Past Tense (25 page)
“I'd be thrilled to tell her again. But I don't know how to reach her.”
“Exactly!”
“Huh?”
“That postcard,” she said. “It's a clue. She may not even realize it consciously, but she wants you to track her down. She needs to know that you're willing to make an extraordinary effort, that you care as much about her as you do, say, about one of your cases, or about trout fishing. She wants to know that you're willing to climb tall mountains, brave stormy seas, confront a den of angry lions for her.”
“That's what this postcard is all about?”
“Of course it is.”
“Why are women so devious?” I said. “If they want something, why don't they just ask?”
“They shouldn't have to ask. They expect you to love them so much that you'll make the effort to figure it out for yourself.”
“Julie,” I said, “what the hell are you getting at?”
“San Francisco, dummy. Go. Find her.”
I laughed. “Right. Just go and wander around a city of what, about a million people, hoping to bump into her?”
“If necessary.”
I stared up at the ceiling for a minute. Then I looked at Julie. “She's not in San Francisco.”
“What makes you say that?”
“Evie hates cities,” I said. “She wouldn't even stay overnight in San Francisco if she could help it.”
“But that postcard ⦔
“If you're right,” I said, “if this postcard is some kind of clue, then she's near there. If you're right about Evie, she would not expect me to wander aimlessly around the city. She'd expect me to know she hates cities. She'd expect me to figure out where she is.” I poked my finger at the picture of the Golden Gate Bridge. “You and Edward were out there last winter. When you take this bridge out of San Francisco, what's on the other side?”
“The first exit is Sausalito. Then you come to Mill Valley, and then San Rafael, andâ”
“Sausalito,” I said. “What's in Sausalito?”
“Houseboats,” said Julie.
Julie booked me for an early Saturday flight. I landed at the San Francisco airport around eleven in the morning, picked
up my rental car, and I crossed the Golden Gate Bridge a little after noontime.
up my rental car, and I crossed the Golden Gate Bridge a little after noontime.
It seemed like a quest that would make Don Quixote roar with laughter. But here I was in California, looking for Evie.
I took the first exit after the bridge and found the houseboat colony in Sausalito. There were many long wooden docks reaching out into the quiet bay, and scores of houseboats were moored thereâhouseboats of every conceivable design, size, shape, and color.
I cruised the parking areas, and finally I saw what I was looking forâa black Volkswagen Jetta with Massachusetts plates.
I found an empty slot in an area marked Guest Parking, retrieved my old L.L. Bean backpack from the backseat, and started prowling the docks.
Those houseboat dwellers were no seafaring roamers. Maybe they hadn't put down stakes, but they had dropped heavy anchors. They grew flowers and vegetables in big container gardens. They dressed their windows with lace curtains and parked supermarket carriages at the ends their gangplanks. Some of the boats sprouted television antennas.
The village seemed deserted on this Saturday afternoon, and I walked up and down three or four docks before I came upon a woman who was being tugged around by a pair of Jack Russell terriers on leashes.
When I said hello to her, she looked me up and down and said, “Are you lost?”
I took out the picture of Evie I'd brought for the purpose and showed it to her. “I'm looking for her,” I said.
The woman glanced at the picture, then said, “Does she want to be found?”
“Yes, I think so.”
“We're quite protective of each other here,” she said. “We
don't like strangers wandering around, peering in the windows.”
don't like strangers wandering around, peering in the windows.”
“I don't blame you,” I said. “Her name is Evelyn Banyon. I've come from Massachusetts to see her.”
“But you don't know where she is.”
“I know she's here somewhere.”
The woman smiled. “You came all the way from Massachusetts to find her?”
I nodded.
“And I suppose you won't leave until you do.”
“No,” I said. “I won't.”
“Because you love her?”
“Yes.”
She smiled and nodded. The terriers were tugging in opposite directions on their leashes. The woman said, “Sit, both of you,” and they both sat.
Then she pointed across the row of houseboats to the next dock. “It's on the left about halfway down. White with red trim and a stained-glass window. You can't miss it.”
I thanked her, bent down and scratched each terrier on the muzzle, and went over to the next wharf.
I found the red-and-white houseboat with the stained glass window and called, “Evie?”
No reply came. From where I stood on the dock, I could see no sign of life in the houseboat.
I called Evie's name again.
No reply.
So she was out, but she couldn't be far. Her car was in the parking lot.
I'd wait. I'd come this far. I'd wait forever if I had to.
I leaned against a piling and lit a cigarette, and a couple of minutes later a door on the houseboat opened and Evie came out. She smiled at me and said, “Hi.”
