A part of me was indignant, a part of me understood. I could not deny a secret empathy for two people in love who had dealt as best they could with life’s obligations and a tragic run of bad timing.
The longing in my mother’s words came back: I don’t regret a single moment I spent with Harney Chatham… only the times I said no out of conscience. All those lost hours of happiness we could have shared!
Inevitably, my situation with Kermit took advantage of what I knew was a sly ingress. I heard his voice saying,… it’s the feeling I got when I first saw you… I’ve never done anything like this before… If things were different at home, maybe…
Kermit’s wife hated Florida. She hated bugs, and boats, and the water. Sarah had told me that.
After another flip turn, and a long dolphining glide, Kermit was repeating to me, in a whisper, You are so damn beautiful, and not in the typical… way…
This cleared my head for a moment, because I knew better. If I were beautiful, I would not be wearing a black, plus-size Speedo to disguise the extra weight I carried in too many wrong places. Nor would I have spent last night-yet another Saturday-alone on my boat, researching the history of rootstock and the citrus industry.
Why did I even care? I had kissed a married man… and had let it go too far. So what! At this instant, all around the world, people were probably kissing like mad, indifferent to silly rules about when to kiss and why, particularly in Europe (or so I’d read), where men and women, married or not, kissed as a matter of common courtesy-even on the streets, where everyone could see. No wonder Loretta and Mr. Chatham had snuck off to Paris to kiss themselves crazy without all the damn guilt they’d suffered here in the prudish boondocks of Florida.
After eight hundred yards, I stopped, adjusted my goggles, and consulted my workout sheet.
“Beautiful day, even if it is getting chilly,” a lifeguard said on his way to the office. “I hear a big cold front’s coming.”
“They might think it’s a beautiful day in France,” I replied with a surliness that was undeserved. After that, I began a series of middle-distance reps, but started much too fast. Soon I was plodding along-this time, my mind on Sarah. The ten-year-old who drew sad stick figures was now homeless to boot. Of course, I would discuss whatever business her father had on his mind. The poor man was desperate to care for his family after being locked out of the home that had been provided them by…
Locked out.
The term jolted me. It echoed and banged around in my head until the particulars fell into place. Only then did I remember Kermit saying he had been locked out of the house, and his office, too.
I snapped a flip turn and sprinted to the wall as my final lap. I gathered my belongings, pulled a towel around me for warmth, and hurried to the locker room to change. It is rare for me to quit in the middle of a workout, but I suddenly knew-no, I suspected-who had mentioned my name while hiring an unstable fishing guide to search for oranges.
If Lonnie Chatham had locked Kermit out of his office, she now had possession of his files! Quite possibly they included his notes regarding a theory about the original Spanish rootstock.
From my SUV, I called Kermit but got voice mail. “Give me a call back,” I said. “I should be home by seven-if that’s still in your plans.”
It was a bold stroke that made me bolder. I called Reggie. He was at his cottage, he said, waxing the Lincoln. “Every Sunday afternoon, if I’m not driving, it’s what I do. Why you ask?”
“Would you mind some company? I can stop on the way and bring food. Oh-and I need Lonnie’s cell number, if you have it. I think she wanted to charter my boat but changed her mind for some reason.”
After a silence, he replied, “That woman don’t fish for nothing unless it wears pants, and it’s too cold to fish anyway. What’s wrong, makes you want to speak with her?”
“That’s what I need to find out. Do you know a man named Sabin Martinez?”
“’Course I do, but I ain’t seen him in near a month. I can’t say why that’s a worry to me… or maybe Beano paid a visit to you and your ma. Is that what happened? I’d be pleased if he paid you a call.”
“You call him Beano?”
“Twenty years or more, that’s what the governor called him. Sabe, sometimes, but Bin don’t fit the man. As a chauffeur, of course, I’ve got to be more formal. Call him Captain Martinez, or Mr. sometimes, depends on the formality of the situation. Reckon you’d sound happier, Miz Hannah, if Beano had spoken to you. But wait… he must’a, ’cause how else you know his name?”
“Was he supposed to stop by your place? He strikes me as the type who travels a lot.” This confused the chauffeur, so I explained, “It worries you, you said, not seeing him for a while. We can talk about it-I’ll pick up some barbecue on the way. Or would you prefer I make sandwiches?”
Before we hung up, I reminded him, “How about Lonnie’s number?”
“The woman don’t speak to me unless she needs something or wants to holler about how useless I am. You could try the house, I suppose.”
“Stop by and see her, you mean?” The Chatham ranch was only a mile or two out of the way.
“I wouldn’t advise no person to do that-not on a Sunday. You got something to write with? I’ll give you the private number to the house.”
SIXTEEN
Double-wing gates were open beneath the wrought iron crest of Chatham’s Triple C Ranch. I hadn’t planned on turning into the drive, but I did. It was one of those snap decisions that requires a certain stubbornness of mood. Anger helped. Lonnie Chatham had told Kermit she wanted to speak with me. Fine. I’d tried to call-no answer, no message machine-so here I was.
I went through a rehearsal, while the asphalt lane wandered between mossy oaks and pasture where horses grazed, a mahogany-stained barn in the distance. Aloof and professional, I pictured myself, impervious to insults, or snubs, and all other childish behavior. I was here as a professional courtesy, after all. Did she want to charter my boat? I saw myself baiting the woman by offering the names of competent guides, then counseling her, It’s wise to be careful. The fact that a person owns a boat doesn’t guarantee a satisfying day on the water.
No… the word satisfying was out. There were too many connotations to satisfying that might lead the conversation into awkward areas. For more than thirty years, Loretta and Mr. Chatham had kept their affair secret, but there was no telling what kind of snooping Lonnie had done since the man’s death. What if she knew? How would she react when she saw me, Loretta’s daughter? How would I handle it?
Calmly. Business-like. The ex-cheerleader could make a fool of herself if she wanted, but I would remain unshakeable.
The fact that the ex-cheerleader might also be guilty of murdering a football player named Raymond Caldwell was something I didn’t want to factor in. The thought was in my mind, though, when the drive broadened into a circle. Ahead was a long carport for guest parking, but it was empty. To my right was the barn. It was sided with beveled cypress. The wood glistened like amber beneath a gambrel roof of copper sheathing. Pasture, defined by a mile of painted fence, spread away toward the Peace River, where water sparkled beneath the shade of trees and Spanish moss.
This wasn’t just a working ranch. It was an estate built for entertaining millionaires.
My confidence stumbled. I parked anyway and followed a path, lined with scarlet bougainvillea, past a tennis court, to the main house. It was a three-story mansion, built of timbers, with balconies and skylights and high, wooded walkways, so life could be lived inside or out. The mark of Harney Chatham was in all the Western rodeo detaiclass="underline" branding irons and ornate terra-cotta tiles; the main entrance was a set of massive timber doors; there was a doorbell, and also a heavy horseshoe knocker.