Off Plan

by May Archer

  “We?” I snorted, grabbing my arm away. “There’s no we here.”

  “No, wait! You can’t go in, Fenn!” Beale moved to block the door. “Dad’s talking secret mayor business in the living room! He and Gloria kicked me out.”

  “Yeah? Well, his other secret mayor business has finally come home to roost—” He pointed at me. “—so I don’t give a shit if Rafe’s on the phone with the queen of England or God Almighty, he can damn well deal with his mess.”

  “Excuse me.” I folded my arms over my chest. “First off, who are you calling a mess? I’m not the one who looks like a freakin’ serial killer. Second, my conversation with Mr. Goodman is none of your damn business.”

  “A serial killer,” Beale repeated, looking back and forth between us. “What?”

  “Fenn gives off a vibe,” I explained, somewhat defensive.

  “Ohhh.” Beale nodded. “Fenn’s intense. But his aura is really white, you know? Pure but protective. Kind of like Marjorie, this mama cat I rescued, who growls anytime you come near her kits, even though they’re over a year old and plenty capable of taking care of themselves. Fenn’s more afraid of you than you are of him.”

  Fenn narrowed his eyes and jabbed his cousin in the chest. “You. Shut. Your. Fool. Mouth.”

  “See?” Beale smiled beatifically. “He sounds all ‘Grrrr.’ But he wouldn’t hurt a fly, would you, Fenn?”

  “Oh, I’ll hurt you,” Fenn assured him. “I’ll hurt you bad. When you least—”

  “You know, you might be right,” I interrupted. “Fenn really is like a cat. Misanthropic. Nonspecifically bitchy. Peeing on everything… metaphorically speaking, I’m fairly sure.”

  Fenn folded his arms over his chest, mirroring my pose, and stared me down with eyes a hundred times bluer and more intense than his cousin’s. “What color is Loafers’ aura?”

  “Loafers?” Beale lifted one eyebrow. “You mean Mason?”

  Fenn ignored him. “Bet it’s brown, ’cause he’s full of sh… oes.” He snickered to himself, like toilet humor was the height of comedy.

  “You,” I bit out. “Are a child. A very annoying child.” To Beale I said, “Is there any way I can see Mr. Goodman, please? It’s extremely important.”

  Beale hesitated, and Fenn grabbed my wrist again, before I could evade him. “Come on while Beale’s busy thinking.”

  He towed me into the house—a typical layout, with two rooms in the front, two in the back, and a staircase in the middle—and directed me into the boxy yellow living room off to the left, where a broad-shouldered man with a shock of dark hair and a voice that managed to be cajoling and demanding at the same time stood by a bookcase with a phone to his ear.

  “Marvin! Marvin, you need to stand firm. Remember what we discussed? It’s the Whispering Key Labor Day Extravaganza! We spare no expense, understand? I don’t care what the nodcocks at the bank say.”

  A redhead in a blue, floral dress with a wide lace collar and bows at the neck and waist jumped up from the sofa as soon as she spotted us.

  “Fenn!” she scolded. She braced her hands on her bony hips, which set her reading glasses swinging from the chain around her neck. “You can’t just walk in here! You know your uncle uses this room to make phone calls since he doesn’t get any reception in the office.”

  “I know, but I—” He paused and gave a little gasp, clutching his hand to his chest. “Gloria, have you done something different to your hair? It’s majestic.”

  She patted her unnaturally tight curls, which were topped by yet another bow, and frowned. “Why, not a thing. I’ve been having Joanne do it this way since I saw Reba McEntire wearing it back in 1987.”

  “Reba never wore it as well as you’re wearing it today,” Fenn said in a tone of hushed awe that made me laugh… and then cover it with a cough. Fenn shot me a look that was part amusement, part warning.

  “Really?” Gloria turned to look in the mirror hanging by the door, and her pale cheeks blushed. “Why, Fenn Reardon, aren’t you just the sweetest?”

  “No, ma’am. You are.” There was an unmistakable ring of truth in his voice. “Let me be the first to introduce you to Big Rafe’s newest employee! Gloria Frye, this is Dr. Mason Bloom. Loafers, this is Gloria, the woman who really runs this island.”

