by Rosie Genova
He shook his wet hair as he slid into the driver’s seat. “‘Baby, it’s bad out there,’” he sang in a low, soft tenor, and my head jerked up at the sound. The man could carry a tune. He stopped when he caught me frowning.
“What? Don’t you like that song?”
“No, it’s not that. You can sing. That gives me one more thing to add to my meager collection of facts about you.”
He trained his eyes on the dark street ahead. “Ain’t that mysterious, cher.”
Oh yes, you are. “What’s that?” I pointed to a grocery bag on the seat between us.
“Stuff from your fridge and freezer that might spoil. Though how you make a meal from designer ice cream and margarita mix is beyond me.”
“Those are two all-important food groups. Hope you got the container of frozen marinara sauce—it’s my one claim to fame.”
He grinned. “I got it. I’ll take it as payment for my hospitality.”
“It’s yours. Seriously, though, you thought of everything tonight.”
“Right. Learned it the hard way from a sassy gal named Katrina. Right before she run me out of town.” But he didn’t elaborate.
I noticed lights emerging along the highway in places where the power was still on. “Hey, we’re heading west,” I said. “I thought you told me you lived in Seaside?”
“Nope. Moved from that place. I’m in Riverton now, ’bout ten miles inland, which is safer than staying at your place or at your parents.”
A half hour later, we pulled into a new-looking apartment complex. Though the wind had died down a bit, it was still raining, and we made one last sprint to his front door.
“It ain’t much,” he said as he opened it, “but it’s home.”
But there was very little about the spotlessly clean and spartan apartment that said home. The living room held a couch, a table, and a standing lamp of good quality but nondescript style. Maybe the guy was a minimalist, but there wasn’t a photograph or a framed print on the walls, and none of the small, personal details that tell the story of a person’s life. Every room appeared to be painted white, and the same beige carpet ran throughout the apartment. In some way, I thought, Cal is hiding himself in all this bareness.
“So, how about a drink to warm them bones?” Cal took off his wet jacket and rolled up his shirtsleeves, and my eyes strayed to his tanned forearms.
“I wouldn’t say no.” Still holding my bag, I followed him to the kitchen, where he motioned me to sit. I plopped down on one of the kitchen chairs with a groan. “What time is it, anyway?”
“It’s after midnight.” He set down a tumbler in front of me partially filled with a clear brown liquid.
“Isn’t that an Eric Clapton song?” I sniffed the glass and took an experimental sip. Almonds. He’d wisely poured me amaretto instead of whiskey—one taste of whiskey and I’d be under his kitchen table.
He swirled his drink, an amused look on his face. “What do you know about Eric Clapton?”
“Please,” I said, waving my hand at such ignorance. “I listened to ‘Layla’ at my mother’s knee.”
He raised his eyebrows and grinned. “Wouldn’ta pegged your mom for a Clapton fan.”
“Ah, she’s full of surprises.”
“She don’t like me much.” He took a sip of his drink, his face thoughtful.
“That’s not so. You’re a very likable guy.”
“Maybe.” He looked down and swirled the whiskey in his glass. “But I’m not Tim.”
“No, you’re not. And for that I am grateful.” I took another sip of the sweet drink. “Now, my nonna, on the other hand, is Team Cal all the way.”
He smiled. “She’s a pistol, that one.”
“She sure is. I just wish she didn’t—ahem, go off all the time—around me.”
He laughed and shook his head, and I had the satisfaction of knowing I was involved with a guy who laughed at my jokes.
“S’cuse me a second,” he said, pulling his phone from his pocket. “I just wanna check the weather.” He swept his finger across the phone and held it up for me to see. That angry red swirl that had been hovering over the coast was heading out to sea.
“Thank God,” I said. “I think we’re through the worst of it. And up north all they’ll get is a thunderstorm.”
“You still can’t be too careful with hurricanes,” he said quietly.
I stared down at my glass and took another sip for courage. “Was it terrible?” I rested my hand on top of his.
