“Uh-huh,” she replied, and looked at the skies where once again storm clouds were gathering. After all, this is Florida. And it rains here in the afternoon—even though it’s not the rainy season. “How about we take the 376?” she said, looking over at Huck and Richie, knowing it was the bigger boat. They both shrugged, like no big deal. Macho.
We followed Richie and Huck out of Lake Largo—Huck behind the wheel—and into the waterway that leads to the Straits. When we finally broke out into open water, Huck steered directly south toward Cuba. We headed south-southwest along the Keys past Tavernier, past Plantation Key, and then toward Snake Key on Islamorada where the Snake Creek Marina is located and where there is a pass that leads from the Straits to Florida Bay.
We turned into the waterway and passed under the Overseas Highway. The marina was off to our left. I cut the motors to idle through the No-Wake zone. We finally broke into the open water of the Gulf of Mexico around 3:30 p.m. With the Yamahas wide open, it would be an easy one-hour drive even taking the long way, that is staying in the open waters of the Gulf and circling Cape Sable to avoid the coral reefs that lie close to Everglades National Park.
Louise served as navigator, spreading out the chart and checking our direction on the GPS. I aimed for Sable Key. There were relatively few islands between us and Sable Key, so I eased the throttle forward and we bounced over the waves at forty-five miles per hour.
“I’m going to need a dentist, Coop,” Louise said, as we crested a large wave and came down hard on the water. “Whoa!” she said, and grabbed my arm, the maps sliding onto the deck. She wasn’t laughing. So I throttled back to thirty-five miles per hour, the boat still bucking the water as the Canyon fought through waves kicked up by mid-afternoon winds. She gave me one of her no-fun looks and leaned over to retrieve the maps, shaking off water and arranging them back on the console.
“At least we’re out of hurricane season,” I said, looking up at some clouds that were gathering in the west, piled high like cushions on a bed. They were fluffy but not white, the edges grey but growing black as they climbed over the horizon.
Hurricane season officially ends on November 30. But tell that to the gods of the sea. The National Hurricane Center counted about twenty-two hurricanes or tropical storms on its official list that hit between 1851 to 2013 during the month of December, many of them in the early weeks of the month. There was an unnamed tropical storm as recently as December 5, 2013, and then there was Olga, a storm that developed in early December, 2007 and Epsilon, a Category 1 that hit in early December, 2005, one of the worst years in Florida’s brutal hurricane history. Four major hurricanes making landfall in the Sunshine State that year. A killer season. So, yes, Virginia, there are hurricanes even at Christmas. Those bad boys come whenever they feel like it.
We were at Ponce de Leon Bay, the entryway to Shark River, by 4:30 p.m. No storm—so far—the sky still heavy with clouds as we entered the broad mouth of the River. I guided the boat toward the shore of Shark Island where we had docked only days ago. Great Tarpon fishing there.
The winter sun was warm as we dropped anchor. We went below to grab the sandwiches, drinks, and chips we had brought, settled into the soft captain’s seats at the helm and listened to the water slapping against the boat as it rocked in the waves.
“Think we can drive the Canyon into the creek where we found Jack?” said Louise, breaking into the quiet.
“No. We’ll need to anchor near the mouth of the creek and take the dinghy upstream just like we did last time. The Canyon has about a two-foot draw. That’s too much for where we’re going.”
My cell went off.
“Cooper?” It was Cynthia.
Damn. Her ride. We had left it at the Marina. “Your Jeep…” I began.
“A friend picked it up.” She sounded annoyed.
“You okay?”
“You abandoned me,” she admonished.
“Hmmm,” I said. “It seems you’re back to your old self. Want to join us?” Kidding.
“Where is us?”
“Us is about to find out who killed Jack.” I had seldom heard Cynthia call him father. It was always just Jack.
“I want to join us,” she said. Enthusiastic.
“I was kidding, Cynthia. You must be still mending. The shoulder—”
“Is fine,” she filled in quickly. I didn’t believe her.
