Now & Then

by John Locke

  “Sensitization?” Rachel said.

  “That means he had to have been stung by fire ants at least once in the past, probably as a child. The first stinging event often fails to cause an allergic reaction. But the second can be deadly.”

  “Who is he?” I said. “Any guess how long he’d been lying there?”

  “There was no identification, and none of the nurses know him, so he’s probably not local. We were sort of hoping you might know who he is.”

  “No clue,” I said.

  Something tugged at my brain, making me wonder what kind of kid comes to town and walks around with no wallet, no cell phone, no money in his pockets—but has the sharpest knife I’d ever seen. I could always take it down to the P.D., and have the locals lift his prints. If he had a police record, I’d be doing them a favor. On the other hand, I didn’t want to buddy up to the local police if I didn’t have to. A little town like this, they probably have plenty of time on their hands. If some over-achiever gets a bug up his butt and begins checking too deeply into my background he might find some inconsistencies.

  Dr. Carstairs said, “As to how long he’d been lying on the ant hill, I’d have to say not very, because anaphylaxis occurs rapidly, within seconds to a minute. If I had to venture a guess, I’d say two, three minutes, tops.”

  Rachel said, “That poor kid must have been walking up from the beach when he got stung.”

  I said, “I think you’re right. He was probably walking up from the beach and saw the car full of jerks heading in his direction, got scared, and ducked down for cover. Then the ants got him.”

  “Poor kid,” she said. “Alone and scared.”

  “Yeah,” I said.

  But with a hell of a dangerous knife.

  Chapter 6

  NEXT MORNING I checked Rachel’s pulse, kissed her on the cheek, and climbed out of bed. I left her a note to say I’d be back in time for the eight-thirty breakfast, then I put on some shorts and running shoes and hit the road.

  With a four-thousand-year-old history rich with ancient Indians, marauding pirates, seafaring captains, railroads, shrimpers, saloons and sharks, St. Alban’s, Florida, is a visitor’s paradise.

  I headed north on A1A and turned left on Coastal, followed Coastal all the way to the tiny airport that served Amelia Island, turned left again on Farthing, and wound up back on A1A, a couple miles south of the Seaside. Six minutes later I passed the area where we had our run-in with the homeboys and then the place where we saved the kid. I sprinted a half mile, then slowed to a cooling jog and stopped a few yards shy of the Seaside’s front gate. The owner, Beth Daniels, was pulling weeds from the stone path that led to the front door.

  “Enjoy your run?” she said, greeting me with a smile.

  “Very much so.”

  Beth was fortyish, recently widowed, disarmingly attractive. She and her husband were said to have had legendary personalities, but she’d been in a deep funk these past months, consumed by the effort required to keep her husband’s bed and breakfast dream alive. Charles had gone to Atlanta on business, suffered a heart attack, died within minutes, leaving Beth deeply in debt. Within weeks of his untimely death, she’d lost her cook, her waitress, and her caretaker. She had only one staff member left, a part-time cleaning lady.

  “One thing I noticed while running,” I said. “In store front windows, on telephone poles, and even a billboard: posters about the girl who went missing last year.”

  Beth nodded. “Libby Vail.”

  “What I was wondering, the posters say she went missing in Pennsylvania.”

  “That’s my understanding.”

  “So why place them here in Florida?”

  Beth dabbed at the light sweat on her face and forehead with the back of her garden gloves. “When it first happened, the police interviewed Libby’s college roommate. She told them Libby always talked about coming to St. Alban’s to research her family tree.”

  “Did the cops trace her here?”

  “No, she just seemed to disappear off the face of the earth. But when the story came out about her wanting to come here, the whole town got involved. We held candlelight vigils, and her parents came down and made some appeals on TV. Even the FBI set up a command post for a few days, but nothing came of it. Still, the town embraced the story, and every month since her disappearance, we’ve held a weekend celebration in Libby’s honor.”

