by Ralph Zeta
“I bought sushi, seaweed salad, and fresh sashimi.”
As she started up the ladder to the flying bridge, she smiled at me. I noticed something different in her eyes. Their glint had lost some of its luster. Something weighed on her.
The past month had been an eventful time. Milton’s remains were discovered deep in the Everglades by hunters in search of invasive Burmese pythons. A private ceremony was held in Miami. Lola and I attended. Not surprisingly, Gabriela Lowry went out of her way not to acknowledge our presence. It was then that I understood why Gabriela had said she hoped never to see me again: it meant Milton’s body had been found. The discovery meant the IRS would come looking for its share of her husband’s estate and she would be forced to return the money she took. Death and taxes; no one escapes. I didn’t feel sorry for her. She was getting everything she deserved.
“What happened to the woman?” Lola
had asked as she set up the table on the flying bridge. “Paula Jumper?”
I told her. It could be said Paula was a classic study of best intentions gone array. She was jailed for a few days while she made bail. The special-needs son became a temporary ward of the state. A day after her release from county lockup, she buried two of her four sons. Paula was in no way a criminal. Yes, she may have harbored wanted felons and even obstructed justice. But the Department of Social Services petitioned the court for leniency. Paula was the sole care provider for an adult child with special needs. Under the circumstances, given the nature of her offenses, depriving the boy of his mother would not have advanced the cause of justice in the least. Paula Jumper pleaded guilty to one count of aiding and abetting and was sentenced to three years probation. Her cousin Jerome Aguilar was far less fortunate. He pleaded guilty to two counts of conspiracy to commit murder, aiding and abetting, and money laundering. A loser many times over, he was given a stiff sentence: twenty to life.
In Henry Kline’s case, the world would breathe a little easier. A crooked lawyer had lost his shingle. Henry Klein was indicted on two counts of murder for hire, conspiracy to commit murder, and wire fraud. Other charges were pending. He was denied bail and was sitting in jail awaiting trial. I heard his mother visits him weekly.
I took a moment to fetch beverages, silverware, and napkins from the galley.
“I’ve been thinking,” she said as I reappeared topside. She sat down watching the relaxed bustle of the harbor.
I sat across from her and took a glug of cold beer and waited for her to speak. When she didn’t, I said, “So you’ve been thinking.”
She smiled and said, “Yes. Quite a bit, actually.” The smile seemed forced, even sad.
“About?”
“Life,” she said as she handed me a tray of wasabi and a packet of soy sauce.
“I’d love to hear.”
“Been thinking about my sister. How fragile life is. How her death changed everything. How much I miss her. And I’ve been reflecting on the direction of my life. What I want to do. It’s just me now. I’ve never been without my sister. It’s all very daunting. Until recently, I didn’t know what I wanted to do.”
“Have these reflections affected our planned getaway?”
She pressed her lips together before answering. “They have.”
I already didn’t like the direction of the conversation. “Oh?”
“Jason, everything in my life has shifted. For months I didn’t know if I was moving forward or backward. It seems like I’ve been living in some sort of daze. You know that. I don’t need to tell you how hard it’s been trying to make sense of what happened, much less sort it out. It’s taken me a while, but I think I’ve figured things out.”
“You’re not coming to Bimini, are you?”
She cast her eyes down for a beat. “I’m sorry.”
“Can I ask why?”
“It’s everything, Jason. You. Me. Spending a week on this magnificent boat with a man I barely know. I’d love nothing more than to go away to an island in paradise with you. The notion of spending nights sleeping under the stars, waking up on a solitary beach . . . Well, it just sounds wonderful. I’d love to experience it all. I really would. But I don’t think it’s in my best interests to go, Jason. I’m sorry.”
I wanted to say something that didn’t sound too lame. “Look, Lola, it’s only a vacation. No commitments. No expectations.”
“I know.”
“What changed?”
“Can I be blunt?”
I nodded and steeled myself for whatever was coming.
