The Beach Trees, Page 4

  “We’re going to a hotel tonight. Won’t that be fun?”

  Beau kept sucking his thumb without speaking, his silence incriminating. Moving my gaze back to the GPS, I punched the button for “nearby places” in search of a hotel. There were several bed-andbreakfasts in the Garden District, but I felt the need to be farther away from the house on First Street, and away from the piercing gaze of the man with the ruined face and clear green eye.

  After selecting a middle-of-the-road chain hotel with a name I recognized, I headed back the way I’d come on St. Charles Avenue, toward the downtown area. I navigated around large potholes as I made the loop around Lee Circle and the statue of General Lee. Monica had once told me that the Confederate general’s statue faced perpetually northward because he had once said that he would never turn his back on the North again.

  The houses gave way to businesses as I crossed the two main thoroughfares of the central business district, Poydras and Canal Street, then turned onto the famed Bourbon Street and entered the French Quarter. I drove slowly, not wanting to hit pedestrians, who not only seemed to think they could cross the streets anywhere with impunity, but who also seemed to move unhurriedly, their movements soft and liquid and so different from Manhattan pedestrians’. A brass quartet played jazz on the corner of Bourbon and Iberville, a trombone box in front of them with a spattering of coins in the bottom, the music like a sound track to my strange and new adventure.

  I turned right onto Royal Street and found the valet parking for my car. As they loaded up a baggage cart, I had Beau hold on to my belt with one hand while I clutched the wrapped painting in my arms. I glanced around, trying to get my bearings and find the T.G.I. Friday’s I’d spotted on the drive in. Beau loved the chicken fingers, and I figured he deserved some kind of treat after being stuck in a van for more than two days with only me and my pathetic attempts at making believe that everything was going to be all right.

  My gaze paused on the storefront across the street, a wall of windows with framed art lit with expert spotlighting. Even though I’d never been to New Orleans, I knew of Royal Street, with its array of world-renowned antique stores and art galleries. This particular store, Mayer & Ryan, seemed to be a mixture of both. Feeling the weight of the painting in my arms, I turned my back on the store and entered the hotel.

  Our room was small but clean, the room rate reasonable. Still, with my limited finances, I’d have to figure out pretty quickly what to do next. After tucking the portrait under the clothes in my suitcase, I took a smiling Beau, and his mother’s hat, to T.G.I. Friday’s, where we both had chicken fingers, then returned to the hotel and went to bed early.

  Beau fell asleep immediately, but despite my own exhaustion, my eyelids seemed to be held open by springs. I tossed and turned, the glaring numbers on the bedside clock mocking me as they marched forward.

  Eventually, I climbed from the bed and moved a chair to the low window. Pulling the curtains aside, I could see into Royal Street, not completely deserted even at this late hour. It was comforting to me, reminding me of my apartment in New York, and the busyness of a city that never slept. It made me feel in solidarity with all those souls down on the pavement, awake like me, avoiding the dark that chased their nighttime dreams.

  I pulled the painting from my suitcase and unwrapped it, then returned to the chair near the window. The dim glow of the streetlights cast shadows on the portrait, erasing all of the features of the woman except for the glittering jewels of the alligator brooch and the piercing blue eyes. The woman seemed to be watching me, taunting me about my indecisiveness.

  Leaning the portrait against the chair legs, I rested my elbows on the windowsill and pressed my forehead against the cool glass. The windows of Mayer & Ryan were still lit, the gilt-framed paintings and dark wood furniture glowing like a mirage.

  I knew I had choices to make, decisions about my future. Beau’s future. About money, and a job, and the ruined River Song. But before I could make any decisions, I had to figure out what I wanted. And that was the real problem. Since the age of twelve there had been only one thing I’d wanted, one thing I’d prayed for daily, one thing I’d ever allowed myself to hope for. I’d been afraid that a different want would make my desire to find Chelsea less powerful, would fling me in the wrong direction entirely.

  Everything I’d done or accomplished in the past seventeen years had been accidental and circumstantial. From choosing a college to starting my career, it had all been happenstance, because I never allowed myself to want.

  I looked down at the portrait, toward the lower right-hand corner, where I knew my great-grandfather’s sprawling signature was splashed against the canvas. If I could sell it, the proceeds would mean security, more time to allow the right opportunity to show itself, money to support myself and Beau for a period of time. As I carefully wrapped the painting again, I thought of Monica, dead at the incomprehensible age of twenty-eight, and tried to think of why she’d left me the painting.

  If I had been more settled in my life, with a home I owned and someone permanent to share my life, I could imagine that Monica had wanted me to hold on to it: an investment piece and a part of my family’s history rolled into one. Something with which to impress dinner guests.

