Ethan interrupted. “Well, it wasn’t that old—”
“So I covered up with that before I went in.”
Ella Fitzgerald was curled up on one of the chaise lounges watching us intently. I swiveled around toward her and said, “Oh, and Ella, the man that owns the bookstore has a very handsome orange tabby named Cosmo. Maybe you’ll meet him one day.”
I always like to include Ella in the conversation. She hopped off the chaise and came padding over to the table. I’d prefer to think she was fascinated with my line of conversation and the prospect of making a new friend, but I think she was more interested in the grilled fish than anything else. She hopped up on her appointed chair and said, “Thrrrip?”
Michael said, “You’re not telling me Mr. Beezy is still there, are you?”
I shook my head. “No, he passed away years ago.”
“That’s too bad. I remember that old guy. He was cool.”
“Michael, you wouldn’t believe it—the store looks exactly the same as it did thirty years ago.”
Ethan reached over and gave Ella a couple of scratches under her chin. “It’s looked the same forever. That whole section of the street does. It’s all still owned by the same family that originally built it.”
Paco said, “You mean the Silverthorns?”
Ethan nodded. “Believe it or not. I know because my grandfather did some work for the Silverthorn family, and we still handle all the business permits and rental agreements for those shops along there.”
I’d never known any of the Silverthorns personally, but I had grown up hearing the name, and I certainly knew the Silverthorn Mansion. It was one of the last remnants of old Siesta Key, when wealthy land barons had bought up most of the beachfront property and built summer homes here.
The Silverthorn Mansion was at the bottom of the Key, at the end of a long, narrow strip of sandy soil that now forms the southern part of Midnight Pass. The story is that it had originally stood in the center of a vast country estate in England, and that Mrs. Silverthorn, heir to her family’s vast railroad empire, had it dismantled, shipped across the Atlantic, and put back together like a jigsaw puzzle. It was a surprise for her new husband, a third cousin from a not so wealthy limb of the family tree whose last name was also Silverthorn, which of course only served to make the whole Silverthorn family all the more exotic and mysterious.
By the time I came around, the mansion had already become a landmark for us kids. The railroad industry had taken a dive, and the family’s fortune had been divided among its heirs and then divided again, so the Silverthorns barely had enough money to keep the mansion from crumbling down around them. Most of us believed it was haunted, and the fact that it had fallen into such disrepair strengthened that notion. We made up stories about missing children locked away inside to scare each other, and at least once a year one of us would declare that we planned to sneak in that very night and explore every inch of it. Of course, we never did.
I remembered playing along the beach down below the house, in the days when we were free to roam around the island without having to worry about crossing onto private beaches. There was rarely more than one light on in the entire place, and we always said it was because they could only afford one lightbulb.
Ethan said, “I probably shouldn’t say, but it’s actually a huge tragedy. Just about every penny they make from their rental properties goes to pay their land taxes, and Mrs. Silverthorn refuses to sell off any of it. She’s pretty eccentric. People call her the ‘cat lady.’ I’ve heard that mansion is filled with hundreds of cats. And all our business is either through the mail or over the phone. If I need something signed, I have to mail it to her. She won’t let anybody on the property.”
Just then Ella perked up and said, “Mrrrap!” She was probably reminding us that fish is a well-known favorite among many feline species, but she knows not to push it. If she sits quietly, paws off the table, she can stay in her seat and watch. If she’s really good, there might be a reward in her bowl later.
I was just about to tell Michael more about the gardening book when I heard my cell phone ringing upstairs. I’d left the French doors to my apartment open, and I could hear its familiar ring mixed with the chorus of crickets that had risen up since we’d started eating.
Michael raised an eyebrow as he refilled my wineglass. “Don’t you dare.”
We all sat and ignored the ringing, even Ella. I’d like to say that we have an unspoken rule about not answering phone calls during dinner, but since my cell phone is constantly ringing with new jobs or traveling clients calling to see how their pets are doing, the rule has to be spoken just about every time we sit down at the table. It’s mostly because of Michael that we still follow it, a remnant of one of the few domestic rules our mother established. I pretend to be against it, but I’m really not. It helps keep dinnertime sacred and reminds us that family, no matter what shape it takes, always comes first.
* * *
Later that evening, I was sitting in bed with Ethan. He was leaning back on a couple of fluffy pillows, and I was leaning back on his chest. He was gently massaging my neck with one hand while flipping through one of the manly, outdoorsy-type magazines he subscribes to with the other. This one was Backpacker Magazine. As far as I’m concerned, it’s a miracle they can even fill one issue, but apparently he gets them every month.
I’d always just had one bedside table and lamp, but now I’d added another one on the side closest to the door. That was Ethan’s side. I need to sleep nearest the wall—don’t ask why. I wasn’t sure if he was spending the night yet, and probably he wasn’t sure either. Our cohabitation schedule was still evolving. We were at that tricky point in a relationship where it feels dangerous to spell things out clearly, where doing or saying anything to acknowledge the fact that you’re spending every free minute together might somehow jinx it.
For the time being, things just kind of happened on their own. Sometimes Ethan would stay the night with me, and sometimes he’d go home, especially if he needed to be at work early. He’s an attorney. His practice is in the same sand-softened stucco building his grandfather’s practice was in, which is just a ten-minute walk from his apartment near the center of town.
I had just unwrapped my new book and was about to open it up when Ethan said, “So…” and then fell silent.
I waited, but it didn’t seem like there was more. I said, “So … what?”
His eyes still on the magazine, he said, “So … J. P. Guidry. What did his letter say?”
I’d almost forgotten. The letter. I suddenly felt a wave of sleepiness wash over me. “Yeah … I didn’t open it yet.”
He was quiet for a moment and then said, “Okay.”
“It’s probably nothing…”
“Mmm-hmm.”
Then I must have fallen asleep, because the next thing I knew it was five thirty in the morning, my radio alarm was going off, and Ethan was nowhere to be seen.
6
J. P. Guidry.
Just seeing his name on that envelope had made my heart stumble. There was a time, and not in the very distant past, when just the thought of Guidry would have sent tiny vibrations of pleasure through my entire body, but so much had happened since then that now … Well, I had no idea what it made me feel … except confused.
I opened up my French doors and inhaled the cool, briny air, letting it fill my lungs completely. It was still way before sunrise. There was just a hint of light breaking above the horizon on the bay side, but the moon was so bright the whole beach looked as if it were lit with hidden blue floodlights. The birds were still sleeping, so the only thing I could hear was the sad sound the waves made as they lapped up on the shore down below. I leaned against the railing and looked out over the courtyard.