Gone (4 page)

I said,
“What?
”

“Dress pretty for a change, honey—that’s all I’m saying. Something without too many buttons and straps. Lawrence Seasons is a snob, but he’d probably treat you good for a couple of months just to prove he can afford it. And he might have a workman on the payroll who’s younger and got some money. And less morals than our good-looking UPS driver!”

Finally, it was all too clear what my befuddled mother was suggesting. I stood taller and pointed to the kitchen door. “Go inside right now! I’ll be in after I’ve thanked Arlis.”

“Darling, I’m only saying it’s the rusty hinges that snap first. As wrong as your Aunt Hannah was about
her
morals, she was right when it comes to a woman’s hormone tensions being dangerous. At the grocery, I read in a magazine that’s why Lizzie Borden did what she did with that axe. And she was a girl in her twenties just like you!”

Actually, I’d turned thirty-one earlier that June, which I was about to point out, but then Loretta became secretive and wagged a finger for me to lean closer. “It’s not like I don’t know what you do to calm your frustrations. But using a plastic gadget can’t be healthy, child.”

My ears were suddenly warm. I said, “Pardon me?”

Loretta lowered her voice. “I found the electric candle you kept hidden in your dresser. That’s not what God had in mind when he gave us hormones, honey.”

My face feeling hot, I turned my back and was reaching for the door but could still hear my mother saying, “First time I plugged it in, the thing went shooting across the floor like a snake on a griddle. I’m surprised you didn’t hear me scream . . .”

The woman was still talking as I walked, then jogged down the Indian mound toward the dock. I still had almost two hours before my meeting. Time enough to get to my makeshift apartment, shower, change, and then make my appointment—if I hurried.

—

I
DID HURRY,
cowboying my skiff fast across the flats, running backcountry through the secret cuts and tidal riffs that I had learned as a girl, and was still learning, in truth, because currents can change shallow bottom as fast as wind can change the shape of sand and snow. I was mad at Loretta for invading my privacy with her sneaky ways and her tainted suspicions, so I drove harder than usual, eager to put some distance between the house where I’d grown up and the future that lay ahead. It’s not that I felt bitter about my past. I didn’t—not on a daily basis, anyway. I was just weary of the life I’d lived with my mother, eager to shed the past as cleanly as some creatures can shed their skins. It’s not that easy, of course, but it is doable—or so I’ve convinced myself. All I know for sure is, the only way to leave something behind is to keep moving ahead.

That was easier said than done, though, after some of the things Loretta had said to me. Especially galling was her claim that I’d done nothing in high school but sit around and mope. Had the woman lost her memory along with the best half of her mind? I had gotten good grades, played clarinet in the band, swum on the varsity team, and always had a paying job of some sort, often working for my Uncle Jake—although, as even I had to admit, my teen years weren’t the happiest of times.

I still think of high school as the three long years I spent trying to recover from the upset of acne and middle school. I was the gawky, silent girl in the back of the room who slouched because I was too tall and who used whatever I could to hide my face when someone tried to strike up a conversation. In all that time, I’d had only one date and kissed only one boy—my childhood neighbor, Delbert Fowler—whom I married six years after graduation because he joined the Army and believed he was going off to war where he might be killed by
Malls-lums
. From the way Delbert pronounced the word, I always suspected he pictured himself plinking away at a bunch of charging Nordstrom hoodlums wearing towels on their heads.

I was in my mid-twenties before another man gave me a second look, and almost thirty before men actually stopped and stared—even then I worried it was because of the few faint acne scars hidden by my hair. Only lately have I begun to suspect the truth. Men look at me now because they
like
what they see. Not that I’m sure it’s true—I’ll never feel the sort of confidence some have when it comes to being comfortable with their looks. But when I go striding by a group of men wearing jeans and a nice summer blouse, or stockings and a crisp skirt, what I see on their faces is a look of slow surprise. It’s as if they don’t expect to be interested, but then their brain gives them a kick to remind them of what their eyes are actually seeing.

I hope it’s because I’m a big woman, too big for a quick snapshot, so it takes men a while to put all the parts together. I’m beginning to believe it’s true because what I see next on their faces is usually a confused smile, like they’re boys who’ve been caught at something they enjoy but shouldn’t be doing.

Not that I spend my hours worrying about what men think. The last few years have been a happy, comfortable time for me, and I’m content enough not to rush. Some of us mature and blaze early in life. Others take longer to grow into the person they are meant to be. I bloomed very late, which, in truth, has surprised no one more than me. Maybe my brain will never fully replace the person I used to be with the woman I’ve become because, like a lot of people, I grew up feeling lonely and unattractive and that’s the person I wake up with every morning. It’s the same girl who sometimes still bawls herself to sleep at night. But when I get into one of those moods, feeling down, just a stubbed toe away from an hour-long crying jag, I go to my closet, lay out my best clothes, turn the lights down real low, and stand myself in front of the mirror.

