“Okay. Well. What am I looking for in particular? A will, I guess?”
He nodded. “A will and any paperwork relating to the garage—business formation, tax forms, etcetera. Assuming it was still a sole proprietorship, you might have a few issues. Unless Bud incorporated formally in the past decade or so, then a new owner would have to reform it under his own name.”
Incorporated formally? Yeah. That didn’t sound like something Dad would have bothered doing. Since I’d turned eighteen, he’d paid me every week like I was an employee, tax forms and all—after he got a letter from the state or the IRS that put him in a three-day rage.
“And, uh, you might look for a divorce decree too? Maybe one from out of state?”
“Divorce decree… another formality?”
He nodded, eyes meandering over the lift, diagnostic equipment, and tools lining the walls. “As soon as you have everything, bring it by my office and we’ll get everything filed. Pro bono, of course—the least I can do.”
“Yessir.” I might not hold him responsible for my dad’s sobriety fail, but I also wasn’t gonna piss on free. “I’ll be by in a few days.” There was something he wasn’t saying, but I couldn’t put my finger on it. I figured I’d find out soon enough.
Pearl
My phone trilled, the screen displaying a days-old shot of Mom at graduation. My heart stuttered before answering. She never called when she knew I was driving.
“Aren’t you driving?” she asked as soon as I said hello. “I was going to leave you a voice mail. You shouldn’t answer your phone if you’re driving.”
I sighed, relieved at her tone, which told me nothing was seriously wrong, and annoyed with her tone, which presumed that I was still six years old. “Mama, you can’t call me when there’s a ninety-nine percent chance I’m driving and then tell me I shouldn’t answer when I’m driving.”
“You could have let it go to voice mail.”
“I hate voice mail. And you’re apparently calling to tell me something that can’t wait until I get home in”—I glanced at the clock—“a little over an hour? You raised me to fret first and ask questions later. Deal with it.”
She huffed a resigned sigh into the receiver. “Fine. Your father forgot about an AMA event in Houston—tonight. And he’s speaking at it.” Dr. Thomas Frank, MD, FAANS, FACS, wasn’t my real father. My biological father died before I was born, and Thomas married Mom when I was thirteen, adopting me soon after. I became Pearl Frank then, which sounded, as Melody Dover, my best friend from high school, would later say, like a total white-girl name—a thing Mama seemed all too happy about. I hadn’t asked her opinion before requesting that Pearl Torres Frank be printed on my official diploma. I loved my stepfather, but I wanted a certified acknowledgment of my heritage—of where I originated and who I might have been.
I heard Thomas’s good-natured mumble in the background, followed by Mama’s sputter of incredulity. “Introductions require preparation too, Thomas! And no, you cannot just wing it. Madre de Dios!” Her accent was more pronounced when she got riled—something my stepfather enjoyed provoking just to hear it. Full-on Spanish, though? Jackpot.
“So you won’t be home tonight,” I interrupted, too relieved at the one-night respite from my impending confession to feel rotten over being relieved. “No problem. I’ve got my key. I’ll see you both tomorrow.”
• • • • • • • • • •
I was stuck in the back doorway while Tux, meowing his displeasure at my parents’ desertion, wound himself around my legs in a succession of figure eights. They’d only been gone a few hours, before which he was undoubtedly petted, cooed over, and fed a hand-chopped portion of fresh drum or whatever Thomas last caught when he took the boat out.
I patted Tux’s tubby flank and pulled my overnight bag through the door. “You aren’t fooling anybody with that I’m wasting away song of your people, cat. You’re the most over-indulged feline on this whole island.”
He was also the sweetest, which was why he was spoiled. He and Thomas had been living the ultimate bachelor life before Mama and I entered their lives seven years ago, but Tux had welcomed us as warmly as Thomas had—as though he’d just been waiting for some woman and her thirteen-year-old kid to move in and claim territory that had been his for years. He batted the zipper-pull on my bag while I called Melody, who’d just graduated from SMU and was home for two weeks before she moved back to Dallas to begin her new public relations job.
