He looked again to the barn. Had his son Andy been up? No, probably not. Andy was sensitive, like his mother. After what had happened to his old man, he would think twice before coming up here. In all, six people had died. That’s right, Schmidt thought. Before Andy walks into the hardware or the Dew Drop Tavern, he’ll think twice.
It didn’t concern him. Schmidt shoved through knee-high snow, glad for the roof he had put over the front entry in ’96. He stepped under, stamped, and pulled open the screen. He used his key, then pushed in.
The smell of mothballs and pine sap greeted him as he closed the door. Dim evening light came from the glass door wall at the back. It was cold—he could see his breath—but he peeled off his parka and hung it on the coat tree. As he had thousands of times over four decades, Schmidt crossed the pine-plank floor to the leather couch. He glanced at the stone hearth. Seeing familiar things in the dark was like touching or blessing them. Bringing them back to life.
He stepped into the kitchen, sat at the table and looked out. Blue and black filled the glass. The deep snow gave his property an altered relation to the lake beyond. The slope swept down to the lake, which spread across to the Canadian shore.
A long drive, twelve hours. Don’t push it, Schmidt thought. It was a consideration now, overdoing. A concern not so much out of fear of death as from a sense of what he wouldn’t get to see or do. The trick lay in finding a middle ground between too much caution and too little. You want to live, Schmidt thought. To stick around for your grandchildren. And for Brenda.
She’d been here just once, as a gesture to signal she thought they could get through what had happened. It was the morning before she drove Tina back to Milwaukee.
Schmidt saw himself opening the door for her. She hesitated before stepping past him, and he watched as she glanced up at the old wagon wheel light fixture. She crossed then to look in the bedrooms on the left. She didn’t linger, and not looking at him, she turned and slowly crossed the floor. As Schmidt stood in the entry, she seemed to listen as she walked. She stopped before the open entry of the room he and Lillie had slept in.
He remembered the silence getting to him. He had wanted words, some indication from her that coming here did not now seem a mistake. Finally she turned to him.
I like it. It’s you.
How so?
It just feels like you. The floor’s firm underfoot. The whole place feels quiet. Solid.
With the Pursuit’s twin throttles shoved all the way forward, Rivera had Burlson’s boat planing parallel to the beach. He stood on the flying bridge feeling the wind. Hotels and condo towers rose against the night sky along Gulf Shore Boulevard. A good day, he thought. And a very good boat. A forty-footer with twin Volvo diesels.
◆◆◆◆◆
They had spent the morning offshore between Naples and Marco Island. Burlson had caught and thrown back some Spanish mackerel, then three nice redfish on brown Redfish Candy flies. At noon, Rivera made sandwiches, pastrami and Swiss on pumpernickel, with lots of Russian dressing. That’s how Mr. B liked them. Then Burlson had gone below for his nap. He always watched the stock-market channel, talking to himself about this stock or that futures contract until he nodded off.
During the nap, Rivera used the sea anchor, and read. Today’s book had been Straight from the Gut by Jack Welch, the retired CEO of General Electric. He’s a legend, Kleinman had said. You should read his story. A lot of Rivera’s clients recommended things he should read. Books expressing their conservative opinions on business, taxes, race. They didn’t talk with their Mexican gardeners or Haitian maids. Because they couldn’t.
He was different. Now and then on a street in Naples, he met someone from Immokalee and spoke Spanish. What he saw on the faces of passing whites was suspicion, even mild fear. But moments later, hearing him speaking perfect English with one of his clients outside a broker’s office or restaurant, those same passersby would not recognize him as the same person.
A little after three, Burlson had come up to fish again. In the next two hours, he caught a dozen gag grouper and mangrove snapper. We’re on a roll, he said. Take us up to Naples Pier. As they drifted in close, Mr. B had used the last of the bait shrimp. He had caught two pompano, both keepers. Perfect, he said, drinking vodka and tonic as Rivera filleted the two fish. That’s dinner. You can serve it up to me with a nice Pinot noir. By then the sun was setting, but Burlson had not been willing to give up the day. Take her up to Pelican Bay, he said.
◆◆◆◆◆
Rivera slowed, then put the engines in neutral. The Pursuit rose and fell in gentle swells creased by moonlight. The sky was now deep blue, the beach a ghostly white.
“Stop right here.” He reversed the engines, then put them in neutral again. “Look at that skyline,” Burlson said. Seated next to Rivera on the flying bridge, the old man was clearly exhausted after a long day on the water. He shook his head. “Look at that,” he said again. “Unbelievable.”
“Yes, sir, it’s really something.”
After a moment, Burlson pointed to shore. “There it is,” he said. “Le Bonheur. Betty had to tell me what it meant. It’s French for happiness. Good fortune. But there’s a problem, and you know what it is.”
He did know: Burlson talked about it when he drank.