He turned up his palm, linked his fingers in mine. “Was it terrible? you’re asking me. Terrible don’t begin to describe it, cher.” He shook his head slowly, back and forth twice, as though he still couldn’t believe what he had seen. “The panic. The smells. People dyin’ in their own homes. All those ‘X’s painted on houses to show where there were bodies.” He stared down at his glass. “And me, I lost everything. My woodworkin’ business, my house, and then my wife and—yet I’m one of the lucky ones. ’Cause I got outta there alive. And what y’all saw up here on the news? That wasn’t the half of it.”
I tightened my grip on his hand. “Tonight in our garden, when you were under that tree—was that like a flashback of some kind?”
“Guess you could say that, yeah.”
“But here we are, safe and sound. Back in Oceanside the most we’ll have to deal with is some water in basements and spoiled food.”
Cal stood up and pushed in his chair. “A man’s dead, Victoria. We didn’t escape unscathed.”
“No, I guess we didn’t. Thanks for talking with me. And thanks for rescuing me and my computer from the storm.” I stepped into his arms and rested my cheek against his chest. “It’s been a long night,” I said through a yawn.
He hugged me a little closer and kissed the top of my head. “It sure has. And you need to get some sleep.” He lifted my chin and pressed a light, quick kiss on my mouth that ended any wondering I might have had about how the evening would play out.
I followed him down a short hallway (also painted white) where two bedrooms sat across from each other. He gestured to the smaller of the two.
“You’ll be in here. Just give me a minute to tidy it, okay?” He slipped inside, leaving the door open a crack and giving me a glimpse of yellow walls. So not everything in the place is white. I glanced across the hall at the closed door of his room. What would Cal’s room be like? You can find out, a little voice said. One quick turn of the knob before he comes back. Go ahead, take a peek, it urged. I took three baby steps across the hall, close enough to reach the door, but just as I reached out my hand, Cal swung open the door of the smaller bedroom.
“Oh, hey,” I said, my heart pounding, “you all done?”
“Yup.” His smile looked strained; he had a bag tucked under one arm and seemed in a hurry to take it across the hall. “You go ahead and put your things in there. Let me just get this stuff out of the way.”
The room was small but cozy, its yellow walls trimmed in white. A patchwork quilt done in bright primary colors covered the narrow bed. There was even a white throw pillow propped against the wooden headboard. Then a thought pricked itself under my skin and lodged there like a splinter: This room looks feminine. Just how many guests did Cal entertain here?
“Bathroom’s at the end of the hall, by the way. I left towels for you.” Cal stood in the doorway but made no move to come into the room. The mood between us had shifted from a friendly warmth to a polite coolness. “So, y’all set?” he asked.
“Yes, thanks. And I appreciate this, Cal.”
“Not at all. Good night, Victoria.” He backed out, closing the door with a soft click.
“Good night,” I said to the closed door. “And what was that about?”
After washing up and brushing my teeth, I crept back down the hallway, stopping at Cal’s door. A sliver of lig
ht shone from underneath it; he was still awake. I lifted my hand to knock and then let it fall. What would I say? Why do you have a yellow guest room tricked out with a homey quilt and curtains in the middle of this white refrigerator you call an apartment? We didn’t know each other well enough for that.
Back in “my” room, I settled under the covers and grabbed a paperback I kept in my bag for emergencies—my favorite Agatha Christie, Sleeping Murder. But I had trouble concentrating on the plight of the heroine, as my eyes were drawn to that closet door. I threw off the blanket and tiptoed across the room. I turned the knob as slowly as I could and pulled open the door to reveal . . . an empty closet with a deep shelf that was bare. Turn off your writer’s imagination, Vic, and go to sleep. I looked around again. There was no dresser; there was no anything. Certainly no evidence of someone using this room on a permanent basis.
But there was one more place to look. I dropped to my knees to peek under the bed and spied a small, shadowy mass. Flat on my belly, I reached out my hand, straining to reach the object. My fingertips brushed something soft; I pinched the fabric with two fingers and pulled out a stuffed animal, a replica of the Velveteen Rabbit. I sat up and stroked its tiny head and stared into its button eyes.