The lighting is important, so I take some time and get it just right. Then I feel a lonely girl’s delight as I watch a grown woman change moods as she changes and rechanges her outer skin. That woman is a whole lot different from the homely child she once was. That woman has long, long legs. Her thighs might be a tad heavy, her ankles definitely too thick—but not too thick to wear elegant stiletto heels with peep toes. Or a pair of crystal pumps that the woman found for ten bucks at a Palm Beach thrift shop.
Ten bucks!
The woman has decent hips, too, and a waist that appears skinny enough, but only because her shoulders are so darn wide from swimming laps. Things get better, though, as the lonely girl’s eyes move up the mirror where the woman spills out of her favorite 34D bra just enough to cause the girl to get teary-eyed and smile, because she, in her own mind, is as about as shapely as an ironing board balancing two peas.

Sometimes it takes a while to convince myself that the woman in the mirror is me. Not a fashion model, nope. That’ll never happen—unless God drops everything else to lend a hand. Or unless shower curtains become some kind of fashion craze. But my body is pretty darn good, thank you very much. And my face is strong and sometimes handsome—even pretty—when the light is right. Good high cheeks, glossy hair, and eyes that are sharp and perceptive when they aren’t focusing on those few old scars that even the little girl realizes helped create the strong woman she has become.

Just being alone on a fast boat improved my mood, feeling the sunlight and smelling the wind. By the time I’d showered and changed, I felt a lot better, even though I had only thirty minutes to get to Captiva Island for my appointment. By car, the drive would take an hour even in the light summer traffic. So I did what I often do when in a hurry: I got in my boat and flew.

TWO

M
R.
L
AWRENCE
S
EASONS PLACED A NAPKIN BENEATH HIS
glass, scowled at the ring on the table, then summoned the maid, before telling me, “I invited you because we have a problem and a woman’s insight might be helpful. It has to do with my niece. She hasn’t disappeared, exactly. But we don’t know where she is and she won’t return our calls. Every two weeks, though, as required by the trust, she telephones the executor’s office—that’s my office. But then hangs up before my secretary can ask any questions.”

I said, “Hmmm,” as if I understood, but, of course, I did not. “How can your secretary be sure it’s your niece calling?”

“We gave her a list of test questions that only Olivia could answer. It’s the first thing she does when Olivia checks in.”

“Olivia . . . ?”

“Olivia Tatum Seasons. My late brother’s only child.”

I asked, “Any close friends you could get to talk to her?”

“We’ve tried,” Mr. Seasons said. “Olivia doesn’t have many friends—not that she trusts, anyway.”

“What about Ms. Calder-Shaun? She seems like a nice lady. Or her mother? Sometimes a minister can talk to people when no one else can.”

He shook his head. “Her mother moved to Europe long ago. And Olivia’s stepmother is only ten years older than Olivia. She was an actress. Still is, I suppose. And, well”—Mr. Seasons swirled the ice in his glass—“she and the stepmother have never gotten along. You can see why it’s become a problem.”

“What about Olivia’s cell?” I offered. “Most phones have a GPS signal.”

The man attempted to cloak his impatience at what I realized was an obvious suggestion but was still polite enough to reply, “Yes, actually, we did think of it. She’s turned off the GPS service. Or gotten a different phone.”

To my left, outside the ballroom-sized enclosure that screened the swimming pool, a cabana, and an outdoor gas kitchen, I could see a dock through the foliage, and the shiny transom of Mr. Seasons’s expensive yacht. The vessel dwarfed my little skiff, which was tied in the shallows like a waiting pony. I was beginning to wish I was on my boat, and gone. But I tried again by asking the niece’s age and what she was like.

“As a person, I mean,” I said.

“Olivia just turned thirty—about the same age as you, I would guess. But her behavior is not as . . .
solid
?” The man thought about it for a moment, his silver hair catching the light. “No, that’s not the right word. Olivia has lived a privileged life, I’ll put it that way. It’s like mothers who use antibacterial soap. Their children don’t build up the necessary immunities—you know, out there wrestling in the mud, swapping germs on the playground. The same with Olivia. Her father’s wealth protected her, so now she doesn’t possess the immunities—street savvy, you might say—that a woman needs to function in the real world.” He paused when we heard the click of shoes on Mexican tile.

