The Beach Trees, Page 3

  “And the boy? Where is his daddy?”

  I paused. “Monica didn’t know. The relationship was... temporary. He wasn’t a part of her life.” I clasped my hands tightly in front of me but managed to meet Ray Von’s eyes. “Why did she leave? She convinced me to drive all the way down here just from the stories she told me about this place. About her family. But she never told me why she left them.”

  Ray Von looked away, her eyes shadowed again. “I can’t tell you that, because I don’t know.”

  I stared at the older woman, not sure whether I believed her. Finally, I nodded, realizing I wouldn’t get another answer. I felt close to tears again, having traveled so many miles, yet arriving no closer to my destination than when I’d left.

  “Monica left me her house here, in Biloxi, and guardianship of Beau. I’m not really sure why, because I know she has family. And the house . . .” I stopped, not wanting to revisit it even in my mind. “I guess Hurricane Kat—”

  Ray Von held her finger to her lips and shook her head. “We don’t say her name out loud around here. Not ever.”

  I nodded. Even five years later, the hurricane’s reminders were everywhere. “I thought that I could just move in with Beau, find a job, and live happily ever after.” I pressed my hand over my mouth. The exhaustion of the last months pushed at my head and heart, my isolation suddenly intolerable. Monica had gone to confession every week, and for the first time I could understand why.

  I looked up, recalling the Ray Von of Monica’s stories, the Ray Von who listened without judgment, and I could no longer hold back the need to unburden myself. “I’ve never done anything so unplanned or reckless in my life. And I’ve got this little boy to think of now, and I’ve brought him here to where we don’t even have a bed to sleep in. How could I be so irresponsible? ” I bit my lip, wishing now I’d said nothing.

  Ray Von leaned toward me, her accent thickening as her diction dropped. “You ain’t dead yet, so you ain’t done.” She stood and retrieved the brown-paper-wrapped package, struggling slightly from the weight of it. I somehow knew that Ray Von would resist any assistance and remained seated. “Don’t you go opening it here, now. Miss Monica didn’t want me to see it, and I don’t want to stir up spirits.” She indicated Beau, whose eyes were now open but bleary as he looked around the kitchen as if wondering how he’d gotten there. I almost laughed, thinking that I must have the same look.

  The old woman placed the package in front of me. “You got family around here?”

  I shook my head, unable to find brief words that would explain my family or why I’d been so eager to adopt Monica—a girl as lost as I was.

  “Then you need to take this boy to New Orleans to see his greatgrandma Aimee. She’ll know what to do.”

  My finger plucked at the edges of the packing tape, and I recognized the delicate handwriting on the front of the package. “But there had to be a reason why Monica didn’t tell them about Beau. What if she didn’t want me to take him there? She sent me here, to Biloxi, not New Orleans.”

  Ray Von leaned closer, her eyes darkening. “Are you going to take that boy and go sleep on an empty lot? Monica’s boy needs more than that. You take him home first, then figure out what to do after.”

  I sat still, listening to dim voices from the television in the other room, and knew I had run out of choices. “I don’t have an address.”

  Her white teeth showed as Ray Von straightened. “Fifteen Twenty First Street. In the Garden District. The pink Victorian with the beautiful garden with the statue.”

  I took a deep breath, then stood. “Thank you. For the food. For this.” I indicated the package. “For the advice. Monica always spoke fondly of you, so I figure you wouldn’t tell me wrong.”

  Ray Von didn’t smile. “She left me behind just like she did everybody else. I’m thinking about that boy. He doesn’t deserve to be cut off from his family.”

  I frowned. “Will it be okay with them that, well, that . . .” I wasn’t sure how to continue.

  “That he doesn’t have a daddy? There’s some who might care, but not Miss Aimee. She’ll love him like he was a prince just because Miss Monica was his mama.”

  I lifted Beau from the chair, my back feeling the strain. “I’m glad to hear that.” Ray Von leaned over to pick up the package, but I stopped her. “Please don’t. You’ve done enough for me already. Let me go put Beau in the car, and I’ll be right back to get it.”

