeanour, so familiar Bolt could have guessed his thoughts at the exact moment the photo was taken. He suddenly remembered. The men who had died with Rutter in the first Gulf War.
Kallum Doody was one of them.
* * * * *
He had gotten the ten-cent tour on the way down. Sully pointed out the old money and the new and where most of the skeletons were hung. Bolt asked about the grand old Victorian houses.
“That’s the old money,” Sully had said. “Fish and lumber. Rum during prohibition.”
Bolt’s travel book had said the same. The old schooners sailed to Jamaica loaded with cod and came home with barrels of rum.
Sully continued. “They brought back darkies for the fat white bastards who owned those houses. Brought syphilis, too. Half the men in town were crazy with it. But none of your people,” he said. “Your people were decent. Hard-working. Honest.”
“My people?”
Sully pulled over. Put the cab in park. “I thought it was my imagination last night. It was dark. But this morning. You coming down the walkway at Diana’s. So, yes. Your people.”
“I don’t have people, Sully.”
Sully ignored it. “And that makes me wonder.”
“Wonder what?”
Sully took a long moment. “I may be nuts. Been accused of that lots of times. But I’m looking at you and thinking of someone else.”
“Kallum.”
“Yes, Diana’s son.”
“And?”
“And nothin’. Just saying.”
“You think Kallum left something behind,” Bolt said. “Or, should I say, someone.” He decided to cut Sully some slack and politely told him the basics. Anything more was none of his damn business.
“You’re a little short on family history.”
“More than a little short.”
“Your mother ever spend any time here?”
“I can’t tell you anything about my mother.”
“How about Georgia? That’s where Kallum and Billy Rutter did their basic. Kallum was only human.”
“Rutter?”
&nb
sp; Sully nodded. “Yeah. Him.” He put the car in drive and pulled away from the curb. After a moment, he killed the radio. “So, here you are. Out of the blue. That’s got me thinking, too, since I’m not stupid.”
“You’re not buying the tourist thing?”
“Nope. And what I need to know is you’re not some long-lost grandson here to play on the emotions of an old woman.”
“Diana.”
“Damn right,” Sully said. “She’s got the B&B, and some money stashed away.”
“What’s your point?”
“You screw with her, you deal with me.”
It wasn’t logical. It was Sully who had brought him to Diana’s doorstep, which Bolt quickly pointed out. Sully was visibly relieved. “Diana’s got nothing to worry about,” Bolt added for good measure.
“Then let me show you around.” An hour later, Sully dropped him at the harbour. “We good?”
“Right as rain,” Bolt said, and shook his hand.
A tour boat nosed into the boardwalk where he stood. Contemplating the events of the past twenty-four hours. With his pockets full of cash, he had flown halfway across the country. It was the smallest of reasons. A toy boat named Mystic Blue, a tiny thread that had pulled him to Harbour Rock and to Diana, who would suffer a mother’s grief for as long as she lived. Then there was his uncanny resemblance to her dead son and the suspicions of her loyal friend, the cab driver, Sully. They had both asked questions that would have seemed ludicrous only a few hours ago. Bolt was more than perplexed at the curious events, including the connection between Kallum Doody and Senator William Rutter.
The engine reversed, and the tour boat came broadside. A deckhand deftly tied her. A walkway was lowered, and a dozen or so old folks, smiling and laughing, pulled their way onto the boardwalk and headed into a restaurant advertising a chowder lunch.
The whole bunch broke into a happy little tune.
In his head, Bolt picked up the lyrics of a song he’d never heard. A moment later, he walked the waterfront, ending up in a bric-a-brac souvenir shop. He bought a postcard with whales on it. He paid the postage and then spent a moment writing something. The clerk took it with a smile. “No last name?”
“Just Susie,” he said.
“It’ll be there in a couple of days.”
“Thanks.”
Bolt walked farther up the boardwalk. Another boat was loading passengers. Everyone was excited. The man helping them aboard abruptly stopped. Locked onto Bolt like he was seeing a ghost. One of the tourists stumbled toward the edge of the ramp, and the woman’s husband shouted at the guy to do his job. It happened a couple more times while Bolt made his way down the boardwalk. Just weird looks. He reached the chowder place and, with relief, ducked inside. Shafts of sunlight settled on nooks and crannies with tables for two or more. Large wooden beams criss-crossed the ceiling strung with hanging lobster pots, fish nets, and hurricane lanterns. Bolt caught movement in the corner of his eye. Someone waving him over. It was Liz, with a large beautiful smile. Bolt headed over.
She wasn’t alone. Two men stood for introductions.
Jeff was a bulky surfer type with blue eyes and blond hair. He was a CNS cameraman. Nigel, slight build, round wire-rimmed glasses. He was the producer. Bolt realized that left the beautiful Elizabeth Munroe as reporter. She was network. That meant she was a big deal. He was a fool for not recognizing her. Liz invited him to join them. Bolt sat with a stupid grin. “I don’t watch much television,” he said, apologetically.
“That’s funny, because I don’t either,” Liz said. “Way too depressing.”
Everyone laughed.
The waitress walked over, and they ordered. Five minutes later, four steaming bowls were placed on the table, along with homemade rolls and butter and a jug of iced tea. Everyone was famished.