“We’re anchored in Shark River. My plan is to go back to the scene and look for what Huck found—the residue on the water. I need to get it analyzed.”
“What can I do to help?”
“Stir up the waters again.”
Silence. “Uh-huh. And how would you like me to do that?” she said, sounding anxious to help.
“An article on drilling in the Everglades. You stirred up a bee’s nest with that last series. I even got a call from Homeland. It keeps the pressure on,” I added. No reply from Cynthia. “Are you still there?”
“Yeah. I was just thinking. There’s a rig operating in the bay off Shark Island—about a mile out in the Gulf. You might want to check that out.”
“We’ll do that.”
“I was thinking that maybe that’s the one in the pictures we found,” she added, like she was still thinking.
I nodded. She hung up—never seeing my nod.
When we dropped the dinghy into the water, my cell phone read 4:45. A short distance away near the shore, there was a splash. I searched the water. A tip of a gator’s nose rested just above the surface, his eyes bulging, wide and dreamy, fixed in our direction. I kept the boat at a safe distance—in case the gator was hungry.
It only took ten minutes to get to the mouth of the stream where we had found Jack’s boat. It was a twenty-minute slow ride from there, skirting the shallows, mangrove roots, and alligators stretched out on the banks, seemingly oblivious to everything around them. Except, if you looked closely, their eyes were alert. But it wasn’t mating season so I wasn’t worried. Attacks on humans are infrequent, but they do occur: to someone swimming in a lake or river alone; to a pet too close to a path. Some feed gators—Here boy, come and get it. Good way to lose an arm to 3,000 PSIs of jaw strength.
It was cool, this late afternoon, the sun lowering itself toward the Gulf. I watched the motor churn up a small wake and followed it to the shore. Maybe Jack did the same thing, his last trip up this stream.
Chapter Forty-Eight
Jillie and Henry
Wednesday Evening, December 7
Jillie was early at the Worthington Inn. It was dusk. The lamps that lined the street were beginning to awaken. The Inn looked even cozier than she had remembered—an old two-story Colonial with red-brick facing. It matched the architecture of this upscale Columbus suburb. The Inn fronted High Street, the main thoroughfare of historic Old Worthington, an All-American City, its streets lined with specialty shops and cafes; wreaths on doors and miniature firs in windows lit up for the holidays; and High Street overhung with white bulbs woven through pine. New England in the center of Ohio. She and Cooper had come here for every one of their anniversaries—all but the eighth.
What happened to us? Was it all Maxie? Or did we just fall out of love? she wondered. She hadn’t been back since that time. As she pulled at the heavy entrance door, she wondered if she had made a mistake to meet Henry here.
Once inside, she was standing in a room that looked more like a parlor than a dining room. It was one of several restaurants in the Inn. This one was done in warm browns. Velvety crimson valences, asking to be felt, hung over tall grilled windows, their tops high up the walls and overlooking the town. Several of them faced trellises, green vines growing up the side of the building showing on the edges of the pane. Soft lighting gave warmth to the sandy brown walls. Complementing the whole scene were long, polished, dark wooden tables covered with light cream cloths; each table set with heavy linen napkins, dark red; and knives, forks and spoons, gleaming like real silver. Early American high-back chairs, enameled black aga
inst mahogany, were pulled slightly away from each table, as though they were waiting for guests to take their places.
She felt like turning and leaving…
“How many, ma’am?” The host said, a white shirt under a black jacket, menus in his hand. She mused at how much the Inn had remained the same,
“Just two of us,” she replied, turning back to the room. “He’ll be here shortly.”
“Why don’t I seat you while you’re waiting,” he suggested. “I’ll have the waiter bring you something to drink,” and he led her up a wide stairway, carpeted crimson, to a lounge where a fireplace burned the air, throwing an easy light into the room.
“It takes the chill out of December, doesn’t it?” the maître d’ observed as they walked.
So poetic, she thought. So much like the Worthington.