  But I had none of those things. Even Beau’s presence in my life was temporary, I realized now. Despite whatever had driven Monica away from her family and home, her directions for her son’s guardianship and her gift to me of River Song—such as it was—must have been an indication that she wanted Beau here, in the South. And the portrait was perhaps a temporary means of support.

  For me, though, there was no such sanctuary. I’d never allowed myself to hope that there was one: a sanctuary from my endless searching for something that seemed to be growing less and less obtainable.

  I stood and tucked the painting back in my suitcase, feeling more settled now that I’d made my decision, confident with relative certainty that I’d reached the same conclusion Monica had when she’d decided to leave the painting to me.

  My mind made up, I returned to bed, hoping to find a few hours of sleep before Beau awoke. I lay down in the bed next to his, facing him, and fell asleep listening to the occasional rasp of his finger worrying a hole in his mother’s red hat.

  At ten o’clock the next morning, I took Beau and the painting across the street and an hour and a half later emerged with a written contract to sell the painting on commission. The negotiations with one of the owners, Nancy Mayer, had been straightforward once she realized that I was knowledgeable not only about the painting and its artist, but also about its value. Ms. Mayer had been guarded about offering assurances of when she thought it might sell, citing the economy and the shrinking number of tourists, but I had seen the excitement in her eyes when she told me that she had a number of long-term clients who might be interested in it. She’d also promised to place it in the front window, as the colors were eye-catching, the alligator brooch something that would attract locals and tourists alike.

  As we stood on the sidewalk facing our hotel, I considered getting into the van and driving back to the pink Victorian on First Street to confront Aimee Guidry with news she wouldn’t want to hear. But I hesitated, feeling Beau’s soft hand in mine as we stood on the sidewalk waiting to cross the street. For some reason, Monica had made me Beau’s guardian, his protector. The irony of it was hard to escape. And as unprepared for the job as I believed myself to be, I wanted to find out who these Guidrys were before introducing Beau.

  I knew the Guidrys from Monica’s stories: their names, their hobbies, their favorite foods, their pasts. But I didn’t know what they’d done to make Monica leave, to force her out on her own at the age of eighteen. Monica had spent the next ten years of her life re-creating the good parts of her past with stories and pictures, but none had ever explained the unforgivable. Despite what Ray Von had told me, that one unexplained reason was reason enough to be cautious where Beau was concerned.

  We hea
ded into the hotel and to the business office with the computer for the use of the hotel’s guests. I did a Google search for the name of an hourly day-care chain that Monica had used in emergencies in New York. It wasn’t cheap, but it was safe, and, I was relieved to note, they had one on Magazine Street, not too far from First Street.

  After I filled out all the necessary paperwork and got reassurances that he wouldn’t be separated from his hat, Beau made a tearful good-bye. I promised I’d make it up to him. Somehow.

  I drove around the Garden District for curiosity’s sake as much as an admitted desire to procrastinate. Grand mansions sat before cracked sidewalks, Greek Revivals posed comfortably next to Italianate villas and Queen Anne Victorians. I lost myself in the grid of one-way streets, ending up on Washington Street by a cemetery with raised tombs that called to mind a city for the dead.

  Slowly, I meandered my way back to First Street and slid the van into the same spot on the curb where I’d parked the previous day. I sat inside it for several minutes, the sun through the windows warm on my skin, and stared at the house across the street. After taking a deep breath, I exited the van, smoothing down my blouse and skirt in the hopes I’d be found presentable. Beau had told me that I looked nice, but he was five.

  Pausing at the garden gate, I peered inside to the yard, relieved to find it empty except for the fountain and the statue of a little boy. The handle turned easily, the gate swinging open without protest, as if daring me to find another reason not to go farther. After carefully closing the gate behind me, I stood in the quiet garden, marveling again at the riot of color in pots and flower beds, and listened as a car passed by on the street behind me.

  Climbing the porch steps, I imagined I could feel the weight of the air, leaden and moist and carrying with it too many memories that weren’t my own. A crescendo of insect sounds shouted out from the short hedge that lined the walk, but I was unable to translate what they were trying to tell me.

  I spotted a doorbell set in an ornate brass plate and raised my hand, then paused. What would I say? Hello, I’m your long-lost granddaughter’s friend. She’s dead, but I have her little boy with me because she made me his guardian. I know he belongs with you and not me, but I don’t know what kind of people you are. And I don’t really know if I can part with him.

  This last part came as a surprise to me. I loved Beau, but I’d never thought of him as mine. I collected things: teacups, spoons, sewing machines like the one my mother had once used—all now boxed up in a storage unit in New Jersey. But I’d never wanted them enough to be unable to part with them. I imagined that, subconsciously, it had been a deliberate thing. But with Beau I could sense the rending rip, like tearing fabric, that would accompany his leaving.