  It looked at first as if the old woman would refuse, but then she jutted out her chin instead and nodded. When I returned, Ray Von was in the living room watching another soap opera, the absence of any type of photos or family memorabilia oddly unsettling. I walked past her toward the kitchen to retrieve the package, feeling the solid wood of a frame beneath the paper. I hesitated for a moment inside the doorway. “Thanks again, Ray Von. I appreciate all of your help.”

  Ray Von didn’t raise her gaze from the television, where a blond woman with heavy lip gloss was starting to cry.

  “One last thing,” I said. She didn’t lift her head. “I was wondering if you had the deed to the Biloxi house. If Monica might have sent it to you with the package. She only gave the lawyer the keys.”

  “I gave you everything I had.” She lifted a remote control and raised the volume. “You can close the door behind you on your way out.”

  Knowing there was nothing else to say, I juggled my load to grab hold of the door handle, then pulled it shut. The black cat that had greeted us on our arrival sat waiting by one of the flowerpots with his tail waving languidly, standing sentry to make sure we left.

  Turning my back on the cat, I slid the package into the back of the van, then pulled out of Ray Von’s driveway, eager to get away from the odd little house and even odder woman. Remembering the directions to what remained of the beach house, I returned to the street running along the side of it, unable to bring myself to pull into the drive again. Leaving the car running and the air-conditioning on, I slid into the backseat next to Beau and lifted the package onto my lap.

  Carefully, I slid a finger under a flap and gently ripped the tape and unfolded the sealed flap at the top. Peering inside, I could make out the top of a thick gilded frame, but nothing else. Placing it on my lap, I continued gently prying off tape and unfolding paper until it was completely unwrapped. I found myself staring at the back of a framed canvas. The whole thing was no more than fifteen inches by eighteen, but it suddenly felt incredibly heavy in my lap. Gingerly, I grasped the edges of the frame and turned it over.

  I stared at the portrait, not comprehending exactly what I was looking at, realizing that I’d been expecting to find a painting of the beach house as Monica had remembered it, instead of the ruin it was now. I tamped down my disappointment as I stared instead at the portrait of a beautiful woman with black hair and blue eyes, creamy skin, and a Mona Lisa smile. It showed the woman only from the waist up, but it was clear that she wore some type of ball gown, the material shimmery and midnight blue, an incredible necklace at her long, elegant throat, and earrings of sapphires and diamonds at her ears. Even more remarkable was the stunning brooch of what looked like emeralds and dark green enamel in the shape of an alligator, its tail in an exaggerated point and the eyes glittering red jewels.

  It was a striking portrait that seemed to capture the essence of the unknown woman, made her seem alive with active thoughts as her half smile, half smirk regarded me from the canvas. There was something else there, too, something familiar to me that I couldn’t quite place. I tried harder, trying to harness the stray thought that wouldn’t stop flinging its way through my head like a fish thrown on dry land. And then my gaze came to rest on the artist’s signature.

  Lifting the frame higher to see it better in the light from the window, I squinted at the florid signature in red paint, not to see it better—my eyesight was perfect—but because I was sure there was some mistake.

  “Julie, I’m thirsty.”

  The voice seemed to
come from very far away as I lowered the painting back down to my lap and looked at the little boy sitting next to me, not really seeing him.

  Abe Holt. The bright red lines of my great-grandfather’s well-known signature danced in my peripheral vision. Abe Holt.

  I knew from my experience at the auction house that the painting, assuming it was an authentic Abe Holt, would be worth a considerable amount of money. But why did Monica have it? Monica was always broke; surely she would have sold it at some point. Like when she and Beau were evicted from their apartment for failure to pay their rent. And why would she have left it to me? Monica knew of my family connection to the artist; surely she would have told me about its existence. Unless there was a reason she couldn’t.

  Slowly, I began to wrap the painting again, even more careful now that I understood its monetary value. Why? The one word continued to reverberate through my head. I slid the painting carefully under the front seat, then gave Beau a juice box.

  “I want to go home.”