I had been doing my best not to gawk but the maid was marching toward us and I couldn’t help glancing beyond her into the library beyond. Through doors framed with pecky cypress, I saw a room that was a museum of artwork and antiques. A chandelier sprinkled light across a marble floor, then spilled over onto sculptures, Renaissance-looking paintings, an oriental carpet, and the largest fireplace I’d ever seen in Florida, or anywhere else.

I said to the maid, “Thank you, ma’am,” as she poured tea over ice, then returned my attention to Mr. Seasons. “I can’t imagine how I can help. But I’d be pleased to try.”

The man waited with exaggerated patience while the maid wiped the table and didn’t respond until she was out of earshot. The interruption prompted him to say, “Everything we say here is confidential—I’m sure I don’t need to tell you that.”

“Sure—of course,” I said, and tried the tea. It was unsweetened instant tea, weak as tap water. I was reminded that by boating five miles across the bay, I had entered a different world. I’d left behind what remains of Old Florida and was now in one of the wealthiest enclaves of the North’s southernmost state.

“You know, I’ve been very impressed by your competence as a fishing guide,” he continued. “I hope I didn’t offend by mentioning confidentiality. It’s not that I’m sharing some terrible family secret, it’s just—”

“First thing I learned,” I said, trying to help the man, “is my clients have a right to their privacy, whether they’re on my boat or a thousand miles away at home. What they say when I’m around leaves when they leave the dock. Fishing guides who aren’t respectful don’t last very long.”

“Exactly,”
Mr. Seasons said, then sat up straighter and smiled as if a pleasing thought had just come into his mind. “I bet Captain Jake taught you that. Professionalism. He took a lot of pride in what he did.”

“My uncle knew his business,” I agreed.

“My God, I fished with Jake for almost twenty years before he got sick. All kinds of weather. I’ve always said you can learn more about a man’s character in eight hours fishing than you can in eight years at some damn office pretending to be something you’re not. That applies to women, too, of course. You are a very impressive young woman, Captain Smith.”

I smiled my appreciation, although I don’t particularly like being called captain. In my mind, a real captain stands at the wheel of a ship, not a twenty-one-foot skiff.

Mr. Seasons’s mind was still on the subject of fishing. “March and April were my favorite months because we’d hunt those big female tarpon at the mouth of the river. But we’d go holidays, too. Christmas was always fun, if the bay wasn’t too rough. I remember one afternoon—this was around Thanksgiving, I think—it was glassy calm, like summer, and Jake took me offshore looking for tripletail. Now, the tripletail is a very strange fish, isn’t it? Floats on the surface like a giant leaf. So convinced it’s invisible, you can scoop it up in a net, don’t even need bait. Some people are like that. Unaware of their vulnerability, secure in their own illusions. I’m afraid my niece, Olivia, might be one of them.”

I nodded, aware he didn’t expect an answer.

“Tell me, Hannah, have you done much fishing in the Ten Thousand Islands area?”

He was asking about a wilderness region forty miles south, a jigsaw puzzle of uninhabited islands, black water, and swamp that abutted the Everglades. I could picture the mangrove shadows and smell the brackish air as he continued, “I’ve fished there twice. Liked it, but found it a little spooky, too. For an outsider, I mean. All that unmarked water . . . all those little backcountry towns where people’re still suspicious of strangers. Everglades City, Caxambas, Goodland, Chokoloskee—do you know the waters down there at all?”

For some reason, I got the strong impression the question had more to do with his missing niece than fishing. I said, “Vacations, Jake would take me camping on Panther Key, just off the channel into Everglades. There’s a little strand of beach, and we’d fish the whole area. Refuel and sometimes eat at Chokoloskee, there’s a couple of nice places. You knew Mary, before they split up?”

“Jake’s wife, of course. A, uhh. . . a lovely lady.”

There was nothing lovely or nice about my uncle’s poisonous ex-wife, but I said, “She didn’t care much for being outdoors, so I filled in.”

Mr. Seasons liked something about the way I said it. It caused him to grin, and remember, “Jake always told me his niece was the son he’d never had. And he was the—”

The father you never had,
is what the man meant to say but caught himself in time. Instead, without fumbling too badly, he finished, “—he was the best uncle he could be to his favorite niece.”

In that instant, I liked Mr. Seasons better than I had during the five or six times he’d chartered my boat. Thought it was sweet of him to worry about hurting my feelings as I watched his smile turn inward, aware he was thinking about the days he’d spent on the water with my uncle. Mr. Seasons had a nice face, tan and smooth with angles. Still handsome for a man in his fifties, which may seem strange for a woman my age to notice, but Loretta is right when she accuses me of liking older men. Particularly the strong ones, and Mr. Seasons certainly qualified. His was the sort of regal face you see at charity functions, framed neatly by a starched tuxedo collar, or at tennis clubs where people dress in white and talk about the heat.

