I stopped a moment. “Tell you what, let’s jump over the puddle instead of jumping into it.”
Kim grinned and said, “Okay, on your mark … get set … go!” We ran and jumped over the puddle like two school kids caught in the rain. She laughed. “If I didn’t have any customers, we could play in the rain.”
We huddled under the umbrella and walked inside the Tiki Bar. A retired charter boat captain who resembled Willie Nelson, perched on a stool with his back to the bar, watching us and grinning through salt and pepper whiskers. He said, “Ya’ll don’t have ‘nough sense to come outta the pouring rain.” He chuckled and shook his head, reaching for a can of Miller, draining the last few sips. “Ya’ll look like look like dizzy ducks out there. When I was a young man, I did that stuff. One more for the road, Miss Kimberly.” He turned around and stared at his reflection in the smoked-glass mirror behind the bar, his thoughts in the lost-and-found box of his youth.
Kim walked behind the bar and reached for two white towels, tossing one to me. She dried her arms and face, her skin looking fresh-scrubbed, hair damp, smile radiant. “Sean, you want something to eat or drink?”
I started to answer when the retired captain asked, “Kim, where’s your remote control for the TV? The news has a story on about Senator Logan’s visit to Florida.” Kim lifted the remote from the center of the bar and turned up the sound.
A reporter stood in The Villages town square and said, “Republican front-runner, Senator Lloyd Logan seemed to make quite an impression on the crowd here today. He spoke of reigning in government spending and his five-point plan to balance the federal budget in three years.” The video cut to a sound bite with Senator Logan emphasizing his approach to fiscal spending, and then cut back to the reporter. “Senator Logan, of course, came to The Villages seeking support and a large campaign contribution. It’s believed that he received both. However, the Senator got something he wasn’t expecting. Apparently, almost the entire time Logan spoke and worked the crowd, his wife, Andrea Logan, was inside a nearby coffee shop working out something with an unidentified man. Video shot by a customer on his iPhone, video that’s going viral on the Internet, shows Andrea Logan crying as she’s talking with the man at a table. She reaches out and holds his hand for about thirty seconds, and then upon leaving, she is seen touching his cheek, kissing him on the cheek, and embracing him in a long hug just before her husband enters the coffee shop.”
As the reporter talked, the story cut to video of Andrea and me at the table. Innocent as it was, the visuals, with no narration, looked suspicious at best, and at worst, it was like former lovers meeting and returning to a place and time where it all went away.
The reporter concluded by saying, “No one in the Logan camp is saying what the coffee shop incident was all about. The mysterious tall man, with what one spectator called ‘movie star good looks,’ remains unidentified, something Logan’s Republican opponents for the nomination would, no doubt, like to know. From The Villages, this is Chris Bellum, Channel Three News.”
Kim turned to me, eyes wide, face confused, disbelieving. “Sean, what was that? You’re in a Starbucks with the wife of Senator Logan bawling her eyes out and hanging onto you like you were her old boyfriend.”
“I was.”
“What?”
“It’s a long story, Kim.” I glanced toward the captain at the bar, his mouth partially open, a can of Miller dripping condensation from his large, weather-scarred hand. “And it’s a private story.”
“Private? Sean, it’s all over the news. The reporter said the video is going viral. You just got yourself in the middle of a nasty political campaign. For what? Senator Logan’s wife was your old girlfriend… wow.”
I said nothing, the sound of rain beating against the palm fronds outside.
She said, “Look, I’m sorry. It’s none of my business. It’s just so weird, so unexpected.”
“I’d better go find Max.” I started for the door leading to the docks.
“Sean …”
I didn’t turn around. As I opened the door, I heard the old captain say, “Bet you don’t dance with him in the puddles again.”
I stepped out into a soft rain, the marina drenched in a subdued bluish-gray world, the tops of sailboat masts lost in the mist. I turned my collar up and walked down the dock, watching the raindrops splatter off the creosote-stained wooden planks. The bowlines on the boats moaned, protesting the slow lift on the shoulders of a rising tide. I stepped through the cold rain toward Jupiter, which now felt a hundred miles away.
26
By the time it took me to walk to the end of Dock L, the rain was slacking. I stepped onto Nick’s boat, St. Michael, and tapped on the sliding-glass door between the cockpit and the salon. Nick opened the door, Max at his feet. “Sean, you picked a great time to take a stroll through the marina. C’mon inside. Lemme get you a towel.”
Max sniffed my damp shoes, stared at me and cocked her head with a look that said: Don’t you have enough sense to get out of the rain? Then her tail danced. Nick tossed a towel to me. “You just gettin’ back from The Villages?”
“I drove slowly. Had a lot to think about.” I dried off as my phone rang.
Dave Collins said, “I saw an aberration board Nick’s boat. It looked a little bit like you, Sean. I just watched the story on Channel Three, hell it’s on the cable news networks, too. Stay put. If you feel up to talking about it, I’ll be right over.”
“There’s not much to say.”
“Then I won’t stay long.”
Dave disconnected and I dropped my phone back in my pocket, bent down and picked up Max. She licked one side of my face and then stared through the glass door, watching Dave amble across the dock, an umbrella in one hand, a bottle of Jameson in the other.
I set Max down and handed Nick the towel. He asked, “Want some dry clothes? You’re taller than me, but I got some sweats that ought to fit you.”
“I appreciate the offer, but I’ll be heading over to Jupiter in a few minutes.”
Dave opened the door, closed the umbrella, and said, “Welcome back from the big V.” He stepped over to the salon bar and settled on one of the three stools. “Nick, can I trouble you for three glasses and some ice? I believe Sean could use a drink, and after he tells us why his meeting with the wife of Senator Lloyd Logan set her off into tears, followed by hugs and kisses, we might need a drink, too.”
Nick reached for glasses and ice. “What are you talkin’ about?”
“The latest YouTube video to go viral, starring our good friend, Sean O’Brien. Sean, what the hell happened? You went to a political rally and caused a political firestorm.”
Dave and Nick sipped the Irish whiskey as I told them the story. Neither saying a word until I had finished. Dave swirled the ice in his glass, looked out the window at the rain falling over the marina, and then cut his eyes to mine. “You think this daughter you conceived with the woman who might be the next first lady is Courtney Burke?”
“I don’t know.”
Nick blew out a long breath. “Maybe Pandora’s Box won’t get completely opened and this’ll all blow over.”
Dave said, “Pandora’s Box is open, and there’s no getting that prophetic genie back in the bottle. Sean, we’re your marina mates and the closest thing you have to a band of brothers, let’s assess the situation. Hypothetically, if Andrea tells her husband how she and you are connected, if they believe there is the possibility of Courtney Burke’s identity being related back to Andrea, there will be trouble, no doubt about it. Although Courtney is innocent until proven guilty, this is a presidential election year, and all bets are off the table of due process. Your background alone, even without the premise of a daughter between you and Andrea Logan, would be fodder for the media and Logan’s opponents. You have enough surreptitious baggage to keep Fox News and CNN speculating for days.”