“Hey, girl!” she answered. “Home yet?”
“Just got in the door. My parents are out tonight. You busy?”
“Nope. Been home two days and I’ve had it up to here with Mom’s bitching about the million and one things I’m doing wrong with my life—from my clothes to my career to how I’ll never land a husband because I failed to find one in four years of college. It would serve her bony ass right if I just became a lesbian.”
Right. Because women become lesbians all the time just to piss off their mothers.
“I don’t think that’s a feasible alternative for you, Mel.”
“Yeah.” She sighed. “I like men too much.” Four years of college hadn’t improved Melody’s grasp of sarcasm. “Speaking of men—let’s go out!”
She and her last boyfriend had broken up a month ago, and she knew the whole ugly story of Mitchell, but going out sounded more tiring than tempting. I’d hoped she’d catch me up on her personal life and local gossip like the adult women we were—while sharing a bottle of wine and lounging in yoga pants. I wanted to spend time with her before she left town though.
In high school, we were so night and day yet so connected that someone had dubbed us the yin-yang twins. That nickname likely resulted from our diverse outward appearances—even with her summer tan, she seemed paler and blonder next to my olive skin, dark hair and eyes. But to me, our bond, our yin-yang, was internal. We’d grown apart over the four separated years of college. I missed her.
“Melody, I’m not really in the mood to—”
“No worries—I’ll drive!”
“Mel.”
“I’m jumping in the shower. Be there in an hour. Ha! I made a rhyme. See you around nine.” One, two—“Hey, I did it again! TTFN!” She snorted and hung up before I could Mel her a second time.
I had to laugh. Nothing like a high school friend to drag you back to high school behavior. Melody, more popular, more outgoing, more everything—had always decided our social agenda, and I had always followed. We’d parted activities in one instance that surprised no one, however. While she tried out for the cheer squad junior year and was head cheerleader senior year, I joined study groups, volunteered at the marine-science center, and was our class valedictorian.
If nothing else, I could try my confession out on Melody before I handed it to Mama. Melody would be the one to understand my anxiety over disappointing my mother.
“Me-OW,” Tux complained, purring like the brat he was.
To hush him up, I plopped a scoop of cold mac and cheese in his bowl—his favorite meal right after seafood. “You are so weird,” I told him. “If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to get ready for a night on the town. At least it’s midweek. Hopefully the bars will be deserted.”
chapter
Three
Boyce
Tourism had been the town’s number one economic resource forever—even fishing came in second. But the flow of cash didn’t stop the locals from bitching whenever hoards of out-of-towners showed up and invaded restaurants, crowded roads and the one grocery store, and jammed the beaches with sweaty bodies, Styrofoam coolers, and useless umbrellas that were demolished in the first stiff airstream off the gulf.
If you wanted to go out and avoid tourists this time of year—good luck with that. But your best shot was to hit a butt-ugly dive bar off the main strip. No bright tropical exterior, no palm-treed landscaping, no view. The sort of place nonresidents would either overlook entirely or take one look at and think, no way. Like the Sa
loon.
After a basket of onion chips, a half-pound burger, and a couple of beers, I challenged Mateo Vega to darts on the pockmarked board hanging close enough to the door that there were stray dart tip holes in the door. As I lined up my throw, the door swung open and in walked Melody Dover, a girl I’d known since my hellish repeat of third grade, and Pearl Frank, who knew me better than anyone in this town. I hadn’t seen either of them since they’d been home on winter break, more than four months ago.
“Oh, fabulous,” Melody muttered, glancing at me before checking out the near-vacant room. “Remind me why we’re here?”
The other two guys in my group—Randy Thompson and Vega’s cousin, Bart—lounged at a table a few feet away, and a couple of old-timers sat side by side at the bar. There’d been a few other regulars in earlier, but they’d cleared out.
I ignored Melody—a skill I’d honed over the years until it was all reflex—but I couldn’t ignore Pearl. She looked damned good, even in those sensible little clamdigger pants and flat shoes. Her hair was less wild than it used to be, but it still ran past her shoulders and down her back like a dark current. I tipped my chin as soon as her eyes met mine, and her answering smile was subdued but genuine.