“Fear.”
“Fear? Of what?”
Lola shifted uncomfortably in her seat. “That this—you and me—may turn out to be something significant. For me. Look, Jason, we need to be candid with each other. We both know you and I are not on the same page. We have different goals, different expectations. What I want for myself is worlds apart from what you want. The truth is, I’m afraid to fall for you, Jason. I can’t afford to do that with someone who doesn’t believe in the ever after. I’m still struggling with Lisel’s death. I don’t know how long it will be before things get better. But I do know I can’t afford another heartbreak. And that is my fear. I fear you. But, most of all, I fear myself. Do you understand?”
“I think so,” I said.
“Believe me, saying no hurts—far more than I ever thought. A big part of me wants to spend a week, heck, a month, or a year in paradise with you. And that scare me. We only get this one life, Jason. That’s it. There are no redos. So I have to do what I think is best for me. Not out of selfishness, but out of self-preservation. I hope you can forgive me.”
I sat there in silent contemplation of her, and she did the same. I watched the bewitching pale-green eyes well with moisture, but they never wavered from me, as if she were waiting for me to say something.
Finally, after a long silence, I placed my hand on hers and said, “You know what, I understand.”
The words rang hollow in my ears. I didn’t believe myself, and I doubted she would.
“Do you?” She gave a skeptical frown.
“Yeah,” I said, forcing a smile. “At least I think I do.”
She considered me with the same measure of skepticism. “I know how disappointed you must be,” she said. “I want you to know I feel terrible about it. I hate canceling at the last possible minute. Especially after so much planning and making you bring this big boat all the way down here. But I really wasn’t even sure until this morning. I hope you’ll forgive me. But it is important that you understand why I made this decision . . . how difficult this was.”
“You don’t need to say anything else. I get it.”
“I don’t want you to be mad at me.”
I wasn’t mad. Disappointed, yes, but not mad. I couldn’t. Not with her. “So let me get this straight. You’re dumping me?”
She chortled. “I guess I am.”
We munched on sushi, but neither of us seemed much interested in eating. Endings are never easy. Although we never really dated in the strictest sense of the word, I still felt a profound sense of loss. Our nascent relationship had reached the end before it ever began.
“So what’s next?” I asked her after finishing my beer. I debated whether to fetch another but decided against it. I no longer felt in a festive mood.
“Remember you asked me where I grew up?”
“You never said.”
“California. Carmel. Do you know it?” I nodded. “It was just a small beach town back then. Everyone knew each other. We were two skinny girls who couldn’t wait to get out of school and run to the beach. Even when it was cold. I have lots of fond memories of my childhood. We had a feeling of access to everything that is good in life. Surrounded by family and close friends. We felt safe then. Life was good, you know? We belonged. It was home. I haven’t felt that way in a long time. But spending time on this boat with you, sitting out at night watching the shimmering water, the stars, listening to the sounds of the night, reminded me of the way life used to be. Th
e way life is meant to be. At least for me. I now know what I want, where I need to be. So thank you, Mr. Justice. For coming into my life and helping me through the most painful time of my adult life. And for putting up with me—I know I can be very difficult at times.”
“No need,” I said as I took her hand in mine and kissed it. “I had little to do with you rediscovering yourself. That was all you.”
She smiled, and her eyes drifted out to the bay.
“You know,” Lola said, “I had a terrible experience in college. I was gang raped. It was a long time ago, but the scars are still there. It changed me forever. I developed trust issues. I think I have always regarded others as if they were waiting for a chance to hurt me. What I didn’t realize is that by closing myself off to others, I was only hurting myself. I hope that someday I get the chance to live a normal life. Be normal again. Live without fear.”
“Oh, it looks like you’ve already begun on that path.”
Her eyes settled on me. “What about you?”
“Me?” I said. “All I wanted was someone to help me tame this big boat.”
“Jason,” she said with a stern glance, “I’m being serious.”
