When a Yellow Taxi finally appeared, pulling beneath the security light near Hanson’s Shrimp Yards-exactly as I had instructed Tomlinson-I leaned, kissed Tula’s singed hair and told her, “You’re safe now. Tomlinson’s waiting. He won’t ask you any questions. He promised me-and I trust him.”
Then I sat back and watched the girl run toward the security light into my pal’s waiting arms.
Aside from a few accidental meetings at the marina-“awkward” would describe our exchanges-it was the last time I saw the man until that early Sunday morning when I noticed two familiar figures appear from the strand of sea oats that separate the West Wind Inn from the beach.
I was a hundred yards from shore, waiting for a good wave. I watched the figures stop… scan the water… and then both people waved.
It was Tomlinson, looking absurd in a pink sarong. Emily was beside him.
I had been avoiding the couple, it was true. But I waved in reply, anyway, because petty demonstrations of anger are, in my opinion, the equivalent of cancerous little cells that eat away at the quality of a person’s life.
Why not? I was feeling pretty good because I’d already had some fun. Waves had tumbled me and humbled me, confirming, with supreme indifference, that I still had a lot to learn about paddleboard surfing.
My ego is still sufficiently adolescent, though, that I became determined to make my final ride to the beach stylish enough to impress Tomlinson and, more important, Emily.
Maybe I tried too hard. That’s probably what happened. Only a few seconds into the ride, the board nose-dived, then pearled. I went flying.
Because I deserved it, I expected both Emily and my pal to be laughing as I carried the board to the beach. Not derisive laughter. The variety that comforts a friend after he has looked foolish.
Instead, they both appeared oddly serious as I approached. It became more serious-and confusing-when the woman marched toward me, then took my face in her hands. She stared into my eyes for a moment before saying, “This is an intervention! That’s why we’re here.”
More confused, I said, “Huh?”
The woman explained, “An intervention. It’s a sort of last-resort tactic that’s supposed to work on alcoholics and habitual gamblers. So we decided that maybe, just maybe, it would work on someone as obsessively stubborn, bullheaded and downright dumb as you.”
I replied, “ We decided?” moving my head to look at Tomlinson.
The man rolled his eyes and shrugged as if to distance himself from what was happening. “I wouldn’t call Doc dumb,” he said. “The rest of it’s true, yeah. Especially the ‘obsessive-stubborn’ deal. But ‘dumb,’ that’s taking it a little too far.”
I replied, “ Thanks, pal,” and broke away from Emily’s grip long enough to place my board on the sand.
A moment later, though, she was cupping my face in her hands again. There were tears, I noticed, welling in her eyes, so I stood quietly and paid attention.
“We both know what you’ve been thinking about Tomlinson and me, and you’re wrong,” the woman said. “I’ve called you more than a dozen times. I sent you e-mails, trying to explain. I came to the marina twice, but each time you were off somewhere doing God knows what on your boat. It’s been more than ten days, damn it!”
Emily’s hands dropped to her sides and formed fists to illustrate her frustration. “I thought you cared about me, Doc! I wanted to talk with. No… I needed to talk with you! The night you called my cell phone, the night Tomlinson answered, why didn’t you at least have the courtesy to explain to me that you were in trouble? If you’d told me you the truth, that you were in trouble and needed help, I would have been there for you, damn it!”
I tried to remain expressionless as slowly, very slowly, I shifted my attention to Tomlinson. My throat was tight as I asked the man, “You told her about what happened that night?”
Even when he’s stoned, Tomlinson has wise old eyes, a prophet’s eyes, some say. He stared back at me now, though, with clear eyes, his gaze steady. “I didn’t tell her the specifics,” he replied. “Just enough so she would understand.”
I said, “Well, discretion has never been your strong suit,” not caring now if Emily realized that I was suddenly furious.
Sounding unflappable, Tomlinson continued, “I figured it would be okay. So I explained that your truck broke down in Immokalee and a couple of the rednecks were giving you a hard time. But I didn’t mention the cops-or the drunken waitress at the barbecue place.”
Emily said, “What drunken waitress?” as I studied the man’s face in surprise, wondering how any human being could lie so effortlessly.
I exhaled a slow breath, very relieved. “It was an ugly scene,” I told Emily. “There was no reason to get you involved.”
I expected the lie to calm the woman. Instead, it made her madder. Emily put her hands on her hips and leaned toward me, saying, “No, the truth is, you thought your buddy and I had something going on that night. Didn’t you? Just because he answered my phone at one-thirty in the morning. That we both got stoned and jumped in the sack or something-like I’m some sort of easy tramp. That’s why you didn’t want me to help you. That’s why you’ve been avoiding both of us. Tell the truth, Doc.”
Glancing at Tomlinson, I did tell the truth. “It wouldn’t be the first time that it’s happened,” I said.
Smiling, Tomlinson was walking toward us. “I explained that to her, Doc,” he said. “I’m a sinner, God knows it, and now Emily knows it. But what you need to understand is that my premonition of fire almost came true. That’s why I was still there at Emily’s house. Trust me, she couldn’t get rid of me fast enough.”
The woman was protesting, “That’s not exactly true,” as Tomlinson continued, “Remember that old drawing I showed you, the woman falling into a wall of flames? I followed Emily back to her place just like you told me. Just as I was pulling away, she came running out, saying maybe she smelled smoke.”
To Emily I said, “Is he serious?”
The woman replied, “I told you about the house I own, out near Alva. It’s built of old Florida pine. It took us a while to figure it out, but one of my electrical breakers was bad, just starting to spark. If we’d gotten there a few minutes later, the whole place would have gone off like a bomb.”
“There’s nothing more calming than a bud of Captiva-grown weed,” Tomlinson added. “That’s what we were doing when you called. I was already shit-faced, of course, but her”-Tomlinson nodded his chin toward the woman-“she was as about as loose as a nun at a Viagra convention. Because I was there after midnight, though, I don’t blame Doc for assuming the worst. Later, I tried to explain to her why you don’t trust me and probably never will.”
To survive the awkward silence that followed, Tomlinson looked around, saw the waves, then focused on my new surfboard. “Very cool,” he said. “An eleven-six? Really sweet rockers.”
I was staring at the man, tempted to ask if he remembered what I’d said to him eleven nights earlier about trusting him with my life. Not actually say the words but just jog his memory in case he’d been too sloshed to remember.
Instead, I put my arm around Emily. It seemed a wiser, safer choice. As Tomlinson leaned to study the YOLO graphics, I touched my lips to the woman’s cheek, then suggested that we walk back to my stilt house, where I could apologize in private.
“But what about your new surfboard?” she asked, trying to look over her shoulder as we walked toward the sea oats that fringed the beach.
I replied, “Don’t worry, Tomlinson has it. Sooner or later, he would’ve taken it, anyway.”