  “Oh, you!” Gloria turned an even deeper red and held out a hand for me to shake. Her palm was damp, which was no surprise given the heat of the day. “Nice to meet you, Dr. Bloom.” She hesitated. “Will you start taking patients soon? I have a few questions of a personal nature…” She licked her lips and leaned closer to me. “…about a problem with my foot? And I hate to trouble my doctor over in Sarasota. She’s always so busy.”

  “See, Ms. Frye, the thing is—”

  “Oh, no! You call me Gloria! People on Whispering Key don’t get real formal, do we, Fenn? You’ll get accustomed to it soon enough, Doc.” She blinked guileless blue eyes up at me, and I hesitated.

  I forced a smile. “I mean, I guess I—”

  “Rafe!” Fenn yelled, saving me from answering. “Get over here and greet your new employee!”

  Rafe Goodman turned toward us. He frowned at Fenn, but when he saw me, he grinned.

  “Hang on just a second, Marvin! Meh.” He clasped the phone to his chest, right where the word Mayor was emblazoned in white. “Let him talk himself out, eh?”

  He stepped forward with his hand outstretched and sighed with satisfaction. “Dr. Bloom. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you in person.”

  “Mr. Goodman.” I shook his hand but didn’t return his smile. “I wish I could say the same, but we have some things to discuss.”

  “Of course! Yes! Of course we do!” Rafe nodded. “I’m sure you have many questions, and I’m happy to answer every single one of them. Just let me finish this call, alright? It’s about the Whispering Key Labor Day Extravaganza. Can’t be delayed!”

  Fenn plopped on the sofa next to Gloria’s seat, ignoring the way the springs protested. “We’ll wait here.”

  “Nonsense.” Rafe scowled. “You’ll take Mason to my office while I finish up, Fenn. Explain the history of the island to him so he understands what makes Whispering Key so unique.”

  “Me? Explain what’s unique about this place?” Fenn gave an exaggerated yawn. “I don’t give a shit about the history of the island. Why would he?”

  “Gloria, show the boys out.” Rafe turned back to his conversation with a “Yes! I’m here, Marvin!” and I raked both hands through my hair, which had to look amazing at this point, but I couldn’t find even one fuck to give.

  I looked at Fenn, and he shrugged, daring me to speak up.

  Fine.

  “Mr. Goodman,” I demanded loudly. “Mr. Goodman!”

  Rafe barely glanced in my direction. He gave me a tight smile and made a shooing motion toward the back of the house.

  “But Mr. Goodman, I insist that you—”

  “Fenn Reardon! Doc Bloom!” Gloria chided, like we were a pair of seven-year-olds, though she’d known me less than three minutes. “Go on now, boys, and do what Mr. Goodman says!”

  It was remarkably effective. I clenched my fists at my sides as steam escaped my ears.

  “Ohhhh. Now I get it,” Fenn said appreciatively. He twirled a finger in the air and pointed at my face. “Serial killer vibe. It’s scary as fuck.”

  I inhaled sharply through my nose. I couldn’t say what color my aura was just then, but it was sure as hell not white. “Where’s this damn office?”

  Fenn snorted. He got to his feet and stalked past me, bumping his shoulder into mine so I stumbled backward. He led me down a short hall past a bedroom and a small bathroom to a little mudroom.

  “Once again, very mature,” I said, chasing after him. “Where are we going?”

  Fenn pushed open a screen door. “The office. Obvs.”

  “You keep the office in the backyard?” I scoffed. “Nice try.”

  Fenn rolled his eyes. “You caught me, Loafers
. It’s all a ploy. The gecko slipped me five bucks to get you out here alone. He’s coming back to finish the job.”

  “Well!”

  “Well, what? The only terrible thing I’ve done to you is bring you to this godforsaken island, and that’s because you fucking insisted. Did it ever occur to you that you’re pissed off about the wrong things?”

  Was I?

  I gaped at him for a minute, but when he swept a hand outside in a short, impatient motion, I stepped through.

  Fenn followed, letting the door slam behind him, and then he stalked ahead of me through a tiny backyard of baked dirt, rocks, and empty flowerbeds. I could hear waves crashing somewhere on the other side of the fence, and I got excited when Fenn started fumbling with the back gate, thinking I was about to actually stand on the beach, but when he opened it, there was no water view, only a massive metal door set in the side of a miniature mountain. It was unreasonably disappointing, even after all the other disappointments of the day.