“Please,” he said, guiding her past a bar adjacent to the fireplace, the wood of the bar, dark mahogany with a high gloss finish, reflecting the flames from the fire. He led her to a gathering of tables in the center of the room, small and round, with tablecloths of pure white. The chairs were more comfortable than those in the restaurant on the main floor—round backs with seats cushioned crimson.
Henry appeared at the entrance within minutes of Jillie being seated. He smiled as soon as he saw her, hurrying past the bar and over to her table.
“You look truly lovely!” he said, kissing her on the cheek. He placed a small gift in front of her. It was wrapped in ribbed linen paper and bound with a ribbon that shone like real gold. There was a bow on top almost as large as the package itself. She stared at it.
“What is this?” she said, smiling uncertainly. He motioned for her to open it.
She pulled at the ribbon, then carefully peeled away the paper.
She stared at it for a few moments. A ring. Gold with a green stone setting. Around the setting the word, Hoyas. The name of the Georgetown basketball team. She continued to stare for a few moments longer, then smiled.
“I love it,” she said. He was relieved.
“Remember? It’s the ring I gave you at a Georgetown tea.”
She nodded. Henry was a little chubby then, a nerd. Medical school took most of his time. He was trim now, no stomach, the semblance of a beard between his chin and lower lip—it looked good on him—hair still brown, no gray, eyes still a clear blue, like the sky on a clear, sunny summer afternoon.
“You look good,” she said. And then, after a silence, mused aloud, “Why didn’t you ever marry?” Wondering why she was asking that question—was she becoming interested? And suddenly the waiter was there.
Henry gave him their drink orders: wine for her, a Grey Goose martini for him. Then they sat in silence for a while, Henry staring at a couple sitting near them, then…
“I did,” he said quietly.
“Oh, I thought…”
“Yes, I said I wasn’t married. It’s a long story—”
“No, I…”
“It didn’t last long. For another time, perhaps.”
They waited for the drinks.
“One child,” he finally added.
She nodded and didn’t press him further. He looked at her.
“We have one,” she said. And he seemed…something…surprised?
“I know,” he said, finally. “Maxie.” She looked at him, carefully, like How would you know that?
“It was on the news,” he said.
Jillie dropped her head.
“I’m so sorry about what happened,” he added, taking her hand. She let him.
“It’s come between us. Cooper and me. And I just can’t get past it. I don’t think he can either.” She couldn’t look at him, making that confession like she did, to an almost stranger, even though they had been lovers at one time, but that was so long ago—was it fifteen years? Since Georgetown…since she first met Cooper…Henry making the introduction, of all things…and later she broke it off with Henry and started up with the philosopher, had long talks into the night about…what the hell was it about? Anything, and everything really. They just enjoyed each other so it didn’t matter what they talked about, and they held hands and they made love, and drank wine, cheap wine, that’s all they could afford, on a Fellow’s salary of twelve thousand bucks. And then she got pregnant, and thank God they were both almost finished with their doctorates and Henry was angry about his friend betraying him, taking his girl, my girl, he had said, and he threatened Cooper, his friend, but Coop was bigger—and stronger—and she drifted off thinking about him and how they held hands, and how she and Henry never did, and the wine, and their talks into the early morning, and their kisses, and she could still feel him on her lips, even now…
“Jillian…?” Henry.
“I’m sorry.” She shook off her thoughts and jumped into the conversation again. “Where are you living now?” she asked and felt uncomfortable with the artificiality of her questions.
“I have a practice in D.C.” He studied her, as though analyzing her thoughts.
She felt it and shifted in her seat.
“But for dinner...?” Henry said, filling the silence.
“Oh, yes,” Jillie replied opening the menu. “Do you have a suggestion,” she asked quickly, just as the waiter came.
“Are you ready?” the waiter asked. The waiter was in black, tall and thin, with a mustache, neatly trimmed, and resembling Christian Bale—Jillie told him so, Henry not looking up from the menu.
“How is your Pan-Roasted Duck this evening?” she asked.