  “Celebration?”

  “Like a festival. People come from all over the country. Some folks have come all the way from Europe.”

  “But your bed and breakfast isn’t benefitting from all the business?”

  “It’s the only thing that’s kept us going this long,” Beth said. “The whole town, for that matter. But with the economy the way it is, Charles had some investments in Atlanta that went bad, and we mortgaged this place to the roofline. Now interest rates are up and we’re struggling to keep it going.”

  I glanced at the parking area. She followed my gaze and said, “Oh, I should have said something. Rachel left about thirty minutes ago. She took the car.”

  “She say where she was heading?”

  “No. Sorry.”

  I waved my hand in the direction of the parking area. “The other guests?”

  Beth sighed. “Gone.”

  “They left before breakfast?”

  “You haven’t had the privilege of tasting my cooking,” she said. “If you had, you’d understand.”

  I smiled. “Surely you’re kidding. Breakfast is easy.”

  She pursed her lips and made an expression that would have been adorable, had she not seemed so sad. She looked uncertain, as if she wanted to say something, but was trying to work up the courage.

  “I don’t suppose you want the chef’s job?” She looked at me like a woman seeking space on an over-crowded lifeboat.

  I could only think of two things in life worse than being a cook at a B&B in St. Alban’s Beach, Florida.

  “I need a caretaker, too,” she said.

  Being a caretaker was one of them.

  “And a waitress.”

  That was the other.

  I looked at the six hundred year old live oaks surrounding the place.

  “You’re overrun with squirrels,” I said.

  “The one problem Charles was never able to solve,” she said. “Now we’re about to implode from them. Do you have any suggestions?”

  “The branches are giving them access. They’ve worked their way into the eaves. Your attic is crawling with them.”

  “You’ve heard them?”

  “I have.”

  “I’m so sorry,” she said. “In better times I’d offer you a refund.”

  I held up my hand. “Not necessary.”

  She smiled again. “You’re very kind.”

  I motioned to the porch. “Let’s sit a minute.”

  She cocked her head slightly, as if trying to decode my meaning.

  I ignored her expression and climbed the steps and sat down facing her. Beth stood her ground.

  “What are you up to, Mr. Creed?”

  “I’m thinking about your offer.”

  “You’re joking.”

  “Probably.”

  She moved closer. “You’d consider it?”

  “I am considering it.”

  We were quiet a moment. I must have had a curious expression on my face because she said, “What on earth are you thinking?”

  I laughed. “I’m trying to picture Rachel as a waitress.”

  Beth shared my laugh. She climbed the steps and sat beside me, then thought better of it, and scooted her bottom a proper distance away, just beyond the top of the steps. She allowed her legs to dangle off the porch, and removed her gloves.

  She said, “It’s easier picturing Rachel as a waitress than you as a cook.”

  “A cook and maintenance man,” I said.

  “That too,” she said.

  She laughed some more, and let it fade into a chuckle, and then we w
ere silent again. She seemed to be regarding me in a different way, and I could feel her eyes studying my profile. When I turned toward her she quickly lowered her eyes.

  “I can’t pay much,” she said.

  “How bad are things with the bank?”

  Her eyes began to well up. She bit her lip. “I’m on my last gasp.”

  I stood. “Give me a couple minutes.”

  I walked down the steps and circled the house, checking the foundation. I studied the overhang of the roof long enough to find two places where squirrels were getting into the attic. There were probably others. The thing about squirrels, they attract other pests, like mice and snakes. Who knew what might be living in that old attic?

  The Seaside had a private wooden walkway that I followed down to the beach. The footboards were okay, but the handrails needed replacing. At the end of the walkway, there was a charming sitting area with two benches. Just beyond, a dozen steps led to the type of hard-packed sand you find on Atlantic coast beaches.