  “What,” I demanded, “is that?”

  Fenn pushed open the door with a flick of his wrist. “This is an office.”

  Of course it was. The world’s darkest, chilliest, most cave-like office bunker.

  Did I mention it was dark?

  Fenn held the door open for me, and I hesitated, my heart pounding in my ears and my palms gone clammy. I tried to make myself take a step forward, but I couldn’t.

  I was such an idiot sometimes. Maybe more than sometimes.

  “Loafers.” He sounded disgusted. “For the last fucking time, I am not a serial killer. I’m not going to harm you. My pure, white aura won’t allow it.”

  “I know!” I said, sounding slightly panicked. I took a deep breath. “I know, Fenn.”

  “Then?”

  “Then… nothing.” I licked my lips, my eyes scanning the darkness inside. I couldn’t make out a single shape, and there certainly wasn’t another exit. “You go first.”

  “Why? Are you gonna try to lock me in?” He braced his hands on his hips and tried to stare me down. “Because all that would do is piss me off.”

  “No!” I said, horrified. “Of course not. I would literally never do that. I just… would prefer that you go first.”

  “And I would prefer you stopped acting like you were the second coming of Jesus and the rest of us had to do your bidding because the world doesn’t actually revolve around you, Loafers. But we can’t always get what we prefer, can we?”

  “I just… I don’t enjoy dark, enclosed spaces, okay?” I shot back, keeping my eyes trained on the side of the doorframe. “Is that alright with you?”

  Fenn frowned. “Really?”

  “Yes, really. It’s a perfectly common… concern.”

  “You mean phobia.”

  “I mean concern. A phobia is an irrational fear, and I am not irrationally afraid.”

  In my opinion, it was very, very rational to not wish to be trapped below the earth. God.

  “Ah.” Fenn stepped inside the bunker and flipped on a light switch. “Better?”

  I nodded once. “Marginally, yes.” I hesitated, then added, “Thank you,” before stepping in after him.

  I can’t say what I’d been expecting to see. Walls lined with canned goods, probably? Possibly a Dharma Initiative symbol? I definitely didn’t expect to see a windowless room laid out like Lord Grantham’s library at Downton, complete with Oriental rugs, leather furniture, glass display cases, a huge mahogany conference table, an oversized captain’s desk, and dark green walls. The space was larger than the living room in the main house and twice as well appointed.

  It was also covered, floor to ceiling, in maps and ancient tide charts, diagrams of boats and two-columned lists, bright yellow sticky notes and dull yellow newspaper clippings. The entire back wall was a bank of file cabinets and displays.

  Fenn leaned against the giant table pretending to be relaxed while I studied the papers.

  “June 25, 1803. Shipped by the Grace of God, in good Order by Willam Himmelhurst upon the ship called The Esmerelda, whereof is Captain under God for the present voyage Jacob Godfrey, and now riding anchor in the harbor at St. George’s Caye and by God’s grace bound for New York, were one thousand pieces gold, six barrels pork, forty-seven barrels rum…”

  I traced my hand over the paper, which was clearly a copy of the original, but was so old and faded it had to have been decades old itself, and then I moved on to the next.

  “New York, January 1804. By way of Charleston, we have the following account of damages sustained by a Hurricane which happened the 3rd of August, 1803. At the coast of Florida, a New York ship christened The Esmerelda, Captained by the Grace of God and Jacob Godfrey, drove against the rocks, and all her cargo and crew lost but two: Capt Godfrey and his Quartermaster…”

  “Godfrey,” I whispered. Like the name of every road and inn on the island.

  Fenn made a noise like a sigh, and I turned toward him.

  “What is all this?” I asked softly.

  “Rafe’s office. He has the most extensive collection of Gulf Coast shipwreck memorabilia in western Florida.”

  “Mr. Goodman collects this stuff?”

  Fenn shrugged. “Some people collect Pez dispensers.”

  “And he keeps this collection in a bunker. On a beach.”

  “Why not?” Fenn shrugged again. “It’s his office.”