Because of mother’s gossiping, it was a battle not to imagine this fit-looking rich man when he was fifteen years younger, trying to seduce my aunt who was wild in her ways and who loved men—something I knew for a fact because I’ve read Hannah Three’s journals many times. But then the man saved me by launching into a story about landing a hundred-pound bull shark, which required that I pretend to be interested.

Mr. Season went on for several minutes about catching that shark, which clients tend to do when they’ve enjoyed themselves. My tea was gone when he finally changed the subject, saying, “Over the years, a man’s fishing guide becomes an extended member of the family. That’s how close Jake and I were.” His eyes focused tight on my face. “He did some other work for me, too.”

Now we were coming to it. He said, “It was my understanding you worked for Jake at the little investigation agency we started. Office work, but you also took the state test and got your license—what, about three or four years ago?”

Part of what he’d said surprised me. “I knew my uncle had a financial backer, but I didn’t know it was you, Mr. Seasons. You’re the one put up the money for the office?” Now I was worried, thinking maybe Jake had died owing the man money.

Seasons didn’t respond. Instead, he sipped his drink, eyes still on me, waiting for the rest of my answer.

I said, “Well . . . I worked part-time at the agency while I was going to community college. I was after an associate degree in criminal law, so it was a good fit. And Jake needed the help. But we were never that busy, you know—Jake mostly fished. Four, maybe five years, I worked a few afternoons a week, or at night, at the agency. Depending on how much free time I had from my studies. Sometimes, I even got class credit for what I did.”

Because it was true, I had to add, “Jake never took the business that seriously, in my opinion. It was just something to bring in a little extra money. And because I think he sometimes missed being a police officer after he got hurt and was put on disability.”

I didn’t like the way Mr. Seasons was staring at me now. It made me uncomfortable, and gave the impression this wealthy man in the creased slacks and white Ralph Lauren shirt knew things about my own uncle that I didn’t know myself.

Turned out, he did.

—

L
AWRENCE
S
EASONS
looked down, seeming to be perturbed that the ice had melted in his drink.

“I forget,” he began, which told me I was being tested, “when was your uncle shot? Was it when he was working undercover in Tampa? Or when he was in South America, working for that federal agency?”

Sometimes I dislike myself for not being able to hide my reactions better, particularly when I’m embarrassed, or—in this case—blindsided. My uncle had worked for a federal agency? It was news to me.

I replied, “Mr. Seasons, we agreed your family’s business is personal and private. Just because my family lives across the bay doesn’t mean I don’t expect the same courtesy. If you want to discuss your niece, I’ll listen. If not, I’ve got work that needs doing.”

Instead of being offended, the man nodded his approval. “Made you mad, didn’t I?”

I shrugged, the way people do when they’re lying.

He set his glass on the table as if he’d just made a decision. “You’ve got backbone, Hannah. And you don’t rattle easily. I like that. I’ve always suspected it, but you proved it yesterday, the way you took charge when that storm chased us. Other times, too—remember last year when I told you to gaff that tarpon? A seven-foot fish, had to weigh close to two hundred pounds. Biggest I’ve ever landed. Wanted to have it mounted, but you refused. There was nothing I could say to change your mind. You are one stubborn lady.”

What the man had wanted was to hang a dead fish for his friends to admire and to snap pictures. By refusing him, I’d made him so angry he’d only tipped me five bucks, then booked two different guides later in the week before deciding he had better luck on my boat.

Even so, I reminded him, “Fish mounts are made from Styrofoam and plastic. All the taxidermist needs is the measurements. There was no reason to kill that fish, Mr. Seasons, or I would have done what you told me. I’m not stubborn when it comes to taking orders—unless I know I’m right.”

The man laughed as if I’d said something funny, then turned serious. “You still haven’t answered my question. The reason I fronted money to your uncle is because I needed someone I could trust to do certain jobs for me. Background checks, mostly, on staff I hired to take care of our properties in Florida, or people who came to me with business proposals. Your uncle had an incredible amount of local knowledge when it came to fishing—but also about people, too. In an area like this, where almost everyone’s from somewhere else, that’s more valuable than you probably realize. Local knowledge and integrity—that’s a rare combination these days. What I’m getting at is—” The man paused, then changed his approach. “There’s a legal term—‘due diligence.’ Do you know what it means?”