Amanda fumbled with her cigarette, dropped it into the long grass, and turned away just long enough so that she might hope to puff whatever remaining smoke inhabited her mouth without my noticing.
“It’s not what it looks like,” she said.
“No, you’re right.” I kept my focus on the moon. “Actually it’s already waning, with perhaps only about eighty-nine percent visibility.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Oh, you mean the cigarette. I’m sure the wind just blew it into your mouth, forcing you to take a puff simply to stay alive and breath. That happened to me once at your age, when my mother barged in.”
It was then that she caught sight of the indiscriminate Bourbon bottle dangling from my fingertips. She narrowed her eyes at the sight it: “Like you’re one to talk.”
“It’s a friend’s. I’m keeping it safe.”
“Mm-hmm, so was my cigarette.”
“Your friends’ cigarette, you mean.”
“Whatever.”
“Yeah, well I’m not exactly worried about getting caught, not by your mother, anyhow. My mother lives all the way across town.”
She shrugged shoulders. “It’s a small town.”
“Do you come back here often?”
“It’s been an easy place to remain unseen up until now, when you showed up. I’m not addicted, you know. I can quit anytime.”
“People rarely are in the beginning.”
“It’s just a release.”
I started back towards my residence. “We all need those from time to time.”
“Are you gonna tell my parents?”
“You’re practically a young adult.”
“I turn eighteen on Saturday.”
“And if I’m not mistaken, you graduated from high school last spring. I think you’re entitled to make your own mistakes now. Goodnight, Amanda.”
She didn’t return the goodnight. And so I left her alone with the bullfrogs and the crickets, the smoldered cigarette in the long grass, and that sumptuous waning moon.
c
AUDREY HEPBURN MAY NOT HAVE BEEN waiting for me in the Stable, as Estelle had falsely promoted. But Gracie Parker was.
One could understand the confusion. Gracie had Hepburn’s perfect hourglass figure. She was young, and would likely retain the look of youth for many more years to come. She was wearing a one-piece sleeveless dress that seemed to exemplify her anatomy and one of those flapper hats from prohibition days gone, with an off-centered bow that potentially held her entire hat and dress together.
The Bourbon was gently settled on my coffee table (like the town name, it was carved of driftwood), next to the plates of creamy pesto, and said: “Gracie, I wasn’t expecting company.”
Freckles peppered her olive-skinned nose. Otherwise, by the swelling of her doe-like eyes and tightened contortion of her mouth and by the mere fact that she stood motionless in the center of the room (almost like a mannequin in the window of a department store); I was convinced that something was wrong.
She said: “We need to talk.”
I plopped down in a professor’s chair and stacked both legs on the coffee table, each in turn, careful not to spill the Kentucky Bourbon. I said: “Sounds serious.”
“It’s Sean.”
“Is he in trouble?”
“No, not that I’m aware of. You two have been spending a lot of time together over the last couple of weeks.”
“I’ve been trying to reconnect with old friends in town.”
“Yes, about that. I guess that’s why I’m here. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but Sean has…changed considerably, since last you’ve known him.”
“He can be hot off the press sometimes.”
“We just had a big fight, Sean and me. He stormed out, and I don’t think he’ll be returning home tonight.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
Gracie carefully folded her body backwards upon the sofa, fixing eyesight now on her hands, which she folded into her lap.
She said: “Do you mind?”
“No, please, sit. Excuse my rudeness.”
“The thing is, and I feel so foolish saying this…I think he’s seeing… another woman.”
I sighed: “A lot of that going around this evening. Have you talked to Sean about this?”
“Yes.”
“And I take it he didn’t respond well.”
“Preacher, he gets so angry. I…I can’t ask him again. He denied everything. He slammed his fists over the table, broke a bottle of liquor against the wall, and…. I can’t ask him again. But I just can’t take no for an answer.”
“And that’s what the fight was about.”
“Not exactly, I raised the question about two hours into it. Honestly, I can’t even remember everything we were fighting about. But it was in the heat of the argument and I just blurted it out. He stormed off moments later.”
“That’s no small accusation.”
“I just get this feeling with Sean sometimes. It’s the way he stares into his food at dinnertime or when we’re in bed together, the acts he wants me to preform…. the kind of things he asks, and….” She lowered her voice now to a whimper. “When he comes inside of me I get this feeling. I don’t know how to explain it, but it’s a feeling that he’s been inside of another woman.”
“You’re not crazy, Gracie.”
“No?” Her voice trembled.
“No, you’re not.”
Her doe-like eyes scrolled up from her fingers and locked onto mine. It was haunting. “So you’re saying he is cheating on me.”
“No. I’m not.”
“I think….” She paused long enough to dart both eyes around the room. “I think he’s off now with that other girl.”
I leaned back into my chair and sighed, rather unconvincingly: “I wouldn’t know anything about that.”
“I was just wondering, since the two of you have been spending so much time together, if you’ve seen anything or….”
“Like, has he been staring at other women?”
Gracie’s eyes fled towards her fingers again. They cautiously remained there. “Sean has said something about how you’re a….Detective.”
“Not anymore, I’m not.”
