by Lee Hanson
That was where he met Marc Solomon, the rich and talented instructor’s assistant and “star” student…who was openly gay. Rolly hated his guts.
•
The violent squall on the Gulf seemed to come out of nowhere, the sea suddenly rising up to an impossible height before him.
I only I wanted to pay off the damn boat! Maybe I paid for my coffin, too…
* * * * *
Chapter 44
Julie and Joe parked the VW in Old Town next to a cheery yellow and white house with gingerbread trim. A sign read, “Billie’s Bed ‘n Breakfast”. David had told them to park there, saying that Billie was a friend of theirs, that she would recognize the car and wouldn’t mind.
They set off down Eaton Street, crossed Simonton and turned left on Duval Street, heading for the Sandpiper Gallery.
Old Town was bustling. It was a veritable mélange of people, enjoying the warm, windy day…all colors, all ages, gay and straight. Julie was reminded of Marc’s paintings, which were colorful and diverse like the city itself.
Shop doors were flung wide, offering everything from brightly designed resort-wear to Conch Republic items, like sponges and giant shells. Rainbow flags whipped in the wind. Sidewalk cafes and bars hummed with happy chatter, as some sipped coffee while others clinked together their margaritas, toasting the day.
They passed Sloppy Joe’s bar, still trading successfully on Hemingway’s patronage since the 30’s. Julie heard Jimmy Buffett music drifting from somewhere; she considered that it was Sunday, a weekend, and wondered if it was live.
When they reached the Sandpiper, the doors were open there, too, and Julie recognized several of Marc’s paintings. Susan Dwyer was sitting at a small desk at the rear of the store and looked up as they entered.
She rose, smiling, and walked toward them, dressed in a billowy lilac and green caftan. She was a tall woman in her late forties, Julie guessed. She had broad shoulders and a square jaw softened by silver hoop earrings and shoulder-length, highlighted hair.
“Julie! It’s good to see you!” she said, as they air-kissed. “Nice to see you, too!” she said, looking from Julie to Joe.
“This is my friend, Joe Garrett,” said Julie. “Joe, this is Susan Dwyer.”
“Nice to meet you, Susan,” said Joe, shaking her hand.
“Did David call you back?” said Julie.
“Yes. I just got off the phone with him. I’m going over there later this afternoon. I have so much work to do! Marc’s New York show is still scheduled for October 5th, you know.”
“Yes,” said Julie, “David told me.”
“He would have wanted that,” added Susan. “Can I show you around, Joe?”
“Please do.”
Susan took her time, telling them a little about each of the artists whose work was on display.
Joe noticed some paintings signed Roland Archer. “Is that Rolly, Marc and David’s friend?”
“Yes,” said Susan. “He’s an excellent artist. Not in the same league with Marc, though. Marc had a very rare talent. I’m expecting some of the pieces in the New York show to sell for several thousand dollars each.”
A customer came in and Susan excused herself to tend to him. Seeing that she was going to be tied up for awhile, they waved goodbye to her and headed back toward Mallory Square.
When they reached Front Street, Joe said that he’d been to the seaport a few times and knew a good place for lunch. He was clearly headed for the pier, talking on about the food. Julie stopped, feeling light-headed and nauseous. Joe turned, and saw her rooted to the spot, ashen.
“Merlin? Are you all right?”
“Yes…but I’d rather not go out on the pier. Let’s go back to the house.”
“Okay, but can we sit for a minute?”
He took her hand and led her to a shaded bench. After she was seated, Joe remained standing, his foot on the bench.
“Julie…I know how your husband died,” he began, “and I can understand your fear of the sea. I can’t imagine how terrible that must have been.
“But one thing I know: fear feeds on itself and it grows like an invasive weed. It lies to you and closes in around you until you can’t move.
“Right here in the Keys, there are delicate coral ridges more beautiful than you can imagine, Julie. They’re protected and nourished by the very sea you fear so much…and they’re teeming with life, not death.