She returned her attention to her friend, smile widening. “We want a quiet place to talk, Mel. This is perfect.”
Melody, hot as ever and aware of it as ever, glanced at me over her shoulder. “That remains to be seen—all it takes is one loudmouth to ruin the peaceful ambiance.”
“You should know, Dover.” Sinking a dart just left of the bull’s-eye, I refused to look at her.
She gasped but sounded more like a riled-up purebred than a grown woman. It took everything I had to hold back a laugh. Before she could spit out the smart-ass answer she no doubt had on the tip of her tongue, Pearl asked her a question and Melody turned to march toward a table along the back wall, yakking about some new job and forgetting to fire back at me.
Mateo’s cousin Bart, who was nineteen going on idiot, leered across the rough plank floorboards, which were scattered with discarded peanut shells—the Saloon’s idea of down-home decoration. “Thought you said there weren’t no hot pieces of ass in this town, Téo,” he said, all but drooling at the sight of Melody’s backside in shorts and heels.
That boy had no idea how close he’d come to a dart in the forehead. He could stare at Dover’s legs all he wanted, but one word about Pearl and he’d have been sporting a skull ornament.
“Shut it, dickwad.” Mateo swatted the back of his cousin’s skull. “Those two are so far out of your league they might as well be on the moon.”
Bart rubbed the back of his head, eyes following Pearl’s best friend as she walked up to the bar. “Maybe. But it looks like they’re slummin’ it tonight, primo.” He was up and swaggering her way before any of us knew it.
“This should be interesting,” Randy said, settling back in his chair to watch. He crossed thin arms over his skeletal chest, chuckling, and I was glad to see him smile. He’d been released from prison a few months ago after serving time for running a meth lab in a trailer that blew to hell a few years back. He’d have been inside a lot longer if anyone had been there at the time. That or dead. He’d convinced the parole board he was determined to go straight, and so far, he was sticking to it. The same couldn’t be said for his little brother, Rick.
“Oh hell.” Mateo passed a hand over his face and turned away like he couldn’t bear to watch. Two of his first three throws barely made the board at all.
“It’s just Melody Dover, Vega—not the queen mother,” Randy said. “Besides, your cousin could use a slapdown. Twenty bucks says he’s about to get one.” As we watched, Bart rested one elbow on the bar next to Melody, and she leaned away as he leaned closer.
I shook my head and threw another dart.
“Yeah. Except her father is my boss’s boss’s boss.” Mateo was the assistant manager for one of the half dozen convenience stores in town, five of which were owned by the same company. Melody Dover’s daddy was the divisional manager over half the state.
“Chill, man,” I said. “Rover Dover’s got nothing to report about you. God knows we can’t do anything about the dumbasses we’re related to.” I pulled my darts from the board, thinking about my dad and my brother, and how different they’d been. Wondering where I fit between them.
“‘Rover Dover,’” Mateo choked out under his breath. “I haven’t heard that in years. Christ, Wynn, don’t let her hear you say it. Between that and my ignoramus cousin, she’ll have me fired in two shakes and then drag me through town from the bumper of that Infiniti her daddy just bought her.”
Pearl
Of course I would run into Boyce Wynn on my first night home. Boyce Wynn—my guardian angel, the imaginary best friend of my childhood, my unprofessed adolescent crush, my dirty little secret. Or was that last one me?
Boyce saved my life when I was five.
It was my first beach cleanup day. I was an entry-level Girl Scout, determined to take home my troop’s prize for the most bags of trash collected. Funny, I can’t recall the reward I wanted so badly—one of those plush toys filled with plastic pellets. A dolphin? A whale? I don’t remember. All I retained was my single-minded resolve to win whatever it was.
I’d defied stay-close orders and branched out a bit farther than allowed. Collecting trash along the water’s edge, I spotted something that looked like litter but turned out to be a clump of floating sargassum—the seaweed scourge of the gulf. I’d followed it far enough out that my shorts were soaked to the waistband. So when a tiny jellyfish caught my eye, the first live one I’d ever seen, I didn’t fret about getting my clothes wet. I wanted to see that translucent creature up close. It hardly looked real—gliding along the current as though it had been fashioned of fluid glass.
