by Boo Walker
ALSO BY BOO WALKER
Red Mountain
Red Mountain Rising
Red Mountain Burning
A Marriage Well Done
Writing as Benjamin Blackmore
Lowcountry Punch
Once a Soldier
Off You Go: A Mystery Novella
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Text copyright © 2020 by Lemuel (Boo) Walker
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by Lake Union Publishing, Seattle
www.apub.com
Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Lake Union Publishing are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.
ISBN-13: 9781542019446
ISBN-10: 1542019443
Cover design by Caroline Teagle Johnson
For Riggs
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Chapter 1
BOXING UP THE PAST
St. Petersburg, Florida
“This is our forever home,” David had promised as he carried her across the threshold of their new waterfront dream house shortly after their honeymoon in Bonaire. The word forever was a term Claire had exhaustively pondered, ever since the police chaplain had knocked on the door and shattered her happy world.
That was three years ago today.
Driving the white VW convertible David had given her for her thirty-fifth birthday, Claire pumped the brakes as their house came into view toward the end of the cul-de-sac. Was it “theirs”? Or just “hers” now? Considering she was selling, her question didn’t really matter anymore.
She had the top of the convertible down, and the February morning air was lower-seventies crisp. A flock of white ibises with their long orange beaks flew in a V shape over the house and across the neon-blue sky, which was as translucent as the water and only a shade lighter.
Where were the black clouds, the rain, the thunder and lightning? Today had no right to be so Florida, so epically stunning. You would think three years might muddle the past, making it less sharp to the touch, less invasive to explore. When asked last week by a widow in her support group how badly it still hurt on a scale of one to ten, Claire had admitted that she lived mostly nines and tens, with the occasional waves of happiness that felt more like delirium.
Their two-story house stood on the southeastern tip of St. Pete on the island of Coquina Key. A 1960s design with a white brick exterior, it wasn’t the fanciest house on the block, but the panoramic views of Tampa Bay more than made up for it. Claire had transformed the inside with an artistic, midcentury vibe—the kind of place you never wanted to leave.
Claire rolled into the driveway and paused to revisit their last moment together, between the two pygmy date palms flanking the front stoop as David had rushed off to work.
“You’re really not going to tell me who’s coming to dinner tonight?” she’d asked, crossing her arms.
“Oh, c’mon.” He’d tucked in his crisp yellow button-down, walking backward down the steps. “I thought you loved surprises.” She could still hear his Michigander voice so clearly.
“I like surprise flowers or jewelry. Convertibles even. I’m not sure I like surprise guests. What if he or she is allergic to something?”
“This person will love your shrimp fajitas; trust me.” He’d finished tucking in his shirt and buckled his belt, so skinny after training for yet another marathon. When she’d rolled her eyes, David had leaped back up the stairs and kissed her. “I love you, baby. See you around five.”
“How much do you love me?” she’d asked.
He’d put his clean-shaven cheek to hers, and his warm breath had tickled her ear. “Infinity times infinity.” He’d been on top of the world lately, so infectious with his thirst for life.
Those had been his last words to her. And she never did find out who was coming to dinner. No one had been in the car when it crashed, so Claire assumed David might have planned to pick up the person. Nothing else made sense. Claire remembered smiling as he’d pulled away in his 4 Series BMW—the one that would be totaled by a bastard drunk driver that afternoon.
Some of the widows at the meetings talked about how they wished they could have redone their last moments with their spouse, maybe said something different, hugged them a little harder. Looking back, remembering how connected she and David were, it was as if they had both been saying a last goodbye that morning and hadn’t known it.
Claire grabbed a brown paper bag from the shotgun seat and climbed out of her car. She walked across the crunchy fresh-cut grass to her neighbor’s house, a one-story rambler with the most well-kept yard on the street. Hal must have heard her and called out from behind the vinyl fence on the side of the house. Walking through the gate, she found him on his knees in the garden with a handful of old tomato plants he’d pulled from the soil. Beyond him, the turquoise of Tampa Bay shimmered in the sun.
“Good morning, young lady.” He tossed the plants into the pile behind him. The nearby trees were noisy with birds. “It’s nice to see you so often lately.”
To show respect and to meet his eyes, she momentarily lifted her glasses. “Getting ready for the new season?”
He was eighty years young, a longtime widower, and the best neighbor Claire and David could have asked for, always quick to lend a hand.
He wiped his brow with his arm. “Still trying to figure out Florida gardening. I swear, as much as I love living down here, I miss that rich Ohio soil. But I wouldn’t trade this weather for the world.”
“That makes two of us.” She held up the brown bag. “I brought you your favorite biscuit. Bacon, egg, cheese, and avocado.”
