The Stone Flower Garden

by Deborah Smith

  I intended to donate all of my grandmother’s gift to charity, but then decided at least a portion of it had an equally appropriate use. I would give myself a graduation gift Swan certainly wouldn’t like. I’d settle a question that had tormented me for years.

  I picked up the phone and called a private investigator I’d met while interning with one of Atlanta’s more notorious criminal defense attorneys. If you wanted someone found, even someone who didn’t want to be found, this guy was the private dick of choice. “I want to find a young man named Eli Wade,” I told him. I explained how little I knew about Eli’s vital statistics: His age—he would be 28 years old then. His birthday—I remembered the date distinctly, because I’d marked it on my calendar as a child and always gave him presents. I knew his parents’ names, and Bell’s, of course. “He might be living in Tennessee,” I told the investigator. “That’s a long shot, but it’s where he was born. I don’t know where he and his family went after they left Burnt Stand, North Carolina, but I heard they buried Eli’s father near Nashville.”

  That was very little to go on, the investigator told me. But he also said Eli’s birthdate was a good detail for searching government records, and he’d see what he could do. I hung up the phone and stared out the tiny window over my sink. The grime of the city clung to a stately, blossom-covered dogwood tree begging for space against a cracked sidewalk. Across my shady residential street a battered yellow van sported a Confederate flag and a marijuana leaf emblem. God save Dixie, and pass the doobie. I felt like the dogwood, very alone in a world without much charm.

  Three weeks later, my hired hunter called me over my breakfast tea with the news. “Eli Wade wasn’t that hard to find,” he said. “He’s wanted by the Feds.”

  I clutched the phone. “Why?”

  “He’s a partner in an offshore gambling business down in the Caribbean. He’s been living there the past five years.” I went very quiet. The investigator clucked his tongue. “Hey, it’s not so bad. He’s a young guy makin’ a fortune off sports junkies. You get it? He’s a high-priced bookie for Americans posting sports bets.”

  My heart sank. “He’s a professional gambler?”

  “Yeah. And a great one. High-tech. Computerized. It’s just too bad he’ll be in deep trouble if he ever sets foot in the States again. Eli Wade is a man without a country.”

  “What about his mother and sister?”

  “Living the life of luxury, looks like. He takes care of ’em real good.”

  “They live with him in the islands?”

  “Yep. Mom’s doing a lot of volunteer work with some church missionaries down there. Little Sister piddles around public relations for one of the big hotels. Your Eli keeps ’em way away from his line of work. They got a nice house, nice things.” He paused. “You know, I wouldn’t worry about this guy if I were you. Nobody can touch him down there. He’s makin’ big money, he lives a quiet life, he’s doin’ okay. He’s a criminal, but only if he comes back here.” He waited patiently as my choked silence filled the phone. Finally he said, “Look, Darl, you’re a classy kid. I need to know what kind of info you’re after, and what you don’t want to hear.”

  “Tell me the rest.” I felt sick.

  “Well, if you’re checking him out because he’s an old boyfriend and you still got a thing for him, you oughta forget him. I mean, he’s definitely got women down there. A girlfriend who runs a scuba business. Another one who’s his bookkeeper. He’s not lonely, and he’s not mopin’ around waitin’ for you to show up, kid.”

  Of course I shouldn’t have felt surprised, disappointed, or betrayed. I was only ten years old when Eli left Burnt Stand. I was no dewy virgin now myself, and I’d attempted a couple of serious relationships during college. Still, the news about Eli added up to a strange mixture of victory and defeat. He’d survived and prospered, if not with honor. He was happy—happy to forget me and the three years his family had lived in Burnt Stand . . .

  I’d always harbored the idea that I’d find him some day, go to him, and tell him the truth about Clara’s murder. He deserved justice for his father. Hell, he deserved revenge. If it had just been about me I’d have let him do whatever he wanted to punish me, but I had Swan to think about, and Matilda—and Karen, because her grandmother’s involvement in Clara’s death was the one shock Karen had been spared when we were children. Karen had withdrawn from Matilda and from me after that year. When she was old enough she’d deserted Burnt Stand, just as I had. We hadn’t spoken in years.