“Someday, I hope you’ll let me take you to see the other side of the coin…”
* * * * *
Chapter 45
“There is a second buyer who is very interested in Castle Cay,” said Frank Martino into his headset, using the stale ploy to nail down John Walsh, the lawyer representing Holiday Cruise Lines.
Attorney Walsh wasn’t biting.
“Well, if Mr. Solomon can’t wait for my client to consider every aspect of this contract in light of the new circumstances, perhaps he should sell to them.”
Frank wondered what the hell he meant by that. Did they want out of the deal? Or were they angling for a lower purchase price? He was glad the man on the other end of the phone couldn’t see the panic on his face. Fortunately, Frank had mastered a confident phone voice.
“Mr. Solomon is a man of his word, Mr. Walsh. He accepted Holiday’s offer, and he will stand by his commitment to sell Castle Cay to your client for the agreed amount,” said Frank. “And, of course, no one wants to see a buyer lose their deposit.”
Take that, you wiseass. Now he was playing hardball, and he had just whacked it into Walsh’s court.
Addicted to winning, Frank felt a rush as the balance of power returned to his side. He rocked back in his desk chair, his hands locked behind his neck, swiveling around to see if any of his fellow agents had heard. Nick, in the cubicle across the aisle had, and Frank winked at him while he waited, silently, for Walsh to reply.
“My client just wants a thirty-day extension on the closing date, Mr. Martino. They have every intention of proceeding with the purchase.”
Thirty days! I could be dead in thirty days.
Frank knew that he had no authority to negotiate. As an agent, he was required by law to present this request to his principal, Avram Solomon. Although that would be unpleasant, it wasn’t the problem. The problem was a hundred grand Frank owed Joey Bonanno, his bookie.
Fuck. First the seller needs more time, now the buyer!
“Of course, I’ll present your request to Mr. Solomon,” he said in his best phone voice, his back now turned to his colleague across the aisle. “But, frankly, it could be the ‘straw that breaks the camel’s back’, so to speak. Your client might be more successful asking for a two-week extension, Mr. Walsh.”
Frank knew that was weak. The length of the silence on the other end confirmed it. The power had shifted. At last, the attorney spoke.
“Well, let’s try thirty days first, Mr. Martino. Goodbye.”
Fuck. Me.
* * * * *
Chapter 46
The weather in Key West had deteriorated as the afternoon wore on. Julie looked out the glass doors and across the pool patio. The yachts on the far side of the canal were rocking, palm trees were swaying, and the intermittent rain seemed to be falling once again.
Joe was lounging beside her at the kitchen bar talking to David. Ostensibly, they were keeping him company while he prepared dinner. In reality, Julie knew that she and Joe were enjoying the new intimacy they’d found with each other. For her part, she was more relaxed now than she’d been in a long, long time. I’m glad that he knows about Dan, she mused.
Rolly’s name caught her attention, and she tuned back into the conversation. Joe had commented on Rolly’s paintings.
“Where do you think he would go?” asked Joe.
“I can’t imagine!” said David. “He told me his mother died years ago and he has no other family.”
“You better hope they catch him, David,” said Julie.
“I hope they don’t.”
>
I give up, she thought.
The doorbell rang.
“That’s Susan, I think,” said David. “Would you get it, Julie? I’ve developed a phobia about answering the door.”
Julie smiled and went to answer it..
“Hi!” said Susan, shaking off her umbrella. She snapped it shut and leaned it against the house. “It’s raining sideways; I’m soaked. What a day to move paintings!”
“C’mon in,” said Julie. “The rain seems to stop every once in a while. Maybe it will clear long enough to get them into your truck.”
Susan had on a light blue denim outfit, the lower pant legs darkened from the rain. She kicked off her shoes and padded to the bar in her socks, exchanging hellos with Joe and David.
“Hm-m, whatever you’re cooking smells great,” she said, taking a seat.
“A pork roast, with red potatoes and asparagus. There’s plenty; we were hoping you could join us?”