  “They voluntarily work in a windowless bunker?” Good God, these people were monsters.

  “Sure. It’s nice and cool, for one thing. And to be fair, building the bunker wasn’t Rafe’s idea, he just took advantage of it when he inherited the property. It was built by the same guy who designed JFK’s bunker over on Peanut Island back in the sixties during the Cold War. They built this thing out of shit tons of metal and concrete, probably sent five billion species of plants or birds spiraling into extinction along the way.” He rolled his eyes. “But they made it watertight and humidity controlled, the perfect place for your loved ones and most important possessions to ride out the end of the world.”

  I looked around the room again. “There’s so much stuff in here, you couldn’t fit more than six or seven people unless you were sitting on each other. Four, if they were people your size.”

  “Uh-huh. But the maps would survive in climate-controlled comfort, and that’s what’s really important here.”

  I ran a finger over the laminated diagram of a sloop hanging on one of the walls. “And he studies these maps and diagrams?” I demanded, turning to look at Fenn. “Is he a historian in his spare time?”

  “More like a gambler in his spare time.” He sighed at my frown and settled himself more comfortably against the desk. “If Rafe Goodman has five dollars on his person, he’ll use it to buy into a treasure hunt, sure as an alcoholic will find a drink. But he’s been particularly obsessed with that one. The Esmerelda.” He nodded toward the clippings I’d been reading.

  “Why?”

  “For one thing, it happened in our backyard, or pretty close. One night, back in eighteen-oh-something, a storm struck the area. If you ask Rafe—and Jesus, please do not get him started, okay?—there was something weird about the way it hit. It came in from the east, hit during an astronomically high tide, blah blah. A perfect storm. The waves were unbelievable—walls of water more than twenty feet tall, supposedly—and the Esmerelda went down somewhere out there. It’s never been recovered. The only two survivors—Captain Jacob Godfrey and Resolute Goodman—clung to a piece of driftwood and washed up on shore half-drowned and feeling so incredibly lucky that later on, after they were found and rescued, they came back and brought their families to settle. They thought of this island as their fresh start.”

  “Resolute Goodman? As in…”

  “As in Rafe Goodman? Ding ding. And that’s another part of Rafe’s obsession. He thinks the Esmerelda is his legacy or some shit. But more than that, there’s a legend about a treasure.”

  I narrowed my eyes, my attention caught. “
The one that went down with the ship.”

  Fenn shook his head. “The one that didn’t. See, according to the legend, while the ship was being tossed around and the rest of the crew was saying their prayers and getting ready to meet their maker, Resolute Goodman, that crafty fucker, went down into the hold and stuffed bags with gold, then tied them to his waist. That’s him, right there.” He nodded at a print on the opposite wall, and I moved to look at it more closely.

  “He doesn’t look much like Rafe,” I said, my eyes roaming over the guy’s muttonchops, trying to find a likeness. “Maybe a little like your cousin, around the eyes.”

  “Big Rafe looks like the other side of his family, but believe me, the similarities of personality run deep. Everyone else on that crew just wanted to live, but Resolute Goodman wanted to live well. Sure, that much ballast tied to him should have almost guaranteed he sunk like the ship. Sure, he might’ve lost everything. But no point in living if you’re not always trying to get something for yourself.”

  That sounded uncomfortably like what I’d been telling Micah just a few hours ago, and it put my back up. I turned to face Fenn with a frown. “There’s nothing wrong with wanting something that’s yours. There’s nothing wrong with wanting financial stability for your family. Or even to find fame and fortune, if that’s your thing.”

  “Why am I not surprised to hear you agree with him, Loafers? FYI, I think there’s a lot wrong with it when you risk what you already have to get it. Goodman and Godfrey didn’t get the treasure for their families. They didn’t tell a soul about it until after Resolute died and they found his papers, in which he confessed to taking the money from the ship, splitting it with his captain, and hiding it, and provided a bunch of clues so fucking obscure that no one has figured it out yet. He died tormented and alone, and left his family with nothing but the land under their feet.”

  I swallowed, suddenly, intensely aware of just how small this room was, and just how many inches of steel and sand were poised above me. “I think I’ll wait for Mr. Goodman outside.”