“I know.” I smiled. “I guess I’m where I am supposed to be.”
She smiled a sad little smile.
“Where will you go?” I asked.
“Home. Back to Carmel.”
I studied her. The look of determination in her eyes said she was serious. And I had to admit, I wasn’t entirely surprised. This was a strong woman. Her sister’s death, the tragedies in her life, had shaped her outlook in ways I couldn’t even begin to imagine.
“Aren’t you going to try to talk me out of it?” she asked behind a deliciously wicked smile.
I eyed her for a moment. “Would it change your mind?”
She smiled and shook her head. “It wasn’t an easy decision. But I am convinced it’s what it’s best for me.”
Lola put the lunch leftovers in the fridge, and I took care of the silverware.
“Walk me out?” she asked.
We ambled toward the Fisher Island Resort Clubhouse. Not much was said during the long walk. Before she boarded the Ferry that would bring her back to the mainland, we exchanged a long embrace.
She wore a sad little smile. “Good-bye, Jason Justice,” she said. “Be good to yourself.”
“If you ever need me . . . ,” I said as she turned to leave.
“Trust me,” she said, and finished the sentence for me. “I know where to find you.”
She lingered there for a moment and regarded me with that haunting pale glance, waved and then walked away.
Several hours later, I had the Bold Ambition II safely tied up at my berth in Juno Beach. I spent a good hour rinsing saltwater spray off the decks and exterior surfaces. It was early evening when, drink in hand, fat stogie clenched between my teeth, I mounted the ladder to the flying bridge. Under clear skies and caressed by cool northerly breezes that hinted of the arrival of south Florida’s version of winter, I held the torch to the cigar until I had a good hot coal, leaned back on the guest bench, and took in the view. I was reminded of Lola’s first visit late that night long ago, how she had marveled at the view and the quiet solitude.
It wasn’t just Lola who had changed. For a moment I even contemplated telling her before we said good-bye. I wanted to tell her how her presence had quietly chiseled away at the protective walls I had built around myself, how her gentle spirit, her lingering sadness, had affected me. Granted, it didn’t amount to some earthshaking epiphany, but the fact remained, something had changed. To my surprise, I had even begun to question some of my deeply held beliefs, a collection of rules that had defined me for so long. Months earlier, fate saw fit that our paths should cross. In many ways, that earlier version of me –was no more. That version was a man who at times drank too much and sought distraction and maybe even solace, in fast vehicles and hot women; a cynical man plagued by unwanted memories, and a lifetime of remorse. But knowing Lola forced me to take a sober, honest look at myself. In Lola’s loneliness, I came to understand the depths of my own. For her, the answer was simple: go back to her childhood home. But me, well, I was already home.
Or was I?
I must have pondered that question for hours. Dusk had long since turned to darkness. I recalled having been to the galley a few times for a fresh drink—how many, I couldn’t remember, but it was more than four and less than ten. My eyes found an uncapped, half-empty bottle of tequila sitting on the navigation console. For the life of me, I couldn’t explain how that bottle came to be there. I must have brought it up on one of my trips to the galley. But which one?
I laughed.
I gazed at the lights across the inky expanse of the Intracoastal Waterway. The questions—big, vexing questions—continued to nag at me. That was nothing new; they had been nagging at me for a long time. But what felt new was the hollowness, the emptiness at the center of my chest. Images of Lola—her mesmerizing gaze, her supple skin, her brilliant smile, the way she held her head just so—ran like a nonstop movie loop in my mind. I looked at the seat she had occupied earlier in the day, how regal, how right, she looked sitting there, her relaxed posture, her hair stirred by the soft trades. Only a few hours, and I already missed her. Such things rarely ever happen, and when they do, I find a way to quash them. I downed another shot and decided it would be my last.
No más tequila.
I lingered there, basking in the stillness for some time. But the birds of the night, with their clicking, squawking, and puffing, reminded me that we are never really as alone as we think.