  I brushed Beau’s dark blond hair from his forehead. “I know, sweetie. Me, too. But we’re not done with our adventure yet, okay? But soon.”

  Not able to stand to see his look of disappointment, I slid up front to the driver’s seat and flipped on the GPS. Very carefully, I input the New Orleans address Ray Von had given me. One and a half hours to my destination. After putting the car in drive, I pulled forward onto the road, heading once more to a place foreign to me and away from a past I was beginning to discover didn’t want to be left behind.

  CHAPTER 3

  Come rain or high water, there’s no place like home.

  —KREWE OF MUSES MARDI GRAS FLOAT, 2006

  An old police detective once told me that it wasn’t the mountain ahead that wears you out, but the grain of sand in your shoe. I’d thought at the time that I understood what he meant, but soon came to realize that I hadn’t, not really. Because the grain of sand is different for everybody, and some people can never figure out what it is.

  I wasn’t sure if it was the sight of the demolished beach house, or the still-visible signs of Katrina’s passage as I neared New Orleans, and the gleaming roof of the Superdome visible from the highway, that made me remember those words, but I found myself reaching for my cell phone and punching in the familiar numbers.

  “Detective Kobylt.”

  I could hear the sounds of other phones ringing and people talking in the background, the familiarity of it doing nothing to quell the sick panic I felt every time I heard it. The first time, I’d been twelve years old and I’d walked into the police station to tell somebody that I couldn’t find my little sister.

  “Hello, Detective. It’s Julie Holt.”

  There was a brief pause. “Hello, Julie. We haven’t heard from you in a while.”

  “I know. I’ve had some . . . changes. I’m not in New York anymore, at least not right now. I’m traveling, actually, which is why I called. I wanted to make sure that if you needed to reach me you wouldn’t use my landline, because it’s been disconnected. You still have my cell number, right?”

  I heard him breathe out before he answered. “Yes, Julie. I know we do. I’ll make sure that I make a note in the file about your old number.”

  “Thank you.” I pressed on the brake as a rusted-out brown sedan, even older than my own vehicle, changed lanes by swerving in front of me without a signal. “I was wondering if you followed up on that article I sent you. The one about the girl abducted in Worcester. It’s not that far from my hometown, and the girl was the same age as Chelsea.”

  “I did. The guy in Worcester was in prison when Chelsea was taken, so his alibi’s pretty tight.”

  “Oh.” I nodded into the phone. “It’s just, well, I thought you’d call to let me know.”

  Detective Kobylt’s voice sounded tired. “Look, Julie, I’ve got other cases I’m working on. That doesn’t mean that I’m not keeping Chelsea’s case active—because I am. It’s just that I don’t have time to call you with every dead end. I know Detective Johnson did before his retirement and my being assigned to your sister’s case. But things are different now. They’ve combined departments and doubled my workload. But I haven’t forgotten you. Or Chelsea. I promise to be in touch if there’s anything new.”

  “I know. I’m sorry. It’s just, well, it’s been a while.”

  “It’s okay. Look, I’ve got to go.”

  “All right. Thanks for talking to me.”

  “It’s my job. And, Julie?”

  “Yes?”

  “Keep sending me information. You never know what I might have missed or what might turn out to be a lead.”

  I smiled into the phone. “Thanks, I will. Bye.” I clicked off the phone, then turned off the highway and followed signs to St. Charles Avenue. For a few blocks I drove parallel to a streetcar with open windows and passengers with bored expressions. A tourist leaned out of a window to take a picture, then ducked quickly back inside to avoid getting hit by a light pole.

  The houses and businesses here were more intact than what I’d seen from the neighborhoods visible from the highway on my approach to the city, but I found myself swerving to avoid enormous potholes in the road, making Beau giggle from the backseat. I made another exaggerated swerve just to hear him laugh again.

  The commercial buildings gave way to grander houses as I traveled into the residential area of the Garden District. I took a left on First Street, crossing the streetcar tracks on the grassy median and the opposing lane of traffic, and nearly missed being clipped by a Jeep Cherokee with New York plates and a Tulane window sticker. Despite the cooler temperature, I found myself sweating. Four years in Manhattan without a car had left me out of practice for the evasive maneuvers required for city driving.