  I put my head in my hands that morning and debated what to do. My family was in shambles. Eli had become a rich criminal. I suppose as an honorable lawyer I had a duty to save the world from unregulated betting on Knicks games, but I didn’t.

  I just cried in my tea, and tried to forget him.

  Chapter Twelve

  I opened a pair of efficient gray suitcases and stared at only business clothes. When I’d packed for Florida the week before I’d been convinced I’d win Frog a last-minute reprieve and return to Washington quickly. My choice of casual wear came down to a wrinkled sleeveless white-linen shift, a pair of cargo shorts, and another white nightshirt. I showered, then donned the loose shift, wound my hair back in a damp braid, and put on narrow black sunglasses.

  A hard tapping sound suddenly sounded above me. I shaded my eyes from hot sunshine pouring through the bedroom’s sliding doors, which went to a private balcony. I tugged the doors open. The rumbling song of the surf poured in, along with a gust of briny air. I padded barefoot onto my balcony, and gazed upwards. Solo sat atop a folding ladder on the deck above me. He was nailing a section of windblown siding back into place.

  The deepest blue sky I’d ever seen silhouetted him. He wore baggy, knee-length shorts, his bare feet were smeared with sand, and he’d slung his shirt over the ladder’s utility shelf. As I had seen at the beach, his bare back was muscled, his chest was broad, and his skin was deeply tanned. A fine vee of dark hair trailed down his stomach. He clamped a row of small nails between his lips with intense concentration. Yet he sat with his long legs and knobby, handsomely ugly feet curled around the ladder’s metal stanchions in an almost boyish posture that was very appealing. As I watched, he raised a hammer. Sinews flexed in his forearm, and he drove a nail into the siding with a single, expert stroke.

  We like our men rough and hard, Clara had hissed at me that day by the pool. There was a part of me that always worried—irrationally, but still—that some genetic weakness really did doom Hardigree women to be either promiscuous or emasculating, or both. I held myself back from men, and intimacy, for me, required a long, thoughtful, restrained path. Yet there I stood, gazing up at Solo. My skin began to tingle against the fabric of the linen shift. I drew back from the sensations with a rush of discipline as sharp as a steel trap.

  “Could you use some help?” I asked.

  He pivoted and looked down so quickly I was afraid he’d lose his balance. As it was, he smiled and lost all the nails. They clattered to the floor of the upper deck and several fell between the cracks, landing at my bare feet like hard raindrops. I knelt and began picking them up. “Let ’em go. I’ve got more,” he called.

  “Waste not, want not.” I gathered the nails as he climbed down from the ladder.

  “I bet you keep a little jar in your kitchen, full of leftover nails and paper clips and safety pins.”

  “Spoken like a man who keeps his own little jar.”

  “Hmmm. You nailed me on that one.” He sat down on the deck, then stretched out near the edge, looking down at me. “Good to see you feelin’ better.”

  I hesitated. “I slept last night.”

  “Good. Gimme my nails back, you thief.”

  He reached over the side. I raised the nails in my cupped palm. Solo carefully scooped them up with his blunt fingertips, brushing my palm as he did. We traded a charged look. �
�You’re welcome,” I said. Looking troubled, he nodded. I turned and walked back into my bedroom without offering another word.

  I sat down on the bed and hugged myself.

  A courier drove out to the beach house that afternoon, delivering a small box that Solo brought to me at my bedroom door. Still working on the siding, he was drenched in sweat and smelled of fresh ocean air. He pulled his t-shirt on as he approached me. “It’s safe,” he said, pointing to the parcel’s Washington address. “William told me he’d be sendin’ it. I don’t want you to open anything yourself.”

  “I get ordinary hate mail, Mr. Solo. Not letter bombs. And I know what this is. I asked William to overnight it.”

  He frowned as I attempted to pry open the heavily taped box with my short, plain fingernails. Solo pulled a steel folding knife from his trouser pocket and flicked open a serrated blade wicked enough to make me look at him in startled warning. He clamped a protective hand over mine, drew a fine line across the box lid with the knife’s point, and the tape parted. As casually as that, he put the knife away and lifted his hand.