“But you used to be.”
“You’re asking me to spy on him.”
“I know that’s asking a lot.”
“Actually, it is. Sean is an old friend of mine. I don’t know if I could violate his trust like that. And besides, that career you spoke of came to a quick and sudden end in New York. I actually moved back here to get away from it all.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. Sean says it’s your partner.”
“He died in the North Tower.”
“Oh.”
“I guess Sean hasn’t told you that I’m currently being considered as a lead pastor here in town.”
“That’s quite the conviction, as career changes go.”
“It’s a calling, I think.”
Gracie stood to leave. “I guess I’m wasting my time then.”
“Gracie, wait. Please just sit down.” I waited for her to do so, the couch creaked like a feather under her weight, and then: “A woman’s intuition is right more often than wrong. You should listen to that without accusing yourself of insanity, or it will drive you to dementia.”
She thought about what she wanted to say for a time, perhaps more importantly how she wanted to say it, and then proceeded: “Several months ago Sean convinced me to let one of my girlfriends, how do I say this, enter our marriage bed. He said our sex life needed a boost. I thought it was fine as it was. We set up this rule where there had to be trust between us, which meant we both had to be present when, you know, it happened. But afterwards my relationship was never the same between she and me, and I always suspected that that simply bumped me out of the equation. I think Sean kept seeing her, but it didn’t stop there. We started attending these swinger parties, all in the campaign to spice up our bedtime habits. Th
e funny thing is I’d convinced myself then that it’s what I wanted. I was clearly in denial. I think most women are about these matters.”
“Then I would definitely trust your instincts.”
“Sean is very fond of you. Please talk to him.”
I considered her wish. “I can at least do that. As a pastor, at least, I can do that.”
“I hope you don’t mind my asking. While you’re at it, talking to him that is, I’d very much appreciate learning who he’s seeing.”
“That sounds like sleuth work to me, Gracie.”
Gracie retrieved a wad of cash from her purse. If I wasn’t mistaken, they were hundred dollar bills – an entire stack. Every one contained a Franklin.
“I’m sure this will more than cover your standard fee.”
“Hey wait, hold on.” I sat up, stiff as a board, and held both hands in front of me. “I never agreed to investigate anything. I didn’t come all the way back to South Carolina for detective work.”
“Just think about it.”
“And what if I say no?”
“The money is yours to keep, either way.”
“Won’t your husband notice a dip in his bank account?”
“This didn’t come from Sean.”
I said: “Daddy Mancini has a lot of money to spend.”
“Daddy isn’t under investigation.”
“Got it,” I said.
c
THE GROWL OF GRACIE’S ENGINE as she sped away was immediately bleached out by uninhibited laugher spilling out from the Rec Room. The Rec Room was a modest residence adjacent to the tennis court and pool, all of which was neatly tucked away behind PREACHER HOUSE. Both the Stable and Rec Room, though opposite of each other, led down to the dock (Amanda was absent, I looked). Two unnaturally almond-skinned bodies followed that laughter, a tall man with wiry-hair and a woman literally half his size, practically tumbling through the door and spilling onto the lawn, with a screen clapping violently shut behind them.
They managed to stumble together towards the dock, which would in turn lead past the cypress trees and long grass to the properties somewhat functioning pontoon boat, which could navigate the Ashley River to the ocean, all the way to Avalon Island in high tide, which it was not. They seemed to pay little mind to the blue heron or the water turkeys, who fearfully scurried away without any of their usual graces, as the couple collapsed playfully on top of each other.
I cleared my throat, but neither heard me. When I amplified my ah-hums a second and third time, it was clear they paid me no mind, so I said, rather rudely: “Excuse me!”
The man, dressed only in a thinly veiled Kimono robe, far too short for my own personal comfort, absent-mindedly raised his head, and pointing to himself, asked: “Who, me?”
“I didn’t realize I had company.”
“What, the Sisters didn’t tell you? We’re your new neighbors!”
The woman, also wearing a Kimono, playfully slapped his arm. “We are not. We live in Savannah. The Sisters are good friends of ours.”
“Yeah, good friends,” he said.
“We’re just staying for the week”
“And we’ll be gone before you know it. You won’t even know we’re here.”
I said: “And your names are?”
“Craig,” Craig held up a single hand.
“Debbie,” waved Debbie.
“Preacher,” I said. “I take it the Sisters will be letting their friends make use of the rec room, from time to time.”
“The Sisters have so many friends I’m surprised they haven’t installed a rotating door.” Craig.
“Perfect,” I sighed, mostly under my breath, and started towards the Stable door, where my fingers made it so far as its knob.
“Hey, buddy!” Craig called again. “I hope you don’t mind, but Debbie and I are recreational nudists!”
“I take it the Sisters are aware of this.”
“Who do you think introduced us to the sport?”
I gave birth to a visual image of the Sisters sunbathing in their stead and shuddered. That picture was shattered however; thank the Lord, by the growl of another car engine, this one originating from a vintage Jeep Cherokee.
Oh hell, Michael was behind the wheel.