“You’re a doll, Claire. I swear your place makes the best in town.” He pushed himself up slowly and dusted the dirt off his knees. “How’s the moving coming?”
“It’s pretty much done. Just a few odds and ends left.” She wouldn’t dare mention the one room left untouched. There were many reasons why she hadn’t entered David’s office since the day he died, but those excuses expired today. She could see in her mind’s eye the doorknob that often haunted her dreams.
Hal reached for the bag with one of his shaky hands and smiled with all
the kindness in the world. “Will you let me pay you this time?”
She returned her warmest smile, thinking he was one of the good ones, a reminder of the light at the end of the tunnel. “Don’t be silly.” She watched a green anole lizard climb up the A/C unit on the side of the house. “So how’s your heart?”
“Still ticking.”
“C’mon, Hal, don’t sugarcoat things. What did the doctor say?”
Hal sighed. “I’m approaching the end stage, Claire.”
“Oh, Hal.” Claire choked up. She didn’t know what was worse: dying slowly, or the flick of a switch, like David’s death.
“It’s nothing to be sad about. Truly.” His hand holding the brown bag was shaking. He looked up to the sky. “Soon, I’ll be with Ruby, dancing up high.”
Claire took a step forward, holding back tears. “What can I do for you? I’m serious. If you need a ride to the doctor or an errand run, please call me.”
“I will, Claire. Please don’t worry about me. How are you doing with all this, by the way? I can only imagine saying goodbye to your house isn’t easy.”
Claire took a moment to change gears. “Selling the house has brought it all back, honestly. I wish I could be stronger sometimes.” She paused, swallowing her sadness. “I just need to close my eyes and channel my inner Hal whenever times get tough.”
He sprayed off his hands with the garden hose. “Let me tell you something, if you’ll allow an old man to pass along the small bit of wisdom I’ve collected.”
“If you tell me time heals all, I might just throw myself into the water, Hal.”
A quick headshake as he dried his hands with his shirt. “No, I’m not going to tell you time heals all. The one thing I know for sure, Claire, is that life demands that we get back up and keep fighting, no matter how badly we’ve been knocked down. I’m going down swinging.” He opened up the brown bag. “And now I’m going to eat a biscuit.”
She smiled. “I’m so lucky you’re in my life.”
Hal peeled back the foil on the overstuffed biscuit and prepared to take a bite. “I’m the lucky one. And you know what makes me happier than anything?”
“What’s that?”
“Seeing the fight in your eyes, the way you’re coming back. David would be proud of you, kid.” He took a bite and wiped his mouth. “Oh boy, this alone is worth sticking around for.”
Claire sat with Hal on the back porch while he ate his biscuit and then left him to work on his tomato plants. Walking along the seawall, she crossed into the Bermuda grass of her own backyard, glancing at the pool where she’d once imagined future children splashing about. She looked left to the dock that stretched out into the bay, where those same children were supposed to catch their first fish. She had always sworn that she’d be a great mom, that she’d make up for her own mother’s failures. Never had she considered she might not get the chance.
Deciding she wanted one last look from the end of the dock, Claire worked her way down the planks, breathing in the memories. When she and David had realized they weren’t able to have children, they’d bought a boat, something to do with their time. They’d kept it tied to this dock, a twenty-three-foot center console Sea Ray, and in some ways it had saved their marriage. The sunset cruises, the day trips to Bunces Pass. It had been their window into finding fun again.
Claire stood at the end of the dock with Tampa looking back at her from across the bay. Her long, sandy-brown hair whipped in the cool sea breeze. The high-rise linen shorts and sleeveless top she’d chosen to wear weren’t cutting it now. She hugged herself to fight the chill.
Hearing the whine of a diesel engine, Claire looked right to find a family of four speeding across the water in a ski boat. They were watching the white wake bubbling up from behind.
As they passed directly ahead, two bottlenose dolphins suddenly emerged, their dorsal fins knifing through the water. When the mammals leaped into the air in tandem, the two children—swallowed by oversize life jackets—thrust their skinny arms up high, and their joyful yelps echoed in the empty chambers of Claire’s broken heart. But only when the woman driving the boat turned to kiss the man beside her did Claire let her first tear of the morning fall.
Unable to bear watching the happy family for another moment, she exchanged a wave with the mother and then turned away. It was supposed to be Claire out on a boat. Her husband, her children! With tears splashing the dock, she walked the planks back toward the house.
There would be no boys or girls hauling in a catch from the dock. There would be no children jumping on a trampoline. No wedding receptions in the backyard. And the worst part: no grandchildren. The family tree of Claire and David Kite had stopped before it had even begun.