“Oh…I’d love to, thanks.”
Julie noticed the hesitation and wondered if she’d had other plans. “I’m glad you can stay; I set a place for you,” she said, picking up a bottle of wine. “We have Merlot, or there’s some Chardonnay, if you prefer.”
“Oh, thanks, but I don’t drink. I’m diabetic,” said Susan. “I’d love some iced tea, if you have it.”
“Sure, I’ll get it,” said David, who had just finished slicing the roast. He brought her a glass and suggested that they go sit at the table.
“Why don’t I go up and get the paintings first; it’ll only take me a minute,” said Susan, opening the portfolio at her feet and extracting a folded sheet. “I brought this to wrap them in, just in case the rain keeps up.”
“Can I help?” said Julie.
“No need,” said Susan heading up the stairs. “I only need a couple, and they’re light before they’re framed.”
“You can help me Julie,” said David. “I’ve decided to fill the plates in here. You want to go get them?”
“And what do I do?” asked Joe.
“You just sit there looking manly,” said David, with a wink.
Julie chuckled as Joe turned red…but he was smiling.
A few minutes later, they were enjoying a candlelight dinner and complimenting the chef.
“So, how are things coming with the show?” said David.
“I’ve already shipped most of the paintings to the Herzog Gallery, along with the details for the plaques,” said Susan.
Looking at Julie and Joe, she explained, “You know…medium, date, and description.” She turned back to David. “But enough about the show…how are you doing, David?”
“I’m numb, I guess. It’s all too much. I just can’t cry anymore. And now they’re looking for poor Rolly.”
“They’re looking for Rolly?”
“Yes. I’m sorry, Susan. I lied to you. Rolly was here with me that night. We arranged for him to come back after he left with you.”
Julie caught Joe’s eye. He had picked up on Susan’s body language, too. She wasn’t surprised about Rolly staying over that night. No downward looks, no embarrassment.
“Oh,” she said, pausing. “Do they think Rolly had something to do with it?”
“I don’t know,” said David. “But they’re looking for him.”
“Do you think Rolly could have killed Marc, Susan?” said Julie.
“Oh, no. Rolly? Of course not.”
“Any thoughts about where he might have gone?” asked Joe.
“No idea,” she said, shaking her head.
•
Susan had left, the dishes were cleared away, and they were relaxing in the living room. There was no more talk of Marc’s death, or Rolly Archer. They kept the conversation light and watched the rain outside.
David turned on the local weather channel. The sharply dressed weatherman stood, gesturing, next to a computer-enhanced map.
“In the last forty-eight hours, we’ve upgraded this system to a tropical storm. You can see Carlo here, approaching Cuba.
“It’s a large, slow moving system and a major rain-maker. So far, it’s caused severe flooding in Haiti and Jamaica, and we’re getting the outer bands of wind and rain here in the Keys.
“If the cold front in the south continues pressing down into Florida, it could disorganize this storm and push it back out into the Atlantic.
“However, if that front weakens, Carlo will likely head into the Gulf of Mexico, where the warmer water could cause the storm to strengthen and grow more organized. In that case, we would expect it to take a more westerly course, toward Mexico.
“Stay tuned to the Weather Channel here for continuous updates on tropical storm Carlo.”
David turned off the TV. “Well, let’s pray it blows out to sea,” he said, sighing and getting up from the couch. “I hope you two will forgive me, but I’m so tired…I really must go to bed.”
“Not at all, David,” said Joe, rising. “Thank you for a terrific dinner.”
“It was really good, David. Thank you,” said Julie.
“My pleasure. I’m glad you’re both here. Goodnight, my dears.” He set his wine glass on the kitchen counter and went into his bedroom.
“He’s such a nice guy,” said Joe.
“Yes, he is,” said Julie. “He’s a gentle person. It’s a shame he’s embroiled in all of this.”