  Today the sea action was moderate. Frothy waves tumbled onto the shore, dumping tiny white coquina shells that wiggled their way into the wet sand. I heard a noise, looked up, and saw a group of sea gulls traveling a straight line just beyond the surf, scanning the waves like supermarket shoppers checking the shelves for their favorite food items.

  A sudden gust kicked up from the beach. I closed my eyes and inhaled the salty scent. When I opened them I noticed what might have been sea turtle tracks leading from a nearby sand dune to the water. I viewed the B&B from the back.

  It was a gorgeous old home, probably the nicest bed and breakfast I’d ever seen. But a proper restoration would require a serious injection of cash. I wondered if the place could ever turn a profit and decided the answer was no. Nevertheless, I found myself drawn to stay there and do what I could to help. It was almost as though the old home had singled me out and expected me to report to duty. And there was something else. That feeling of serenity I’d experienced the first night back. It seemed to have come with the sudden breeze off the water. I looked around to see if anything had recently entered my space: a bird, a bit of Spanish moss, some insects…but nothing seemed out of place. I turned back to the beach, but there were no answers to be found, in fact the beach was deserted, save for two women in big hats, wading in the far distance. I watched them walking away for a few moments, and suddenly the feeling was gone. I searched again for any clue that something was moving out of my immediate space, but all I came up with was that the wind had died down. I looked out to sea a minute, waiting for another gust. When it came, there was no feeling of serenity with it.

  Perhaps I was going mad. Maybe Rachel’s insanity was contagious.

  I walked back to the front yard and found Beth where I’d left her.

  “I’ll do it,” I said.

  “You will?”

  “Subject to Rachel’s okay.”

  Beth’s eyes lit up. “Really?”

  I nodded.

  “I don’t believe it!” she said. “Thank you!”

  She started to cry, softly. I wanted to hold her, tell her everything was going to be all right, but I’d just moved from client to employee, and it wouldn’t be proper. I stood there, feeling as useless as tits on a rooster, till she got herself together.

  “I’m so sorry,” she said.

  “It’s okay.”

  “I’m such a baby.”

  “You’re doing the best you can, in a tough situation.”

  She nodded. “Can I ask you something about your decision to stay here?”

  “Sure.”

  “Do you feel drawn to…to The Seaside in some manner?”

  I studied her a moment. “How did you know?”

  Suddenly she seemed younger, almost girlish.

  “Can you really cook?” she said.

  “Does it matter?”

  Chapter 7

  RACHEL WAS BACK. I didn’t ask her where she’d been, and she didn’t offer any explanation.

  “You want me to be a waitress?” she said.

  “Beth needs us,” I said.

  “Beth, huh?”

  “Yup.”

  “She’s pretty,” Rachel said.

  “You think?”

  “You know she is. Should I be worried?”

  “Not for a minute.”

  “Just so you know,” she said, “If I ever catch you cheating, I’ll cut your dick off and feed it to a sea gull.”

  “It would have to be a helluva big sea gull,” I said.

  “In your dreams!”

  I frowned.

  “Maybe I’ll just toss it in the air and let a flock of sea gulls fight over it,” she said.

  I winced at the visual.

  “How long are we gonna do this?” she said.

  “As long as it’s fun for you.”

  “And the minute it’s not?”

  “We’ll head to South Beach.”

  “Will you wear a big white chef’s hat, like Chef Boyardee?”

  “Not even to save my life,” I said.

  “In that case, I’ll do it!”

  Moments later she was telling Beth, “If I ever catch you fucking Kevin, I’ll burn you up in your bed.”

  Beth gave me a look of horror and said, “Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea.”

  “Kevin is a gourmet cook,” Rachel said.

  I shrugged.

  “Rachel,” Beth said, “I’m about to go broke. Every nickel I own is tied up in this place. I loved—and still love—my husband. I have no interest in developing a romantic relationship with—”

  She looked at me. “Is it Donovan or Kevin?”

  I shrugged again.