I hadn’t sensed the slight drop-off coming until I took a step and plummeted, the water level abruptly reaching my shoulders. I didn’t catch sight of the wave that knocked me off my feet immediately after that either, so I had no chance to draw a breath before being submerged, overturned, and disoriented. I knew how to swim, but this was no deep end of the pool where the water was motionless and I could see the blue-tiled bottom below and the clear sky overhead, just beyond the smooth, horizontal surface of the water. Here, murky water swirled in every direction. There was no up, no down, no air.
And then I glimpsed light. I propelled toward it, kicking and clawing, and burst out of the water. Air. I sucked in a breath before sinking again—nothing was underfoot. My brain knew I must have surfaced facing away from the beach because I hadn’t seen it, but it seemed as if the beach had ceased to exist.
I kicked hard and surfaced again, both arms thrust high. Still no beach. I gulped a breath and got a bit of water too, and a reflexive cough exhaled the precious air as I sank. I swam up again, legs and arms tiring rapidly, knowing only that I needed to breathe—nothing else mattered. The jellyfish I’d pursued, or maybe it was another one altogether, appeared in front of my eyes like a dream, and then there were more of them. They puffed along all around me like miniature swimming umbrellas or beautiful, soundless ghosts.
My lungs demanded air but took in water. My vision darkened and narrowed—the jellyfish swimming away, the sky fading.
My life didn’t flash before my eyes—just one scene, one memory. In the kitchen of our tiny duplex, I inhaled the aroma of Mama’s churros, fresh from the frying pan. She placed them, still warm, into a paper bag of sugar and cinnamon. It was my job to shake the bag and coat each one before placing them on a wire rack to cool, but I didn’t want to wait. I broke one open as soon as it slid from the bag, the steam erupting and singeing my fingertips.
“Ow, ow, ow,” I said, breaking off a piece and heedlessly scorching my tongue as well.
“You silly, impatient little thing!” Mama shook her head. “If you blister your tongue until everything tastes the same, what will you care if I feed you churros or meatloaf???
?
I wrinkled my nose in disgust. Mama was a good cook, but as far as I was concerned, even she couldn’t save meatloaf, which we ate at least once per week.
She looked at me then and yelled, “Wake up! Wake up!” But it wasn’t her voice. The voice belonged to a boy—the big one who’d called me a dumb girl that morning. Mama always told me to ignore boys, especially the mean ones. They were bad news, she said. Besides, I didn’t want to wake up. I’d show him that no boy would tell me what to do.
My chest felt like it was being crushed. Like someone heavy was sitting on me, pressing me flat as a waffle. Was that boy sitting on me? It hurt too much. I would have to wake up after all and push him off.
I sat up and my eyes opened and I threw up all over myself, but the puke was all water. I coughed and coughed, more water coming out. He was above me, looking down at me. His hair was cropped short, but so red in the sun it seemed to be on fire. His face wasn’t mean. His eyes were full of tears, and I felt his hand, holding mine. I knew he was sorry, not bad news. I tried to tell him I forgave him, but I couldn’t speak because my chest hurt and my throat was sore, so I squeezed his hand, and he held mine tighter. That’s when I noticed there were people all around us, applauding and laughing.
I didn’t think anything was funny, and neither did he. Miss Eilish, my Daisy leader, was crying, and she repeated my name about twenty times before thanking the boy and telling him he was a hero.
We got our pictures in the paper. I cut out the story and the photo with our names listed below—Boyce Wynn and Pearl Torres. It’s still in the back of my first school yearbook, the newsprint yellowed, ink faded.
Afterward, I saw him sometimes at school, but I was two years behind him, so his classroom was in a different hallway and his class’s lunch table was four tables away from mine. All his friends were other boys. They played basketball or football on the playground while I took my turn on the swings or played chase on the grass or hunted for frogs near the drainpipes after it had rained.