the years. The feeling that there were things in life that were out of his reach, no matter how badly he wanted them. It created an emptiness in him…then anger. A woman who looked like this would never come to him willingly. Was that fair? No. Did he have a right to resent it? Yes.
One way to deal with the feeling was to go ahead and
It was justifiable, as long as he didn’t overdo it—which had happened only twice, both mistakes recent, both here in Florida. Both times, buying garbage bags at convenience stores afterward, then driving half the night to a place he knew was safe.
For an instant, images moved through Bern’s mind: a white hand sinking into a fifty-gallon drum, a small shape in fetal position, the diesel machinations of burying an object beneath fill dirt. A redhead was next, only a month later…
He shook himself.
Think positive.
He replaced the image with another, and immediately felt better because picking a woman, getting her alone, and taking her was okay.
Planning was good. Exactly what he
There was a word for
None of his women had the haunting, gaunt beauty of this one.
Her lips, God. In those days, the lips had to be real, not all shot up with plastic crap. Full lips, so sensual.
The feeling the woman in the photograph gave him…
Okay…so what if she was an old hag by now? If she wasn’t already dead, it didn’t matter. A woman like this, even in her seventies, he’d do it. Just to touch her…check out where things used to be, get his skin on her—like visiting a museum!
Plan it. That’s what he should do. Somewhere in the briefcase, there had to be a clue to her identity. The old man didn’t do anything by accident. He’d put her photo on top of the pile for a reason.
There were lots of papers, most in German. Maybe she was mentioned. Or in the old man’s leather-bound journal, handwritten, the last entry dated October 18, 1944, also in German. Augie spoke the language. He could get Augie to translate, maybe—the kid was scared shitless of him now.
Or…he could call his grandfather’s personal assistant, Jason Goddard. The man smelled of mothballs, but he had a brain that filed details away like evidence. Jason might know the woman’s name, if she was still alive. Even if he didn’t, what the hell?
Just trying to find out who she was made her seem more real when he imagined how it would be: Putting his hands on her. Taking her. Covering those amazing lips with his mouth as he stripped her clothes off. Do it better than his grandfather ever could’ve, much better, harder, too.
Make her old body bounce like a young girl!—punishment for allowing an animal like the old man to touch her.
Punish. That was another word that fit. In Bern, it helped the swelling sort of feeling last.
13
SE wind freshening. Excellent day for collecting…
Because Tomlinson was in a happier mood, and because he asked, I told him, “I’m supposed to see Chestra again tonight. She lied about why she’s interested in the wreck. I called her on it. I thought she’d be offended; instead, she got a kick out of it. She said she’d tell me the real story, if I came back.”
“She lied?”
“Well…she didn’t actually lie, she just didn’t tell the truth. I was going to leave—it was after eleven. I wasn’t mad—what do I care?—but then she offered to play something on the piano.”
We were on the lower deck of my stilt house, standing near a five-hundred-gallon wooden tank made from a cistern similar to the one I use for showering. I’d sawed it in half, sealed the wooden staves, then added pumps and a complicated filtration system. The tank is roomy, the water deep and clear, so it’s a good place to keep fish, delicate tunicates, sea urchins, sea stars, bivalves, and other marine creatures I gather during collecting trips.
I was transferring specimens now, using a dip net, taking them from my boat’s live well. I’d been on the flats, collecting, taking advantage of the powerful new moon low tide to restock my aquaria. The wind was howling, but there were protected places in the backcountry to anchor, and wade with a bucket and cast net.
Tomlinson watched as I returned to my boat, saying, “I told her I’d drop by after nine, no special time. Have a drink, listen to what she has to say, then I’m out of there. Are you okay with that?”
“Okay with what?”
I said, “You know. No matter what a guy says, it’s poison to spend time alone with his girlfriend.”
“Chessie and I, we’re not a boyfriend-girlfriend thing, man. I already told you. We talk, we dance. That’s all. Go as long as you want, stay as late as you want.”
Boyfriend, girlfriend—talking as if we were in high school.
I said, “I’m not going there as her date, I want to be clear about that. It’s about the wreck—she’s offered to pay Jeth and Javier. A woman her age? It should be obvious that it’s just not…It would be nutty.”
Tomlinson grinned. “Whoa there, daddy-o, you thought
I was tempted to tell him, Yeah, but you’re not as shallow as me. Instead, I said, “Daddy-o?”
He continued to grin, and made a calming motion with his hands. “Chill, man, because it’s cool, very cool. She played some tunes for you? She sang? I dig listening to the lady weave her spell.”
Yes, Chessie Engle had played. When she offered, I’d agreed out of politeness. At a party, when someone comes into the room with a guitar, or sits at the piano, I bolt for the nearest door. I dread that feeling of being trapped by social protocol. I’d heard her music from the beach. It was eloquent and professional, but it was nearly midnight, and I wanted to get back to the marina.
I figured I would stay for one song.
I didn’t get home until after one.
I told Tomlinson, Yes, she performed, and then tried to describe the experience. “I had no idea. At the piano, she’s…And her
I couldn’t find the words, so he provided them. “She’s a superb musician. She has the tonal confidence of a young woman, but a very old soul. Her vocals go right through the heart into bone—haunting. Chestra is haunting.”
I agreed, but additional praise seemed pointless. I didn’t expect her to be that good. I don’t expect
It puzzled Tomlinson, too. His tone was guarded. “It’s interesting, man, the way you phrased that: How could a woman with that much talent remain unknown?
“The first time I heard her play, I did what everyone does when they stumble on a genuinely gifted artist. I searched for comparisons. Laura Nyro, Norah Jones, Joni Mitchell before cigarettes destroyed that beautiful instrument of hers. She’s their equal in every way, but comparisons don’t work because they’re all originals, Chessie