  I opened the lid and sank my fingers through bubble wrap. When I lifted out the plastic heart Frog had given me my heart twisted. The toy was cracked and scuffed. A small white bow that had been glued to the top now hung from a frazzled string. I uttered a soft sound. Solo gallantly turned away. “I’ll be outside,” he said.

  “Frog couldn’t read.” The words burst from me, not making much sense and apropos of nothing. Solo slowly pivoted back. I shook my head. He waited with a stillness that said this meant something to him. “I know,” he said.

  “Even in prison the other inmates taunted him. Called him stupid and retarded. He wanted to write apologies to the families of the policemen he shot, and I wrote the letters for him. I told him he shouldn’t expect any answer, and he understood. Then he asked me to write to his goddamned brother in prison. ‘I love you Tommy. I know you didn’t mean to tell me to hurt anybody.’ But Tommy Marvin never sent a word in return. Nothing. The bastard.” I laid the heart back into the box. “Frog was convinced that Tommy didn’t write back because he knew Frog couldn’t read. ‘He doesn’t like people to know how dumb I am,’ Frog told me. The humiliation hurt him more than anyone can imagine.”

  “I can imagine,” Solo said quietly. “I know exactly what that does to a man.” When I looked at him for explanation, he turned and walked outside. I heard him around the house, but I kept to my room, and we didn’t see each other the rest of the day.

  The next morning Solo swam again, then threw a towel around his shoulders and stood on the beach writing something on a palm-sized computer. I watched him from my balcony, where I’d spread my papers on a small patio table. My head ached. I’d tossed in bed all night, filled with bad dreams, and looking out my door once to confirm that Solo slept on the living room couch again. I felt raw inside. This was the best I do for recuperation. The sun crept under the table umbrella, and I kept adjusting the umbrella for shade. The earth continued to turn. A revelation. I rested my chin on my fists and studied Solo. He glanced at the ocean, then at his handheld device, and wrote with the device’s stylus, then looked at the ocean again. I picked up a phone I’d pulled outside. My cell phone didn’t work on the island. I called the Phoenix Group’s offices in Washington.

  “Where did you find this man?” I asked William. William Leyland was a mystery, himself. His soft Caribbean accent and calm demeanor undoubtedly masked some interesting history. If he had any political or racial issues as a black man, he kept them to himself. He applied the same mask to other people’s privacy. All of us at Phoenix considered his opinions on security—and any assistants he hired—unimpeachable.

  “Here and there,” William said finally.

  “I see. Is Solo his real name?”

  “I believe it’s a nickname. He chooses to go by it at times.”

  “You can’t reveal even a few details from his personnel file? Is he ex-military, a former cop, a retired samurai?”

  “Please. Such imagination. He’s an absolute gentleman. I can tell you he’s never been married, has no children, and owns the plane in which you flew two days ago. I can tell you he’s quite the computer expert, and that he designed the software that protects the foundation’s office files.”

  “You mean he wrote our encryption programs?”

  “Yes, he created all of Phoenix’s security programs and hardware systems. Including the security system at Irene’s house there, at St. George.”

  “And he just moonlights as a personal bodyguard?”

  “Not really. He simply wanted to participate firsthand in this instance.”

  “Why?” Silence. “William,” I prodded.

  “Because for a long time he has watched your work for the foundation, and he respects you very much. And the Frog Marvin case was particularly personal to him.”

  “Why?”

  “He comes from poverty. He understands the weak and helpless. I have spoken enough. Please, don’t try to analyze him. Just accept him for the purpose he wishes to serve. He wants to make you comfortable, so you can rest.”

  “I’ve rested enough. I should catch a flight out of Tallahassee and go back to Washington tomorrow.”

  “I suggest not. Irene sends word you’re not to set foot in the office or return to your apartment. Circumstances are not good, here.”

  The hair rose on the back of my neck. “What’s happened?”