“I wonder who it is you belong to,” I said softly. “You look well used.” Real, as the horse in the story explained.
I dropped the toy back under the bed, leaned back against the small white pillow, took in the yellow walls and white curtains. Despite its bare walls and empty closet, Cal hadn’t succeeded in wiping every trace from this room. And this was not a room decorated for a woman, but for a little girl.
There was really only one logical conclusion: Cal Lockhart had a child.
Chapter Seven
Cal and I were both quiet on the ride back to Oceanside Park the next morning. Did he regret inviting me to his home? The yellow room rose in my memory—a nearly empty yellow room with little in it but a child’s toy. From the corner of my eye, I glimpsed his serious expression. His hair was still wet from the shower, tucked behind his ears. He wore it a little long, giving him a youthful air, in pleasing contrast to the lines around his eyes. What could I learn from his face that I couldn’t from Cal? There was humor there, and warmth. Loyalty to those he cared about. A trace of loss and sadness. But something else, too. A wariness that said don’t get too close. Unthinking, I shook my head.
“What?” Cal asked.
“Oh,” I said. “Just going over everything I have to do today. Wondering if I’ve got power in the cottage. Hoping my dad’s generator holds out.”
“You expected at the restaurant?”
“What do you think? I’m on lunch service, though, so maybe I can get some writing in later today.”
“How’s the new book comin’?”
“Well, I’ve gotten Isabella to America. She’s looking for work at the moment. But she hasn’t met Tomasso yet.”
“Who’s Tomasso?”
“Who’s Tomasso? you ask! Only the love of her life. A blue-eyed boy that she’ll fall in love with at first sight.”
“Sounds romantic,” he said wryly. “But I’m not sure about those things in real life.”
“What, love at first sight? Italians even have a name for it: un culpo de fulmine. The lightning strike. One look and boom, it’s all over.”
“Un culpo de fulmine, huh? I kinda like that.”
“Hey, your accent’s not bad.”
“You forget my mama’s half Italian.”
At this opening, I decided to plunge in. “Are your parents still living?”
“My mom’s still in Louisiana. My father died when I was in high school.”
“Oh, sorry. That’s a tough age to lose somebody.”
He shrugged. “He wasn’t the best guy. Mama and I did all right on our own.” He turned his attention to the road, and it was clear I wouldn’t learn anything else.
But my questions nagged at me: How did you meet your wife? Why did you break up? Why do you live like a monk, without a picture or a knickknack? Do you have any children? And if not, who belongs to the Velveteen Rabbit?
But we were turning onto Ocean Avenue, and even if I’d gotten the courage to ask, I was nearly home. We were just past the restaurant when I had a thought.
“Hey, Cal? Do you mind dropping me on the next corner—right there at the boardwalk ramp? I’d like to check out the damage and see what’s going on.”
He frowned. “You sure? It’s a long walk to your cottage from here.”
“I’m used to it. I can walk off all that pancetta I ate last night.” He pulled over and I gathered my things. Maybe Cal was holding himself back from me, but despite his own fear and misgivings, the guy had driven in a hurricane to save my computer and put me up for the night. I kissed him on the cheek and thanked him again.
“My pleasure, cher,” he said. “Any time you need rescuin’ you give me a call.”
“You got it.” I slung the bag over my shoulder and closed the truck door. “You’re not coming in to the restaurant to work today, are you?”
“Nope,” he called through the window. “Saturday’s my day off.”
And what do you do on your days off, Mr. Lockhart? I thought as he drove away. Just one more question to which I didn’t have an answer.
* * *
Out on Ocean Avenue, the public works guys were already picking up branches and debris from the storm. I strolled the nearly empty boardwalk, noting a few brave souls out on the beach. The water was likely to be rough, and probably cold, but that wouldn’t deter a weekender who was determined to squeeze out some vacation time, storm or no storm. It was, in fact, a perfect beach day: The sun was shining and there were only the gentlest of breezes blowing across the sand.
