An Unquiet Grave

CHAPTER 50

His suitcase was unpacked. But he hadn’t stopped there. He had swept the sand out of the cottage and cleaned out the refrigerator, tossing out the withered lettuce and old cartons of Chinese takeout.

Then he had turned his sights on the bookcase in the living room. He dusted all the books and CDs, then cleaned the four items on the top shelf-an old puka bead necklace, a tiny human skull, two picture frames, and a shiny black stone.

The necklace had belonged to a missing girl. The skull, from some unknown infant, had washed up on his beach after the hurricane. The sepia-toned photograph was of his mother, Lila. The other frame held a quote from Winston Churchill given to him by the widow of a dead cop. The black stone was a snowflake obsidian, a gift from his partner Ollie.

Each was a piece from his past, mementos from people whose lives had touched his for an instant before they were gone.

He carefully wiped the dust from the obsidian, remembering what Ollie had said. It is the stone of purity, Louis, that balances the mind and the spirit.

He set the stone down next to the baby skull, then reached into his suitcase and withdrew a small box. He took out the woolly hat Charlie had given him, folded it into a square, and set it on the shelf. Then he turned to survey the cottage. One last thing to do.

In the bedroom, he stripped the rumpled sheets from the bed and remade it with fresh white ones. He took his time, smoothing the wrinkles and positioning the two pillows. Then he cranked open the jalousie windows and the sea-tang breeze poured in.

Back in the living room, he paused to sort through the mail that had accumulated while he had been gone. Bills, junk, nothing that couldn’t wait. There was a postcard showing an old fort in St. Augustine. Louis turned it over and smiled as he read Ben’s boyish scrawl. He stuck the card under a refrigerator magnet.

He got a Heineken out of the refrigerator. Then he uncorked the bottle of cabernet that he had picked up at Bailey’s Market on the drive in from the airport.

He didn’t like red wine, but she did.

Pouring a full glass, he took the wine and the beer out to the porch. He set the glass down on the table and lowered himself into the lounge chair.

The sun was starting its descent into the gulf, but it was maybe eighty degrees. Still, he sat there, wearing a heavy sweatshirt, his arms crossed over his chest.

He couldn’t seem to get warm.

It would pass. He knew that. He knew other things now, too. He knew that Delp would tell the story and help Phillip start the search for his child. He knew that Phillip and Frances had to find their own way. He hoped it was back to each other.

He knew that he couldn’t wait to see Ben next week when he got home from St. Augustine. He knew he would be going fishing this month with Sam Dodie and that they wouldn’t catch anything. He knew he would meet his friend Mel Landeta for a beer at O’Sullivan’s. He knew there would always be a bottle of Remy Martin for him on the shelf at Roberta Tatum’s store and a table for him at Timmy’s Nook.

He knew, after three years of denial, he wasn’t going back to Michigan or anywhere else. It was hard to put down roots in the Florida sand, and the things that survived here did so with only the greatest grit and determination.

But he had done it. This was his home now.

The lowering sun hit him full in the face and he laid his head back and closed his eyes.

He knew he was happy.

The crunch of gravel made him open his eyes. A red Bronco was pulling into his drive. He didn’t move. He just sat there and watched as Joe got out.

Everything was warm, rendered red gold by the generous sun, and the moment was still, unmoving, more real than anything had ever been in his life. And she was beautiful.