“But don’t you worry about it,” Craig called after me as I sprinted, without giving any notice, down the driveway and in the direction of the engine. “You probably won’t even know we’re here!”
c
“NO, NO, NO, YOU DON’T!”
It wasn’t exactly tap dancing, but I attempted more grace than Ray Bolger on the Yellow Brick Road as I scrambled across the oak-lined street, and was already panting of breath by the time I’d went splat like a hard-boiled egg on top of his hood.
Through the windshield I said: “Where are we going?”
Michael hit the break hard enough to jolt the both of our skulls forward. “You dent my hood and you pay for it, detective.”
“Was a detective,” I said. “Right now I’m being your Pastor. You had another bottle stashed away, didn’t you? I can’t let you drive in your condition.”
“That’s fine, I’ll walk. And if I see that you dented my hood, you’re still paying for it.”
“No problem, I’ll just send the offering plate around a second time come Sunday.”
He shifted gears to park, retrieved keys from its ignition, unbuckled himself, and lumbered double-time down the oak-lined sidewalk of James Island towards the Bay Street Bridge, which would in turn fork with Palmetto Drive on the left and Bay Street on the right.
He said: “Brew, you coming?”
The Guide Dog was just across the street from Cozy Corner, where we’d just come. It was perhaps a five minute walk. Just about everything worth visiting on Bay Street and Palmetto Drive was within ten minutes of our house.
I sprinted until I passed his heels by a nose, though barely slowed my frantic pace to keep up, and said: “I feel like we just went through this, and it was one big tease.”
“I was thinking.”
“By the looks of it you were drinking.”
“I was thinking and drinking.”
“Uh-oh.”
“It all boils down to that ex-girlfriend of yours.”
Confusion colored my face. “Leah Bishop? We broke up over a month ago.”
“Ellie Fitzgerald,” he said.
I was confused. “Elizabeth lives in New York. She’s never been to Driftwood a day in her life.”
“She has now.”
I was having a difficult time keeping up with Michael, and said: “Since when?”
“You’re the former detective.”
“Let’s not overlook the former.”
Michael stopped. He prodded his pointer finger dead-center into my chest. “I never did understand what you saw in her.”
“Before she became an atheist or after?”
“After,” he started back up on his hurried journey.
I thought about the after part, but mostly her before, and then scurried after him, “But you have to admit, she was intoxicating before, theologically speaking.”
“Yeah well, I hold her partly responsible for Desarae’s actions. You introduced them.”
“Are they still good friends?”
“Very.” He stopped once again to consider the matter. “Explain to me again what happened while the two of you were dating that she went from Charity Churchmouse to rubbing shoulders with the likes of Christopher Hitchens.”
“You think I had something to do with that?” I thought about her turn for the worse, theologically speaking, but then it occurred to me: “She knows Christopher Hitchens?”
c
LIGHT AND LAUGHTER SPILLED OUT from The Guide Dog, warming the empty spaces of Bay Street immediately surrounding it. Sailors cruising around Boyd’s lighthouse and Washout Beach on James Island (where we lived) could probably also navigate by the sight and sound of the pub. If that wasn’t enticing enough, then Harley Motor
cycles acted as the welcoming committee. I was sold, mostly. There was one complication though. My legs went limber, and in my stomach a fresh heaping of butterflies fluttered to life, just knowing she was in there.
Michael was the recipient of unfaithfulness, and therefore blistering with indignation as he dodged through the bubbling crowd of Driftwood’s finest and swooped in on my ex-girlfriend. She was seated in the back of a crescent shaped booth, with young male and females admirers thoroughly wedging her in. I say admirers, because every single one of them appeared to hold a shiny new hardbound copy of the exact same book, and while my first intuition dictated that this must be a discussion group, which it was, I soon learned that she was the author.
Michael wasted no time in addressing my ex.
He said: “Did you know?”
“Did I know what?” She twisted her face.
“Did you know my wife was… seeing someone?”
“Michael,” she leaned in, speaking with the sort of whisper (and perchance amused) that could keep a baby sleeping, “You’re angry. And you’re making a scene.”
I didn’t ask permission to view someone’s book either. I selected that someone at random, snatched it from his arm, and said: “Can I borrow this?”
“HEY!” The woman standing next to him protested.
The books title was – get this: BABIES ARE ATHIESTS. I can’t make this stuff up. It contained a New York Times Bestseller sticker, though I imagined the cover photo had something to do with its boost in sales.
Its jacket depicted the author, a blushing Dr. Ellie Alexander completely naked, barely covering two baby-feeders with one arm, her only other free arm holding a crucifix at full mass over her inner-thigh, and beaded rosaries draped from her neck in-between the crack of her breasts. I figured it had something to do with the fact that she was reverting back to her inner baby atheist or something, with the guilt of religion desperately attempting to clothe her. Mm-hmm, I got metaphors.
“Thanks,” I said, delivering the hardbound back into the embrace of its smitten beholder.
“You’re not welcome,” his lady friend said.
“I want to know about Desarae. Did she confide in you? Did you…. encourage her?”
“Michael, this isn’t the time or the place.”
“She’s right, you know,” I said.
The Sea Surrendered Her (Preacher Book 1) Page 3
