some guy who had been married three times before. Not that the two strikes against her were anything to be proud of.
If it was any consolation, Tree said, he never expected to be that guy.
____
Freddie waved at Mr. Ray as they headed toward the car. “I’m meeting Terry at ten tomorrow morning.”
“The shrink rate is fine,” he called back.
“No it’s not,” she said. Mr. Ray gave the dead-eyed stare usually reserved for Tree. “Honestly,” she said in a low voice, “There are days when I could murder that man.”
“Most days I think the Ray Man wants to kill me.”
“He continues to believe that all you have to do is pull the trucks up to the back door and unload them.”
“But he hired you,” Tree said. “And he’s been in Nam.”
“In his head he knows that. In his heart, I am the irritating city broad who has never unloaded a truck.”
“Or served in Vietnam,” Tree said.
On the way home he told Freddie about his first client. “Wonderful,” she said in the flat voice she employed when she wasn’t paying attention to him. Not that he blamed her. Freddie had not discouraged his move into detecting, as she would not discourage anything her husband decided to undertake, but she didn’t encourage it, either.
“Unfortunately, he was only twelve years old.”
That got her attention. “You’re kidding. He was twelve?”
“Actually, he may not even have been twelve.”
“What did he want you to do?”
“Find his mother.”
“What did you tell him?”
“I told him he should go to the police.”
“You didn’t take him to the police yourself?” A hint of disapproval.
“I should have, shouldn’t I?”
“A little boy so desperate to find his mom he goes to a detective. Kind of sad.”
The observation came without judgmental inflection. Except he knew damn well he was being judged, and not positively.
“I should have handled it better.”
“Well, hopefully he’s all right. What’s his name?”
“Marcello.”
“That’s it, Marcello?”
“After the Italian actor.”
“He’s named after Marcello Mastroianni?”
“Apparently.”
“But you didn’t get his last name.”
“That’s all he said,” Tree said, kicking himself for not getting the kid’s last name. “Like I said, I didn’t handle it so well.”
They crossed Blind Pass onto Captiva Island. Their house on Andy Rosse Lane like most of the newer houses in the area, was built above the garage so that in the event of a hurricane—Charley in 2004 remained fresh in everyone’s mind—flood damage would be minimal. Such were the concessions you made to life in the tropics, Tree reflected. You lived in air, floating, not tethered to anything.
The house was lost in a profusion of palm trees and hedges. A sitting room with big windows showing a view of the sea dominated. A good-sized kitchen had been recently updated with de rigueur granite counters and stainless steel appliances. When they moved in, they had redone the place in bright Mediterranean tones and hung the paintings they’d collected—the oversized poster for the bad French movie Tree had written in Paris was consigned to a wall in the laundry room.
Freddie cooked turkey burgers on their Weber barbecue using real charcoal. Gas barbecues were nothing but outdoor stoves, she said. Not really barbecues at all. She had a glass of chardonnay.
After dinner they sat on the terrace overlooking the pool they never used, watching one of the spectacular sunsets tourists came from all over the world to see. Tree watched that sun in all its dying glory and decided life was not so bad.
He thought no further of twelve-year-old boys looking for their mothers.
3
A tall man with dark hair in a white linen suit waited for Tree when he arrived at the office the next morning. Tree couldn’t take his eyes off the linen suit. It fell gracefully along the contours of his visitor’s slim torso. Linen wrinkled so easily, thought Tree, who did not own a lot of
If it was any consolation, Tree said, he never expected to be that guy.
____
Freddie waved at Mr. Ray as they headed toward the car. “I’m meeting Terry at ten tomorrow morning.”
“The shrink rate is fine,” he called back.
“No it’s not,” she said. Mr. Ray gave the dead-eyed stare usually reserved for Tree. “Honestly,” she said in a low voice, “There are days when I could murder that man.”
“Most days I think the Ray Man wants to kill me.”
“He continues to believe that all you have to do is pull the trucks up to the back door and unload them.”
“But he hired you,” Tree said. “And he’s been in Nam.”
“In his head he knows that. In his heart, I am the irritating city broad who has never unloaded a truck.”
“Or served in Vietnam,” Tree said.
On the way home he told Freddie about his first client. “Wonderful,” she said in the flat voice she employed when she wasn’t paying attention to him. Not that he blamed her. Freddie had not discouraged his move into detecting, as she would not discourage anything her husband decided to undertake, but she didn’t encourage it, either.
“Unfortunately, he was only twelve years old.”
That got her attention. “You’re kidding. He was twelve?”
“Actually, he may not even have been twelve.”
“What did he want you to do?”
“Find his mother.”
“What did you tell him?”
“I told him he should go to the police.”
“You didn’t take him to the police yourself?” A hint of disapproval.
“I should have, shouldn’t I?”
“A little boy so desperate to find his mom he goes to a detective. Kind of sad.”
The observation came without judgmental inflection. Except he knew damn well he was being judged, and not positively.
“I should have handled it better.”
“Well, hopefully he’s all right. What’s his name?”
“Marcello.”
“That’s it, Marcello?”
“After the Italian actor.”
“He’s named after Marcello Mastroianni?”
“Apparently.”
“But you didn’t get his last name.”
“That’s all he said,” Tree said, kicking himself for not getting the kid’s last name. “Like I said, I didn’t handle it so well.”
They crossed Blind Pass onto Captiva Island. Their house on Andy Rosse Lane like most of the newer houses in the area, was built above the garage so that in the event of a hurricane—Charley in 2004 remained fresh in everyone’s mind—flood damage would be minimal. Such were the concessions you made to life in the tropics, Tree reflected. You lived in air, floating, not tethered to anything.
The house was lost in a profusion of palm trees and hedges. A sitting room with big windows showing a view of the sea dominated. A good-sized kitchen had been recently updated with de rigueur granite counters and stainless steel appliances. When they moved in, they had redone the place in bright Mediterranean tones and hung the paintings they’d collected—the oversized poster for the bad French movie Tree had written in Paris was consigned to a wall in the laundry room.
Freddie cooked turkey burgers on their Weber barbecue using real charcoal. Gas barbecues were nothing but outdoor stoves, she said. Not really barbecues at all. She had a glass of chardonnay.
After dinner they sat on the terrace overlooking the pool they never used, watching one of the spectacular sunsets tourists came from all over the world to see. Tree watched that sun in all its dying glory and decided life was not so bad.
He thought no further of twelve-year-old boys looking for their mothers.
3
A tall man with dark hair in a white linen suit waited for Tree when he arrived at the office the next morning. Tree couldn’t take his eyes off the linen suit. It fell gracefully along the contours of his visitor’s slim torso. Linen wrinkled so easily, thought Tree, who did not own a lot of
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