Standing out on the balcony, he looked down at the lights of the cars and thought about it: how long had it been since he’d taken a woman to bed? He couldn’t be sure—his memory was still coming back in bits and pieces, flashes. But it was before Jeffrey Duran—that much was certain.
“So whatcha gonna do, boy?”
It was a line from Meatloaf’s Bat Out of Hell album, and it reminded him of all the good music he’d missed, as well, Jeff Duran having been, not merely celibate, but entrained by a different drummer. Or not even a drummer: Oprah.
“Whatcha gonna do!?”
Adrienne was a fox, and that was a fact. But it was also a fact that Lew McBride was the last thing she needed. She’d already lost her sister, her job, and very nearly her life—and he was responsible for all of it. It wouldn’t be right to take advantage of her simply because they’d been thrown together in what were, after all, desperate circumstances. Still…
It was unnatural, sleeping in the same room like this and keeping your distance. It’s human nature, he told himself, arguing with his conscience. They’d been through a lot together, and it wasn’t just a question of sex—he really liked her. She was smart and attractive, funny and vulnerable. It was like what happened during wars and natural disasters. People reached out. So why fight it? Why not just… make your move!
But it was too late—or, if not too late, an interregnum. The cold had had its effect, and he reentered the room, diminished. Adrienne remained where she was, sitting on the bed, reading the hotel’s potted guide to Harpers Ferry and environs. She looked up at him from under thick, dark lashes—a killer look, her eyes full of allure and invitation. She shifted position, a series of fluid adjustments that made it impossible not to think of other adjustments her body might make. Without the clothing.
“Looking at the stars?”
His eyes went to the ceiling. “No,” he replied. “I was thinking… “ He laughed. “You don’t want to know what I was thinking.”
She made a little sound in the back of her throat, and it took all his willpower not to launch himself at the bed. A flying dive into the depths of her.
Instead, he said, “I guess we’d better get some sleep.”
She nodded. Pulled her knees up to her chest and wrapped her arms around them. All closed off now. The radiator ticked in the hot room. After what seemed like a long time, she heaved a sigh, and flashed a bright little smile. “Great,” she said.
It was a long way, and they took turns at the wheel, driving all the next day, arriving late at night. They checked into a Super 8, requesting a room with twin beds. She was actually embarrassed by the way she felt. She would not have thought her body capable of this swoony teenage lust.
In the morning, they went to the sales office at La Resort on Longboat Key, where a tanned blonde told them that the contents of Calvin Crane’s condo had been cleaned out weeks before. The unit itself—three bedrooms, oceanside, with every amenity—was for sale. Were they interested?
No.
They drove back by way of Armand’s Circle, stopping for lunch at Tommy Bahama’s, where they ate salads and conch chowder, discussing their next move. Which was the courthouse in Bradenton, where they all but struck out. Crane wasn’t engaged in litigation with anyone, or not, at least, in Manatee County. And his will wasn’t as interesting as they’d hoped. Half of his estate was bequeathed, in equal proportions, to Harvard University and the American Cancer Society. The remainder was earmarked for his “beloved sister, Theadora Wilkins,” and his “lifelong friend, Marijke Winkelman.”
Their next stop was a trailer park in Bradenton, where Crane’s Jamaican caretaker, Leviticus Benn, lived with a pack of barking dogs. A tall black man with an easy smile, Benn was gracious, but spooked—and a little angry at the way he’d been treated. “First night—Mister Crane’s dead—Five-Oh come through my house with one of them tooth combs. And what they find? A little ganja. Just a taste. I mean, residue. From my personal use, you understand. Next thing, I’m in the middle of heavy manners. Like this trailer park is Gestapo Gardens. And I got to ask—I ask the policeman: how’s this gonna solve your bad crime? Tell me that!”
It took a while for Benn to get past his ire and, when he did, there wasn’t much that he could tell them.
“I was his nurse, you know? The human part of the rich man’s wheelchair. So we didn’t talk much. In fact, we really didn’t talk at all. Just, ‘Good mawnin’, Leviticus. Good mawnin’, Mr. Crane.’ Like that?”
“So he wasn’t that friendly?”
“He be keepin’ to his own self, you know?”
Crane’s sister resided at The Parkington, an assisted living facility housed in a lavishly landscaped glass and stone building on one of Sarasota’s wide, pleasant streets. There was a sort of covered terrace out front with a phalanx of white rocking chairs standing along its length. Only one of these was occupied, and that by a ramrod straight lady, her white hair cut into a kind of short pageboy. Her fringe of white bangs fell into a line so straight that Adrienne thought they must have been trimmed with a ruler. The face under the bangs might once have been pretty, but the small features were lost in a marsh of wrinkled flesh. To Adrienne, she gave the impression of an ancient baby. She wore a blue and white striped shirtwaist dress with a wide white belt and matching white shoes and purse.
The woman levered herself to her feet as they approached. “You must be Adrienne and Lew,” she said in a low and pleasant voice. “I’m Thea—although I don’t insist on that. Mrs. Wilkins will do if you’re uncomfortable addressing someone quite so ancient by what used to be called, in the days before political correctness, one’s ‘Christian’ name.”
“Pleased to meet you, Thea,” Adrienne said, extending her hand and introducing herself. She’d been fearful when they learned that Theodora Wilkins was closing in on ninety and living in a nursing home. It had seemed likely that Calvin Crane’s only living relative would not be mentally acute enough to help them. Obviously, that was not the case. “This is Mr. McBride.”
The old lady told them to take a seat, then went inside to see if she could “drum up some iced tea.” After a while she came back, trailed by an Hispanic man with a tray, and lowered herself carefully into her chair. Once the iced tea was distributed, she smiled. “Now,” she declared, “how can I be of help?”
“As I said on the phone,” McBride explained, “Adrienne thinks her sister, Nico, was in correspondence with your brother before he died. Her sister passed away—”
“I’m so sorry,” Thea interjected.
“I was hoping to get the letters back,” Adrienne told her. “As mementos.”
The old woman pushed her lips together and wrinkled her nose. “Oh dear,” she said, “I’m afraid I’m not going to be a big help. Cal and I were never close, you see.”
Adrienne tried to hide her disappointment. “Oh.”
“You’ve got to wonder about that, don’t you? Here we are, brother and sister, an old biddy and an old codger, living half an hour away from one another, and we saw each other about—” She extended her lower lip and sent up a jet of air that lifted her bangs, a gesture that must have survived from her teenage years. “—every six months. Thanksgiving and Easter. That was all we could take.”
“So you didn’t get along.”
“Not a lick. Cal thought I was a lightweight—and he despised my husband. Called him a dilettante. (Which, I suppose, he was, God rest him.) Still…”
“And what did you think of him?” Adrienne asked.
“My little brother?” she said. “I thought he was the most… “ She paused, thought about it, and said: “I thought he was the most arrogant man I ever met.”
“Really.”
“Oh yes. He was idealistic, of course, but so was Hitler. They both knew what was right for everyone else.” She raised one elegantly tweezed brow. “It’s terrible to say, but I don’t miss him all that much.”