  She continued. “Charles loved this place, it was his dream. It’s all I have left of the man I loved with all my heart. But Rachel?”

  Rachel looked at her.

  “—I don’t want to have to worry that every time Kevin and I are in the same room you’re going to think something’s up.”

  “I’m only concerned about the fucking,” Rachel said.

  “Then you’ve got nothing to worry about,” Beth said.

  Rachel threw her arms around Beth and said, “I love you, Beth. And you’ll see, I’m going to be the best waitress you ever had!”

  Beth looked at me wide-eyed and mouthed the words, “Is she crazy?”

  I mouthed back, “She loves you.”

  Chapter 8

  BOB POCKET WAS a normal-sized man with an enormous round belly. Sitting in his high-backed banker’s chair, it looked like he was trying to hide a basketball under his shirt. He drummed his fingers on it, and I wondered if it was as solid as it appeared. It was truly amazing, and I couldn’t wait to tell Rachel about it.

  “Excuse me?” he said. “You’re the what?”

  “Chief cook and handyman.”

  “Well, Mr.—”

  “Creed.”

  “Creed.” He started to sneer, then caught himself and turned it into a broad smile. “It’s wonderful to have you here, you’re going to love our little town. All the people are amazing, the weather’s amazing, the beach is wonderful, and like I say, the people are—”

  “—Amazing,” I said. “I get it.”

  Bob Pocket seemed about to frown, but again, he found a way to show me a pleasant, though unconvincing, smile. “I’m really not at liberty to discuss Ms. Daniels’ financial affairs with her employees. I hope you can try to understand that.”

  I passed him a notarized power of attorney. He studied it carefully before saying, “She’s way behind, but we haven’t begun the foreclosure proceedings yet.”

  “Why not?”

  “Well, this is hard to explain to an outsider, but our little town has a way of attracting good luck. Good things happen here, things that can’t be explained. We’re just trusting that something wonderful will happen, and Beth won’t have to lose her special inn. Wait, why are you laughing?”

  “You’ll have to excuse me,” I said. “I’ve ne
ver encountered a benevolent banker before.”

  Bob Pocket chuckled. “Benevolent banker,” he repeated. “I like that. I guess we are a trusting bank, with an optimistic board of directors. But after you’ve been here awhile it will make more sense to you. This community has been blessed, and it’s astounding how much good fortune we’ve attracted lately.”

  “The luck of St. Alban’s?”

  “You’ve heard about it?”

  “Dr. Carstairs used the phrase.”

  Pocket nodded. “Good man. We’re fortunate to have him with us.”

  “He’s new to the town?”

  “Came here a year ago, out of the blue, right when we needed him the most.”

  “Uh huh. So you’re what, hoping another miracle will occur, and this time Beth’s B&B will be saved?”

  “I wouldn’t say miracle, but yes, I suppose we tend to rely on some sort of cosmic balance. We’ve had bad times in the past, and now it’s time for a rebirth. All the signs are pointing to a happy, prosperous community. Beth has had her troubles, but she’s due for some good fortune. She’s an asset to the community and she’s got a charming little business, and we’re just hoping for the best. Maybe your arrival has signaled the start of her good fortune.”

  “How much time does she have?” I asked.

  He shook his head. “Board meeting’s next Tuesday.” He paused, and broke into a wide-faced grin. “But even if something wonderful doesn’t happen by then, I’m sure Beth will recover. Things have a way of working out in our wonderful town. Beth will be happy and prosperous again, you’ll see.”

  “How much does she owe?”

  “The total note is a million-six,” he said, “give or take.”

  Beth had an interest-only note that ran about eight thousand a month. I knew she and Charles hadn’t made any principal payments in more than a year. I also knew she was six months behind on her note.

  Bob Pocket looked over the top of his reading glasses. “Perhaps you should consider finding employment elsewhere until things work out for Beth. There are golden opportunities everywhere, within the city limits.”