  The canopy of large oaks on St. Charles gave way to gated gardens of flowering trees and shrubs, none of which I recognized, decorating the mansions behind them like frilly aprons. I slowed to take it all in, accepting that my knowledge of New Orleans had consisted mostly of what I’d seen of Hurricane Katrina news footage and Monica’s references to Mardi Gras parties and her years spent at Sacred Heart. But none of that had prepared me for the fantasy of it. I couldn’t think of another word that would adequately describe the exotic, historic otherworldliness of what I was seeing.

  A car honked behind me, and I realized I’d stopped completely in the middle of the one-way street. I pulled ahead, searching for the house number, then slid into an open spot at the curb as I approached the right block. Iron gates in rose patterns and fleur-de-lis tops separated the gardens from the cracked and uneven sidewalks, roots of nearby oaks showing their impatience with human encroachment by pressing against the flagstone and brick pavers.

  I rolled the window down a few inches and breathed in, smelling air that was green, moist, and fragrant. For the first time in my life, I wished I could paint, or draw, or somehow capture this street with its marred roads and walkways, the pristine houses with their eccentric gardens of overabundant flowers and foliage. Chelsea could have. Chelsea would have known how to translate all of it onto paper or canvas.

  Glancing across the street, I spotted the chipped blue tile numbers embedded in the sidewalk: 1520. I should have recognized the house from Ray Von’s description of the pink Victorian with the beautiful garden, but I’d been too busy gawking at its neighbors to notice. Wide front steps led up to a gracious front wraparound porch dotted with wicker rocking chairs and more plants hanging from the porch ceiling. Matching turrets framed the front of the house like parentheses, giving it the dubious impression of a castle. Large double wooden doors sat in the middle, long rectangular windows in each polished door like drooping eyes staring warily at the encroaching garden.

  Switching off the ignition, I turned to look at Beau, who’d fallen asleep with his thumb in his mouth and his mother’s hat balled into a pillow for his cheek. Wanting to assess the situation first, I decided to let him sleep for another minute. Carefully, I cracked the w
indows, then opened the door and locked it quietly, not wanting to wake him. Checking for traffic, I crossed the street to the house and stopped. Monica had never painted this house for me, and for that I was grateful. Because if I’d known what to expect beforehand there was no way I’d have found the courage to park in front of the house and expect to walk up to the door and knock.

  It wasn’t just the grandness that I found imposing. It was intimidating, yes—but I had interacted with wealthy investors many times in the art auction business. But the news I carried with me, of the death of an absent granddaughter and the existence of a great-grandson, made me pause on the sidewalk outside the gate. A fountain tinkled softly in the middle of the brick walkway, soothing my jittery nerves.

  A sound brought my attention to the front garden. A man wearing faded overalls and a straw hat squatted in front of a flower bed, pulling out dried and withered flower stems. He wore no gardening gloves, and the skin on his arms and hands was caramel brown.

  As if sensing he was being watched, the man turned to face me. The first thing that struck me was that he was a lot older than I’d thought. And then it occurred to me that I was staring, and he was staring back at me—his one good eye a piercing green. The other eye was invisible beneath the scarred and mottled skin of his eyelid that seemed to melt into the disfigured skin of his cheek.

  Unsettled, I lifted a hand in greeting, then stepped back off of the sidewalk before turning and jumping back into the van. From the corner of my eye, I watched the man return to his gardening as I rolled the windows up and started the ignition.

  I looked in the backseat and found Beau watching me quietly as he sucked softly on his thumb. He was too old to be doing that, but he’d lost so much recently that I wasn’t about to make him stop now.

  “I want to go home,” he said around his thumb.

  If only I knew where that was. For about the millionth time I wondered how I got here, how the meticulous Julie with all her organized plans had become this woman whose only home seemed to be an old van and whose prospects for upgrading her current position were slim.