I wondered whether a week in paradise would have been the beginning of something special with Lola. It was difficult to tell. Lola wasn’t easy to read. By her own admission, she internalized far more than she let on. That made two of us. Whatever the case, no matter how many times I pondered the question, it was a question destined to remain unanswered. Lola was leaving town. I wondered if our paths would cross again. No way to know. In the meantime, more tequila was indicated.
* * *
Six Months Later
I’ve been driving my rental for well over an hour through rolling coastal terrain under a brilliant, cloudless sky. Traffic along US 101 South is heavy, but nothing like the stop-and-go congestion I encountered soon after leaving San Jose International Airport.
It is a mid-July afternoon. I lower the window of my rental the moment I catch a glimpse of the deep blue sliver of Pacific Ocean in the distance. Air temperature is a pleasant seventy-one degrees. So is the relative humidity. Costal California’s version of summer is in full swing. I’m accustomed to the soggy Florida summers. But, after a long numbing flight, the crisp, clean, cool ocean breeze is refreshing and invigorating.
I have not seen or spoken to Lola since we said good-bye at the marina. I learned of her new yoga studio entirely by chance. Three weeks ago, an unexpected email appeared in my inbox. It announced the opening of the studio, as well as class schedules. The email was sent to a long list of recipients. I didn’t know why I would be included, since the studio is somewhat inconveniently located in California. My rational mind insisted it was just a simple mistake. But my overactive, cynical lawyer’s mind saw it differently. It saw intent, a clever and not-so-indirect way of reaching out. Lola said that if she ever needed me, she knew how to find me. Well, she did. My main concern now is that the often cavalier, glass-half-full attitude that brought me to the northern California coast may have led me astray, making me see things as I want them rather than as they are.
Maybe.
Over the past six months, I wondered about Lola often. So, with Sammy’s reluctant assistance, I kept tabs on her. Her Coconut Grove studio, with its ideal location and long list of well-heeled clients, sold quickly. Her home took a little longer.
Months have gone by since our last conversation. She has likely moved on. Lola is much more than just another pretty face. She is smart and very succe
ssful businesswoman. There could be someone else in her life by now. And I wonder for the thousandth time if showing up unannounced is one of my more boneheaded mistakes. I have no idea whether I’ll be welcomed in or shown the door. Regardless, I’m determined to find out.
I push through the glass doors and enter an expansive reception area that, judging by the tasteful benches dispersed around the space, doubles as a gathering area. Lola had chosen well. The studio occupies the ground floor of a modern glass-and-concrete building surrounded on two sides by tall eucalyptus and juniper trees, and between them, a peek-a-boo view of the ocean.
Two yoga sessions are in progress, one led by Lola. She is surrounded by two dozen women in yoga outfits, standing beside mats in a profusion of colors. Lola’s back is to me. Her hair is held back by a pink band that matches the mauve of her tight tank top. I watch her walk away from me and almost smile. Head held high, back straight, defined shoulders back in a perfect posture. She’s directing a change of pose to the class. Almost as one, the group stirs into what to me seems like an obtuse and painful body contortion.
I peer in from just beyond the room’s threshold, determined not to intrude. I couldn’t have failed more miserably if I had tried. One of the women near the back of the class spots me, smiles, and immediately whispers something to her neighbor. Suddenly, half a dozen faces stare back at me, some grinning, others curious, murmuring among themselves. Lola turns, following their gaze.
Her pale eyes lock on me. Her face lights up. Her hands shoot up to her mouth. I see astonishment in her eyes—and what I hope is delight.
I smile.
All eyes are on me now, but I stopped caring a while ago. She whispers something to one of her students I can’t quite make out, then starts moving past her students toward the back of the class, headed in my direction.
A wave of hushed murmurs trails in behind her. I hear the voices but I don’t see the faces. My eyes are resolutely on Lola, unwavering in their resolve to find some clue, any indication that I’ve made a mistake.
“Jason?” she says. She keeps coming. “What are you doing here?”
