“Are you sure?” I asked, already knowing there was no way Patti would have missed him. We were regulars, and she always made time for a chat, never failing to comment on Jack’s “ridiculously gorgeous” accent that reminded her of her long-deceased grandfather, another real gentleman, and one she remembered fondly. There was no doubt if Jack had been at the restaurant this morning, she’d know.
After I hung up, I phoned the place where he worked. No answer. My brow furrowed again as I tried Jack’s cell once more, listening to the standard factory voice-mail message he’d never bothered to personalize. We weren’t the kind of couple to live in each other’s pockets. Both of us gave one another, and ourselves, enough space to breathe while enjoying every moment we spent together, but I knew Jack. Something was wrong.
I couldn’t hang around in my apartment any longer. At the risk of him making fun of my paranoia, I grabbed my jacket, keys and bag, and dashed outside. With a cough and splutter, the on-the-verge-of-death engine of my old Chevrolet gained a little more self-confidence when I backed out of the driveway and headed toward the center of town.
The most direct route to Jack’s place took me past Patti’s, and I stopped the car outside regardless, craning my neck. All the tables were taken, and while the line of weather-braving, hungry brunchers huddled under the ruby awning was only two rows deep, there was no sign of Jack, or the truck, anywhere.
I set off again, turned left on Marina Road to his apartment. Fat raindrops splattered against my windshield, making me go slower despite my impulses ordering me to put my foot down. Judging by the empty streets, most of the town’s few thousand souls had decided to wait out the storm in the comfort of their homes. That was Brookmount—sensible and quiet. Even at the height of summer, most tourists wouldn’t venture down this way, preferring the fun-filled attractions Ocean City had to offer. The mentality suited Jack and me fine. We’d found our separate ways here because we’d needed a change and had tacitly agreed not to push each other for too many details. In my experience, people always had a couple of ghosts in their past, skeletons in closets best nailed shut.
I focused on the road, slowed down some more when I passed what had now officially become Jack’s prior workplace. Maybe he hadn’t been able to finish the job last night after all, and had returned this morning, but my theory didn’t add up. First, he’d have called me, or picked up their phone. Second, his truck wasn’t parked in the front or at the back. Third, all the lights were off, and—although I didn’t need a fourth—the red-and-white Open sign had been turned to Closed.
The fearful, panicking voice in my head, the one I’d attempted yet failed to silence, whispered he’d gone to the beach last night. For a swim. I pushed the thought away, trying to shut it up, but it ignored my efforts, bounding around my mind like a bunny on speed. “He’s fine,” I said out loud, startling myself. The words did nothing to placate my trembling fingers, or stop the hairs on the back of my neck from standing sentry and sending freezing shivers down my spine.
A few minutes later I arrived at Jack’s place, the last house on Bay Court, where he rented the apartment above a double garage. Sam owned the house on the other side of the large driveway and was a veteran pharmaceuticals sales rep, often gone weeks at a time. The testament to his successful career—a bright yellow Porsche—was the only vehicle parked outside. I got out of my pathetic excuse for a car, held my jacket over my head in a pointless attempt to avoid the steady downpour and sprinted up the wooden steps to Jack’s front door, where I rattled the handle. Locked. I banged on the glass.
“Jack? Are you home?”
I knocked another few times, waited awhile for a reply in case he was in the shower. I so desperately wanted to hear him in the hallway, imagined him with sopping wet hair, a towel wrapped around his trim waist, and muttering something like, “All right, all right, mate, keep your hair on.” He’d open the door and I’d fling my arms around him, then take a step back, put my hands on my hips and ask if he had any idea how worried I’d been. The imminent feeling of relief made me hold my breath, but when there was still no answer, I had to let it go.
Forced to concede Jack being in his apartment when the truck wasn’t there made no sense, I nonetheless invented stories. Maybe Sam had borrowed it. Unlikely, considering Jack had both sets of keys. Perhaps the Ford had broken down and Jack had got a ride home, or he’d parked the truck down the street for some reason, and I’d missed it when I’d driven by. Whatever the case, in all these scenarios Jack was inside either taking a shower, or fast asleep. I knocked again, cupping my hands against the frosted glass, peering inside and calling out Jack’s name, but the place remained dark and silent.
I thundered down the stairs and ran to Sam’s oversize front door, where I pressed my finger on the buzzer. I didn’t let go until Sam stood in front of me dressed in red-and-blue-striped pajamas, his thick white hair sticking up like fuzzy antlers above his temples.
“Hey, Lily,” he said as he rubbed his eyes, his yawn turning into a smile. Sam was always happy to see me. He’d once told me I reminded him of his daughter who’d moved to Los Angeles a few years ago. When I’d mentioned