An awkward silence ensued. Julie was reluctant to end the evening, but they had clearly run out of conversation. “Well, I guess it’s that time for me, too,” she said, rising.
“Yeah, good idea,” said Joe.
She turned off the lights and headed down the hallway. His arm came up beside her, blocking her bedroom door. “Julie, wait,” he said, “You’re driving me crazy. I can’t wait any longer.” Then he pulled her into his arms and kissed her.
Julie succumbed instantly. She couldn’t have said no if she wanted to…and she certainly didn’t want to.
They undressed quickly, their hands all over each other, exploring secret parts they had longed to see and touch.
Joe yanked off the comforter and they fell on the bed. He paused, braced on his arms, looking down at her. Julie savored the delicious weight of his body on hers. And then he was moving inside her.
The rain pounded furiously at the window, but Julie was oblivious to it, caught up in a mounting storm of her own.
* * * * *
Chapter 47
Rolly’s stomach convulsed as the Miranda suddenly dropped ten feet after riding the crest of another mammoth swell. The rain had been coming in torrential hurricane-like bands. But for now, at least, the furious pelting had stopped. He estimated that the cloud cover was about eighty percent, but it was moving fast, the full moon showing through, illuminating the storm-tossed sea.
He couldn’t calculate where he was. All he could do was try to stay on a west-southwesterly course. He thought that he might have been swept in a circle when the heavy rain came the last time. His struggle to keep the boat heading into the waves pulled him off course. It had been difficult to see. The squall was so violent the rain had blown around inside the cabin.
Soaked and exhausted, Rolly had unconsciously held his breath during much of that long, stress-filled battle. Now he began to breathe more deeply. His strength was depleted, and his body ached from head to toe.
Is this where it ends?
I just wanted a life.
A life that wasn’t a lie…
•
Marc Solomon was filling in that day at the Art Institute in Boston, substituting for the art teacher. He circled the classroom, stopping at each easel to congratulate or critique each student’s work.
“Your brush strokes are too tight. Too constricted,” he said of Rolly’s painting. “Don’t be afraid to experiment! To let go! You’re not a child and this isn’t a coloring book. You don’t have to stay within the lines. Do what you want to do, not what you think you have to do.”
Rolly bristled. He thought that Solomon’s
comments were about more than painting and his embarrassment had swiftly grown to anger.
What did that conceited asshole know about anything? His painting was fine and his life was better than it had ever been!
Rolly had his own efficiency apartment. He’d been promoted at the hospital and he was earning enough to live on, even save.
And he had a special friend, too. His name was Ash, and he worked in the records department at the hospital. They’d met one day when Rolly was eating lunch in the cafeteria. The place had been jammed and, as usual, Rolly was sitting at a table by himself.
“Hi, do you mind if I sit here with you?”
The boy was so pretty that Rolly was dumbstruck. Ash had a slim body and he wasn’t very tall. He had wavy brown hair that tended to fall over one long-lashed eye or the other, so that he had to reach up and tuck it behind his ear. His skin was a light coffee color…Indian, Rolly thought…and he had very white, straight teeth…a very beautiful mouth.
“No,” said Rolly, finding his voice. “Go ahead.”
They found it easy to talk to each other and began seeking each other out whenever they were in the cafeteria at the same time. Soon, they were coordinating their lunch breaks.
Rolly became obsessed with seeing Ash at the hospital. He fantasized about him at night. It seemed that Ash was interested in him, but he wasn’t sure.
At last, they made a plan to meet for a movie. Rolly sat through it, staring at the screen, filled with desire. He yearned to touch Ash, ached for Ash to touch him. It was the most exquisite torture he had ever felt.
Rolly was in a secret limbo, loving it and hating it, all at once.
And then along came Marc Solomon, who criticized his painting…who criticized him and his life… in front of everyone.
Rolly stewed over it for weeks.
His attempt at free brushwork was a disaster. He overworked his colors and they all ended up looking like mud. The more he tried, the worse his painting became.
Was Solomon right?