After a few mouthfuls, Bolt wiped his lips. “So, what brings the famous Elizabeth Munroe to Harbour Rock?” Stupid question, he quickly realized.
Nigel shot Elizabeth a look.
“We’re doing a piece on the candidate’s wife,” she said, ignoring it.
Bolt nodded. “Sarah Rutter. The good woman behind the man.”
“That’s it.”
“Interesting.”
“We hope so.” Munroe smiled, apparently finished on the subject.
“First Ladies wield lots of power,” Bolt continued.
“Yes, they do.”
“So, it’s good to see you’re giving her some face time. Let her tell us who she is. What she stands for.”
“We will, Samuel.”
“No one votes for the First Lady.” Bolt grabbed a dinner roll and ripped it apart, throwing halves onto the side plate. “What gives her the right to hold sway in the Oval Office? Ask her that.”
“Good point,” Liz replied.
“Damn right,” he said smugly. “And while you’re at it, you ask her why she married that bastard Billy Rutter.” Trembling, Bolt grabbed a butter knife, now finished on the subject.
24
The way it was explained to him, the piece they were doing on the wife of the senator needed lots of B-roll. Where she went to school, the boutique where she worked as a teenager, the church she attended. All had to be shot because stories needed video to be told on television. Not to mention interviews with friends, teachers, former classmates. By the end of it, they’d know everything about Sarah Rutter. Of course, they had to shoot the big house where she lived, and that’s where Bolt came in.
Jeff leaned into the camera and lowered his eye to the viewfinder. From where they stood, on a small plateau at the end of a hidden dirt road, high above the ocean, the Rutter estate could be seen in its entirety. The vast grounds, perfectly manicured. The great house, with its peaks and dormers and expansive stone patios. The Olympic-sized swimming pool. A log guest house at the water’s edge. There was a wharf and small schooner, which bobbed gently against its lines.
“Beautiful,” Jeff remarked. “We would never have found this place. Thanks, dude.”
Liz stared at Bolt, quizzically. “Yes. Thank you, Samuel.”
Bolt shrugged. “No worries.”
Twenty minutes ago, they had paid for his lunch, said goodbye, and were off to shoot the B-roll.
Bolt walked them to their car. “Quid pro quo.”
“Excuse me?”
“There’s this spot above the point,” Bolt said. “You can see everything. I can take you there. Show my appreciation for the chowder. Quid pro quo.”
“Good line of sight?” asked Nigel.
“The best,” Bolt replied.
“Lead the way.”
Bolt took a seat in front, looked back at Liz, and smiled. “Head west.”
With five minutes already shot, Jeff needed another angle. He walked the tripod a dozen feet to the edge of the cliff and resumed shooting.
Nigel’s cellphone chirped with an incoming call.
Liz walked over to face Bolt. “I thought you weren’t from here.”
Bolt told her it was part of Sully’s little tour.
“Then maybe we should put Sully on the payroll,” Liz quipped.
“I come a lot cheaper.”
Liz rewarded him with a large, bright smile. “Any other stops you’d recommend?”
“Just one.”
Jeff and Nigel packed the trunk with gear, and they were gone.
The little park was located on Main Street in the centre of town, across from an old brick courthouse and a bank. They found a parking spot next to a fountain surrounded by green wooden benches and climbed out onto the sidewalk.
Jeff grabbed his camera, and Nigel took the bulky tripod. Neither spoke. Like Liz, they were waiting for Bolt to lead them somewhere.
“This way,” he said, stepping through
a wrought-iron gate onto freshly cut grass.
“I can’t wait,” Liz giggled, removing her shoes.
Bolt watched as she skimmed girlishly across the lawn.
They walked beneath ancient maples and willows, deep into the park, past the Frisbee throwers and picnickers. A father and son playing catch, the whup of a baseball slapping leather. Bolt savoured a sound which had never been part of his life.
They reached a giant willow with branches that hung to the ground. Bolt walked up to it, reached out to touch the trunk. They allowed him the moment, despite their curiosity, and after a moment, he stepped back so they could see it, too. A carving as deep as new tread and agelessly sentimental. Just four words, encircled by a heart.
Bolt whispered them.
Sarah and Kallum forever.
* * * * *
He watched them do their work at the foot of the old willow.
“Sully bring you here, too, Samuel?” Liz said.
“I thought you’d like it,” Bolt replied. There was no sane way to explain why he was drawn here. Sully hadn’t said a word.
“Two lovers. Anonymous names carved into a tree,” said Liz. “Cute.”
Bolt stood by as Jeff positioned the camera closer to the tree. “You need to know everything. This is part of her.”
“The candidate’s wife,” Liz said. “Definitely important.”
“Kallum was before the senator.”
Liz wasn’t getting it.
“You’ve met his mother,” Bolt added. “Diana. Kallum Doody was her son.”
“Was?”
“He was killed in Iraq during Rutter’s time in country. It was a long time ago.”
Liz nodded.
Nigel flashed to his phone.
“He’s in Diana’s scrapbook,” Bolt continued. “He was a proud Marine. She misses him very much.”
“I didn’t know.”
“How could you?”
Liz inclined her head. What else do you have up your sleeve?
“This is the spot where he asked her to marry him,” he said. “It was a night full of stars. She cried. He was over the moon.” Go ahead, Samuel. Shout it out. For the whole town to hear.