“Yeah, I thought of the same thing.”
“Okay. Good sign that we aren’t crazy. So be safe.”
“I will. Thanks for everything.”
We hang up, and I stay lost in thought until I reach Ness’s estate. I allow myself to daydream about the shelling ahead, the access I may have to raw beaches, the fact that Ness told me to bring a wetsuit and my snorkel gear.
What I try not to do is allow myself to think of Ness as a regular guy, as a man my age. Being taken on a tour of—whatever he has planned for this week—excites the sheller in me far more than the journalist. I remind myself that this person has an ugly history, that he’s the face of one of the companies I blame for the encroaching sea. I also remind myself of the exquisite fake shells and whatever it is they portend. And as I reach the edge of his estate, I let his misplaced palm trees remind me that all with Mr. Wilde is not as it seems. That his outer shell is not to be trusted.
The guard at the first gate smiles at me in recognition. He tips his hat and “ma’ams” me as I hand him my ID. After jotting something on his tablet, he leans out of his booth, peers down the driveway toward the estate, and whispers something into his radio. He nods at some inaudible reply. “Just one second,” he tells me.
This is different. I wonder if maybe someone is coming out to meet me.
I tap my fingers on the steering wheel and wait.
I lower the visor and check myself in the mirror.
I pull out my phone to see if there’s anything urgent in my inbox.
“Okay,” the guard eventually says. He hands me my driver’s license and press pass, and the tall iron gate swings open in greased silence.
I enjoy the long driveway this time, because it holds no surprises. I leave the windows down and take in the smell of moss and mulch, search the air for that sea breeze, watch out for any stray coconuts. The car chews up the road, and I try not to think of what the gravel is made of. Racing along, the back end of the car sliding with each small adjustment of the steering wheel, I enjoy this feeling of being on edge. This dangerous place. Here is where time slows down, where we can take it all in, where life becomes digestible, each moment new and therefore able to be savored.
Trees that don’t belong whiz by. The bent trunks of palms. Whoosh, whoosh, whoosh. Bright birds flit across the road, searching for bugs and worms. And then I notice that the air is dusty, that I’m entering a fog, but it’s just a plume kicked up by a vehicle ahead. I roll the windows up to keep the dust out. As it thickens, I ease off the accelerator in case the other car is going slow. I watch for taillights, wonder if I’m overtaking one of the guards who works the inner gate. It’s a little after five. Might be when they change shifts.
And then I break through the dust cloud and back into clear air. Checking the rearview mirror for a car on the shoulder, I see nothing. I almost let the mystery pass—almost think nothing of it—but I find myself braking to a dead stop. The dust kicked up by my car trails after and swirls around me. I hesitate for a moment before deciding to throw the car into reverse to go back and investigate.
The road is still choked with the thick plume my car stirred. I stop where I think I broke into clear air. There isn’t room on the shoulder to park, so I hit the hazards and leave the car in the center of the narrow drive. I let the dust settle before stepping out.
There is a breeze, the scent of pine and salt air. Leaves whisper against one another, and I think I can hear the distant crash of the sea, but it could just be wind chasing wind through the branches, or the rustling together of palm fronds.
“Hello?” I call out.
The silence that answers makes me feel silly, makes me want to scurry back to my car and keep driving. I walk along the road instead, and my eyes are drawn to the gravel, to the crushed shells. I’m reminded of the meandering swath of shells that used to lie along the tideline at the beach where I grew up. I remember crawling along that path, even years after I could walk, searching for the rare intact jewel that everyone else had overlooked. Hard not to do that here—like the impulse to search a field of clover for that one mutant with four leaves—
My fixation on the road is the only reason I spot it: a place where the shells spill onto the shoulder. Bits of white and pink mix with the mulch and the sparse grass. The dust has cleared from the air. I search up and down the long drive, but it’s just me, my car, the trees, and the soft wind.
The grass is flattened in places. Tire treads. They head into the woods, though there is no drive marked here. Just mulch, a gap in the undergrowth, and enough space between two trees for a car to squeeze through. Peering deeper into the woods, I see a black gate. There’s a keypad beside it, glittering in the wan light filtering through the canopy above. I start into the woods, want to explore further, when the cry of a bird jolts my senses, and the darkening hour reminds me that I am expected elsewhere.
Torn and reluctant—duty overpowers my curiosity, and I hurry back to the car. Its red hazard lights throb a mild warning to no one. As I pull away, the double guard gates finally make sense. Whoever comes through the outer gate has access to this hidden drive but not to the house. For all the sense of mystery, I’m certain I’ve just discovered the rear entrance for the estate’s help, which grounds like these invariably have. An access road for the gardeners, the arborists, the housekeepers. I decide to ask the next guard if this is the case. It’s a dumb detail, but I’ll feel proud for having deduced it all on my own, just from a disappearing trail of dust and little more.
The young guard from my previous visit is manning the inner gate. He steps out of his small booth and holds out a flat palm, signaling me to stop. As if I would bash through his bright blue steel bar if he weren’t there to warn me. I have my info ready, including my registration, but he doesn’t ask for these. Just asks if I’m okay.
“Uh… yeah,” I say. “I guess.”
The guard frowns at me. “No car troubles?” he asks.
“No.” I shake my head.
“It’s just that—” He rests his forearms on the roof of my car, leans his head down close. “You checked through the outer gate quite some time ago, is all.”
I can smell the coffee on his breath. “Oh, that,” I say, and the plan to ask him about the hidden drive vanishes in a puff of paranoid self-preservation. “I saw a cardinal. Haven’t seen one in ages. So I got out to take a picture.”
He glances toward my bag, which is sitting on the passenger seat. “Get any good shots?” he asks.
“No,” I tell him, in case he asks to see. “Never saw it again. Beautiful time of day though. You’re lucky that you get to work in an office like this. You should see the view from my desk.” I laugh. I realize I’m babbling. It’s what I do when I’m nervous.
The guard just smirks. He pats the roof of my car in a way that’s mildly possessive, mildly offensive. Like I’ve said something cute. Like I’m adorable. Like he might pat a waitress on the ass as she passes a booth full of him and his friends.
“Go on in,” he says, stepping away from my car. He tips his cap, the bar lifts up, and I hit the gas before he can ask any more questions, or before my mouth can get me in trouble.
14
I don’t know what I’m expecting when I get to the house. Ness said we would spend the day shelling, so I imagine something extravagant, like a helicopter with its blades slowly spinning, a pilot flipping switches above his head, and word that a private island somewhere is staging for our arrival. Or maybe a large yacht docked behind his estate, a giant crane on its upper deck that scoops sand from the depths and sifts it through complicated onboard troughs to unveil ancient, fragile treasures. Anything other than Ness sitting on the front porch, waiting for me, in a t-shirt and a loud pair of bermuda shorts.