The waiter said it was extraordinary and that she should try it. “And it comes with multi-grain risotto, sautéed Brussels sprouts, butternut squash and a blood-orange, pine nut agrodolce sauce,” he added. Then he turned to Henry.
“Is your salmon wild?” Henry asked.
“Yes, sir,” he replied quickly, almost defensively.
“Good,” said Henry. “Then I’ll have the Scottish Salmon.”
“An excellent choice. And that comes with sticky rice cake, sautéed Swiss chard, Yuzukosho butter, golden beets, and cucumber.” Hmmm, thought Henry, probably anything I choose this guy will say was excellent.
Henry nodded. “And what pinot noir would you recommend to go with the duck?”
“I would suggest the Clos LaChance Santa Cruz Mountains,” he said. “I believe we have the 2006. But I will check.”
“Excellent,” said Henry, and then he turned back to Jillie.
“I’m so happy you could get away. And what a great place this is,” he said, looking around and admiring the decor of the dining room. The light emanating from the fireplace accentuated the richness of the colors: the draperies, a dusty crimson; the rail topping the bar, bright gold and showing off; and the polished browns of the bar and the chairs.
There were only a few other diners. It was like Henry had reserved the entire room just for them. And so the evening was theirs, the first for Jillie since she and Cooper separated—she just couldn’t do it—put their marriage aside, that is. And so she enjoyed the dinner, playing with it at times, Henry watching her. Are You okay? from him several times. But the duck was as good as she ever remembered, and the wine was exquisite, and Henry was so attentive. And they talked—Jillie mostly interviewing—she felt more at ease that way—occasionally disappearing into her thoughts, and Henry bringing her back. And they held hands and smiled over their wine glasses. And finally, Jillie relaxed, Henry leaning back against his chair and saying he was so happy that she was finally getting out—especially because it was with him.
And so the evening went like that until it got late and Jillie felt it was time for her to leave—and so she told him that. And he said, No problem, I understand. A first evening of many, he promised, then he rose and took her back to her car. It was snowing now, soft and dry. And they kissed in the dark, in the cold, but it didn’t seem so cold to either one of them. He kissed her hard and he held her and told her how much he had missed her and could they meet again? And she said, maybe…she did
n’t know if she wanted to, really. And he held her for a few moments longer, under the lights of High Street, in front of the Inn where she and Coop had celebrated anniversaries, and made love—Why am I here with Henry? she wondered.
Henry held the car door for her, held her eyes momentarily, then waved as she pulled away. Jillie headed back to Muskingum, to her home on the college campus, with the lawn that sloped toward the road, where Maxie used to toss his baseball and wait for his dad, and she parked near the porch, where she had leaned out that autumn morning and called for Maxie—who never came—and where she called Cooper and told him—she was so scared—that she couldn’t find their son. And what ruined her mind that day was that she really felt like she had lost him—that it was all her fault—and that was the beginning of the end as far as she was concerned.
She cried as she stood on the porch. And then she opened the screen and entered the dark house, thinking she might have to call Coop.
Chapter Forty-Nine
Richie and Huck
Early Evening, Wednesday, December 7
They had made good time in Jack’s boat, breaking through the water at thirty-five miles per hour, sometimes even hitting forty. To Richie it could have been 100. Damn idiot…almost ran us into a battleship, he had said when Huck had steered them out of the way of an oil tanker heading for the Atlantic. Richie was never happy on the water. And for good reason, as I’ve told you.
“I need a fucking jacket!” he said, holding on to the rail along the gunnels as waves splashed over the bow. The nights were chilly now—on the water—in December. Even in Florida. Huck had warned of a cold front before they left the marina, but Richie had said, What the fuck is a cold front? Can’t be any worse than Cleveland. Huck just shrugged, like Don’t say I didn’t tell you, city boy.
Richie had gone below and gotten a blanket and was now pulling it around his shoulders. “This is supposed to be Florida!” he said, as he stared through the windshield of the Canyon. “At least this thing’s got a warm bed downstairs—”
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