But once those beachgoers wanted to eat lunch or take their kids on a boardwalk ride, that was where their fun would end. The entire eastern end of Oceanside Park was still without power, including the rides pier. Those with food stands were already packing up or throwing away their perishable stock. The T-shirt stores and souvenir shops had their metal gates down. The arcade was dark; inside, people milled about sweeping debris and wiping down the machines. Two men wearing green sanitation uniforms and matching caps stood outside, leaning on their brooms and talking. The taller of the two said something in the shorter man’s ear, who threw back his head and laughed so hard his gold tooth glinted in the sunlight.
“I’m glad they’re amused,” I muttered to myself. “God knows what there is to laugh about today.”
I kept heading east, toward my cottage and the rides pier. At one point, the red beach trolley chugged past me, and I waved to the driver. The trolley up and running was a good sign, even if there weren’t any passengers at the moment. In the distance I could see the roof of the carousel house and the top of the Ferris wheel, unmoving.
As I got closer, I saw the yellow police tape around the carousel house, an elaborate nineteenth-century structure, its copper roof now an oxidized green. The building’s circular form was decorated with small windows framed in neoclassical designs of vines and leaves. Over each window was a mythical face, whose stark expressions frightened me as a child. It was jarring to see that tape. The carousel house wasn’t a place for death; it was a place of magic and history. And it struck me that Mayor McCrae would now have a perfect excuse to sell the carousel. Who would bring their children to a place where a man had died?
I walked over to where my brother and a few other cops were milling around. He stepped away from them, his face grim. Possibly he wasn’t thrilled that I was here.
I pointed to the tape. “Does that mean it’s a crime scene?”
“No, it means nosy people should keep out.”
“C’mon, Danny—spill. Do they think Pete’s death is suspicious or not?”
“You know the answer to that, sis. We won’t know an
ything until—”
“The autopsy results come in,” I said. “Right. I know the drill. But that doesn’t mean that you boys in blue might not have some theories.”
“Vic, he was a drunk. He was elderly and unsteady on his feet even when he was sober. There’s nothing to suggest that his death was anything but an accident.”
“So, what do you think happened to him, Detective?”
“I think he drank too much and passed out, and either hit his head or drowned in shallow water. Hey, he might have had a heart attack, for all we know.”
“But what was he doing here in the first place?”
“Probably for shelter. Somewhere to get out of the storm.” He crossed his arms and narrowed his eyes at me. “Don’t you have a book to write or something?”
I held up my hands in surrender. “I’m going. I need to check on the cottage anyway. I had some water in the basement. Hey, is Sofia in the studio today?”
Danny pushed his cap back and stuck his face close to mine. “Why? What do you need Sofia for?”
“Geez, can’t a girl visit her sister-in-law without inviting suspicion? I want to let her know about the water in the basement of the cottage.”
Danny smirked in a way that had annoyed me since I was eight and he was eleven. “Right,” he said. “And Pop’s horse is gonna come in at Monmouth later today.”
“Stranger things have happened, brother,” I called over my shoulder. I took a last look at the carousel house. Too bad I couldn’t get in there to look around. But what would I expect to find that the police hadn’t? Any evidence was already bagged, noted, and safely stowed away at the station. Stop spinning tales, Vic, I told myself. Or at least save them for your books. Poor Stinky Pete shouldn’t have been out in that storm, period, and his death was likely an accident.
In another ten minutes I was at my cottage, where the first thing I did was throw open the windows for some sea air. While I never minded the musty smell of the shore, it was on the strong side this morning, and there were still a couple of inches of water in my basement. But sitting in a dry corner was a shiny new sump pump; taped to its side was a note in my dad’s handwriting: Who loves ya, baby? I smiled at the thought of my ever-optimistic dad buying me a sump pump I couldn’t use without electricity. But I guess it was the thought that counted.