I lifted my hand. “Hi yourself.”
She was wearing cut-off jeans and a man's shirt knotted across her flat belly and sneakers without socks. She'd picked up a tan the color of honey, and her silky auburn hair hung in a long, loose ponytail down the middle of her back.
My belly did a flip-flop, she looked so good.
She leaned her forearms on the boat's railing and looked up at me. “So you found me,” she said.
“It looks like I did.”
“Why?”
“I wanted to make sure you knew I loved you.”
She dropped her gaze to the water and mumbled something I didn't understand.
“What did you say?” I said.
She looked up at me. “I said, it would be easier for all of us if you didn't.”
“Didn't love you?”
She nodded.
I spread out my hands, palms up. “Can't help it,” I said.
At that moment, the houseboat door opened and a man stepped out. He was tall and skinny, with a deeply tanned, sun-creased face and long, gray hair. He wore khaki shorts and an unbuttoned blue shirt and a necklace of little seashells around his neck.
He stood beside Evie at the railing and put an arm around her shoulders. “What's up, honey?” he said to her.
She pointed her chin at me. “That's Brady.”
He squinted up at me and nodded.
I nodded back to him. About then, I figured I had the picture.
“Look,” I said to Evie, “I have something that belongs to you. Let me return it to you and I'll be on my way.” I reached into my backpack, found the carved wooden bobwhite quail I'd bought for her on the Cape, and showed it to her.
She said something to the man, who nodded, patted her shoulder, and went back into the houseboat. Then she came up the walkway onto the dock where I was standing.
I handed the quail to her. She took it and ran the tip of her forefinger over it. “Thank you,” she said.
“Sure,” I said. “No problem. I'll leave you alone now.”
I turned and started to go.
“Brady, wait,” she said.
I stopped.
“So what are your plans?”
I shrugged. “Mission accomplished. You got your bird. Guess I'll mosey on back to Boston.”
“In a hurry?”
“Things are pretty hectic at the office.”
“It's not what you think,” she said. She came up to me and touched my arm. “That man is my father.”
I looked at her. “You never said anything about your father.”
“There's a lot I never said.”
I shrugged.
“So,” she said, “is it all over?”
“In Cortland, you mean?”
She nodded.
“Yes,” I said. “It's all over.”
“I want to hear about it.”
“It's a pretty long story.”
“This is California,” she said. “We always have time for long stories.”
I smiled.
“We've got a kettle of jambalaya on the stove and a sixpack of ale in the refrigerator,” she said.
“Sounds good.”
“Then you can call Julie, tell her you'll be home in a few weeks.”
“A few weeks?”
“We've got a lot of catching up to do,” she said. “I figure we need at least one week to prowl around. I haven't been to Yosemite yet, and there are the wineries in Sonoma and Mendocino, and you've got to see the redwoods in the Muir Woods, plus you still owe me at least one day at the beach. Then it'll take a couple weeks at least to load up the Jetta and drive home. There's a lot to see between here and there. It'll give us the chance to talk about all the things we've never talked about.”
“You're coming home?”
“Home is where you are,” she said.
THE BRADY COYNE NOVELS
Scar Tissue
Muscle Memory
Cutter's Run
Close to the Bone
The Seventh Enemy
The Snake Eater
Tight Lines
The Spotted Cats
Client Privilege
Dead Winter
A Void in Hearts
The Vulgar Boatman
Dead Meat
The Marine Corpse
Follow the Sharks
The Dutch Blue Error
Death at Charity's Point
Muscle Memory
Cutter's Run
Close to the Bone
The Seventh Enemy
The Snake Eater
Tight Lines
The Spotted Cats
Client Privilege
Dead Winter
A Void in Hearts
The Vulgar Boatman
Dead Meat
The Marine Corpse
Follow the Sharks
The Dutch Blue Error
Death at Charity's Point
NONFICTION
Pocket Water
Upland Days
Bass Bug Fishing
A Fly-Fishing Life
The Elements of Mystery Fiction
Sportsman's Legacy
Home Water
Opening Day and Other Neuroses
Those Hours Spent Outdoors
Upland Days
Bass Bug Fishing
A Fly-Fishing Life
The Elements of Mystery Fiction
Sportsman's Legacy
Home Water
Opening Day and Other Neuroses
Those Hours Spent Outdoors
OTHER FICTION
Thicker Than Water
(with Linda Barlow)
(with Linda Barlow)
PAST TENSE. Copyright © 2001 by William G. Tapply. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information, address St. Martin's Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
Design by Michael Collica
eISBN 9781429981460
First eBook Edition : March 2011
First Edition: October 2001
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