  “The media is besieging the office for an interview with you about the melee outside the prison, and the police caught a gentleman spray-painting ignorant slurs on your apartment door.” I shut my eyes. I could imagine the words, like those on the placards. He went on in a kind tone, “Another few days and the public interest in Frog Marvin’s case will begin to fade. But please stay at the beach, for now.”

  “I seem to have no choice.”

  William paused. Then, with a certain grim pleasure, he said, “Sometimes God intends it that way, for one’s own benefit.”

  “God isn’t that concerned with any of us.” I told him good-bye and laid the phone down, sick at heart.

  On the beach, Solo turned and looked at me. He raised his hand. The ocean and sky framed him without making him seem small. He stood on the edge of the land as if he were my only lighthouse.

  He suddenly made me glad to see him, and I raised my hand in return.

  I’d become more of a drinker than I liked to admit, and that afternoon I went to a wet bar that occupied one corner of the house’s large living room and poured myself a tall bourbon with a little water and ice. I sank down stiffly on a plush rattan couch, pushed aside a collection of coral that decorated a huge glass coffee table, and set out my laptop computer. But after two deep swallows of bourbon I slumped with my head in my hands and began to mourn for the spartan confines of my aging intown apartment, where comfort was an old recliner and books filled every available space. I kept picturing someone writing words on my door, the spray can hissing out You Bitch or Go Fuck Frog in Hell.

  “Getting’ good and plastered?” Solo asked. I straightened quickly. He stood in the open door to the deck, sweaty and bare chested, a tool belt dangling from one hand. He dropped the belt, swiped at his torso with a white t-shirt, then raised his arms and pulled the shirt on. The erotic arch of his chest and belly seemed casual and unselfconscious, which made it even more appealing. I looked away as his head emerged from the shirt’s neck. “Is the house back in order?”

  “It’ll do. Electricity’s back on.”

  I rattled my glass. “I know. I have ice.”

  “Eaten anything today?”

  I rattled the glass again. “Ice.”

  “All right. I’ll fry up some whale blubber, and we’ll play Eskimo. Be right back.” He pointed at the stairs then disappeared up them two at a time. A few minutes late
r he descended. He was freshly washed, his dark hair wisping in damp waves as it dried. He’d donned light trousers and a blue dress shirt with the tail out, and was barefooted. Frowning, he walked over without invitation and sat on the couch beside me. His heat and clean-soap scent invaded my lightly cologned air. He glanced at a utilitarian steel wristwatch he wore, then reached for a remote control. “Time for your daily soap opera.” He punched a button. Across the room a large television clicked on. He changed the channels until the opening credits of a show called Attractions filled the screen. “I hear you got a hometown friend on the show.”

  I stared at him. “I suppose that’s something William told you about me.”

  “Hush. There she is.”

  A lithe and beautiful young woman in a jeweled evening gown appeared on the screen. Her slender, honey-colored hands gestured gracefully as she spoke to a black, heartthrob-handsome actor in a tuxedo. Her honey-skinned face—very much like mine in its features—was elegantly composed yet dramatically angry. Her hazel eyes gleamed sharply beneath exquisite black lashes. She wore her thick black hair in a combination of cornrows and silky extensions that trailed to her breasts.

  This aloof, exotic, stunning creature was Karen. The world knew her now as Kare Noland.

  “Kare Noland does a helluva job playin’ a cool cat like Cassandra,” Solo said.

  I looked at him a long strange time, sorting my options. “You watch this show regularly?” He nodded. I faced the television, took another swallow of bourbon, and decided to talk. “I call her Karen. She’s my cousin.”

  News of my mixed-race family didn’t seem to faze him. “You see her much now?”

  “No. She left home about the same time I did—seventeen, eighteen—went into acting, didn’t want any of the old ties. She told me we had nothing in common.” I paused. “She said she’d decided to be black.” I exhaled a long breath of bourbon-scented air and got up from the couch, then cast a frowning look down at Solo, who was studying me quietly. “And that, Mr. Solo, is the longest conversation I’ve ever had on the subject, with anyone. You have amazing powers.”