Winding around to the front, Claire walked through the memory of their last conversation and entered the front door of their not-so-forever home. Her photochromic lenses quickly adjusted. Save a few boxes in the corner, the house was vacant. A ray of sunshine sprayed the bare cherry floors. Claire felt as empty as the house looked. She could see straight across the open living room and through the giant windows to the bay, where the happy family was making large circles in the boat.
Feeling for an uncomfortable moment like she wasn’t alone, Claire whispered, “Hello. Is anyone here?”
Though there was no response, she sensed David’s presence and was both uplifted by and afraid of the idea of his ghost. She had a sixth sense about things, and that was a big part of what fueled her trepidation to clean out his office. Oh God, what might she find . . .
Each step toward his office was like wading through emotional quicksand. She climbed the stairs with heavy feet, her footfalls like a ticking clock. She glanced into the empty master bedroom on the left and could still see their modern Scandinavian bed. Her imagination offered a quick glimpse of David and her cuddling in the sheets, watching one of their favorite shows on the television hanging on the wall.
A bitter taste hit her tongue. Damn him for leaving her.
Swallowing the rage that loved to surprise her at times, Claire passed the guest bedroom and reached the door to his office. Eyeing the aged bronze doorknob that had swollen to ominous proportions in her imagination, she stopped and listened. So many times toward the end she’d come to knock on the door, and all she’d heard was David muttering as he wrote his next book. Sometimes, in the quiet, she could still hear him reading his words out loud in a sort of whisper.
Claire briefly fell back in time and almost knocked on the door. “David, dinner’s ready.”
“Okay, honey. Let me wrap up this chapter.”
“Please don’t let it get cold.”
“Just a few more words.”
Those were great days. Somehow they’d dug themselves out of the darkness of being childless and had rediscovered themselves and each other. The same year Claire opened her café, David had committed to run his first marathon, and a chase to get in the best shape of his life ensued. Then he was biking, too, and training for triathlons. The mouthwatering sight of David peeling off his shirt was still etched into her mind.
Then one day, having found motivation in a novel that he’d recently read, he’d started writing again. Rediscovering the passion of his college years, he’d become as obsessed with words as he had with road bikes. His writing was one reason why Claire hadn’t cleaned out his office yet, why she hadn’t sold the house. She hadn’t found the courage to read what he’d been working on the last year of his life, and she knew it was in there waiting for her. His final words. The only words he had left to say.
The identity of the guest to the dinner that had never happened was one of a few questions that had plagued her in the silent moments she hadn’t filled with distractions. Maybe that answer was waiting.
Claire finally turned the knob and pushed open the door to the office. Nothing had changed in three years. Claire had demanded that no one touch David’s stuff. She would do it when she was ready. Her parents and friends had advised her many time
s to move on, but she’d stood strong against them. Selling the house now was forcing her to do something she still wasn’t completely ready to do.
A framed and signed photograph of David’s favorite Tampa Bay Rays player, Fred McGriff, hung on the wall straight ahead. Fred was lifting his batting helmet toward the crowd, a thanks for their applause after a home run. His uniform read “Devil Rays.” It wasn’t until 2007 that the Rays dropped “Devil” from their name. Thinking about the Rays, she couldn’t help but ponder the other big question still lingering after three years. As much of a Rays fan as David was, why had the police found a New York Yankees hat with the tag still on it in his car when he’d died?
Though Claire’s eyes often glazed over when his talk turned too “inside baseball,” she was well aware how much he disliked the team he called the Evil Empire. “How can you support a squad that buys their way to the World Series?” he’d said on more than one occasion.
Several feet away from the floor-to-ceiling window, his Victorian pedestal desk faced the water. Claire choked up but then broke into a smile when she saw the sepia-colored globe next to the computer monitor. They’d once committed, in writing, to let it decide their next vacation destination. Claire was to spin the globe, and with his eyes closed, David was to place a finger on the spot. His pointer had landed on Ohio. True to their word, they’d booked a trip to Cincinnati to watch the Rays beat the Reds. She barely knew what a curveball was, but they’d ended up having one of the best trips of their marriage.
Claire lowered her eyes to the drawers with thick iron pulls. The novel David had been writing—the one she’d promised not to read until he’d finished—was probably in one of them. Not that this novel was such a big deal. He’d penned a couple of amateur whodunits after graduating from the University of Florida as an English major. Finding himself frustrated in attempting to get published, he’d gone back to school to learn architecture, a more lucrative profession. His writing had fallen by the wayside. Still, these were his last words, and no matter how insignificant they might be from a literary perspective, they meant something to her.
Letting apprehension get the best of her, she couldn’t quite muster the bravery to go to the desk. Not yet. She retrieved several boxes from the hallway and taped them together. Returning, she began stacking the books from the bookshelves into the boxes.