  My hand dropped to my side, and I found myself staring at the polished wood of the door, wondering absently how many times it had to be refinished in this climate to keep it that way. I wasn’t sure how long I stood there, listening to the relentless rhythm of a thousand invisible insect wings, filling my head with so much noise that I couldn’t think straight. Taking a step back, I turned and moved to the bottom of the porch steps before stopping again. I needed more time. Beau needed more time. One more day. One more day of sparing the Guidry family, of fooling myself into believing they were better off not knowing. Because I knew, from my own long years of searching, that I’d give anything to just know.

  I’d nearly reached the garden gate when I heard the front door open behind me. I put my hand on the knob and turned it, irrationally hoping that I hadn’t yet been spotted, already envisioning myself running across the street to the van.

  “Can I help you?”

  The voice was male, startling me. I’d imagined, somehow, that Aimee Guidry lived alone. Slowly I turned and stared at the man in front of me. He was about my age, and he was looking back at me with the same curious expression I imagined was displayed on my own face. He carried a cup of steaming coffee and had a rolled-up newspaper under his arm. He wore a dress shirt tucked into trousers, an undone tie draped over his shoulders, and dark loafers. But his hair was a light sandy brown streaked by the sun, and his eyes were an unusual greenish blue. Like Beau’s. Like Monica’s.

  I knew his name was Wesley John Guidry III but that he was called Trey, that he loved jazz music and had played the trumpet as a teenager but had never been that good at it. He loved fishing and domestic beer, and had gone to Tulane for undergrad. He was a whiz at chess, hated losing, loved to hide insects and small reptiles where they’d be discovered unexpectedly. And he was Monica’s older brother.

  I froze, holding back all the things I wanted to say. Did you miss her? Did you ever look for her? And then, Why did you make her leave? Unexpectedly, I said, “No. I’m sorry. I just realized I’m at the wrong house.”

  “I know all the neighbors. If you give me a last name, I can tell you which house is theirs.”

  I opened the gate, my hand trembling, not at all sure why I’d lost my courage. Maybe because, as I’d stood staring at the door, I’d imagined them taking Beau and my never seeing him again. “Never mind. I’ll find it.” The gate shut loudly behind me as I hurried to the van and got in. Keeping my gaze averted from the pink house, I started the engine and pulled into the street. With a final glance, I noticed that the front door had closed, and that the old man I’d seen the previous day now stood at the corner of the ornate fence, watching me from his ruined face, his single-eyed gaze following me as I drove down the street.

  CHAPTER 4

  When you lose your sails, row.

  —ROMAN PROVERB

  Ashaft of light filtered from the maple tree in the side yard of my childhood home, landing on the grass between Chelsea and me, restless as it lifted itself again in the early autumn wind. I watched as it skittered across the lawn and into the sandbox we were too old for, yet which remained where it sat under the redwood deck, collecting leaves and shovels and Barbie heads—the detritus of a happy childhood.

  Chelsea pointed to a cloud high above, its whiteness fierce against the dark blue of the sky, its sides layered and angular. “It looks like a man holding a baby, doesn’t it?”

  I stared hard. “No. It looks like a cloud.”

  “See—there’s his face.” Chelsea pointed, but I still didn’t see. I never did. “He’s wearing one of those old-timey hats and a long coat. The baby’s head is on his shoulder.”

  I sat up, frustrated. Chelsea had always seemed to live in a different world: a better, more colorful one. I saw black and white where Chelsea saw rainbows. “It’s just a dumb cloud.” I stood, then headed for the house, tired of the stupid game. “I’m going inside.”

  Chelsea turned her head, blocking the sun with her hand. “Mom said you were supposed to watch me.”

  “Then come inside. I want to watch TV.”

  Chelsea returned to studying the clouds. “But it’s so nice outside. And it’s going to be turning cold soon and we won’t be able to.”

  I hesitated, looking upward again, trying to see anything besides condensed water droplets. I knew that was all clouds were, because I’d learned it in my earth science class. But I’d never been able to convince Chelsea: Chelsea with her wild imagination where nothing was really as it seemed. I stared hard again, but saw only sky.

  “I’m going inside,” I said, walking away and not waiting to see whether Chelsea followed.

  But my feet seemed suddenly mired in mud, each step harder than the last, my legs unable to lift my feet high enough to move forward. I heard a telephone ringing somewhere and I turned to look at Chelsea, to ask her whether she’d heard it too, but Chelsea was gone, the grass where she’d been now moving silently in the wind. And still, the sound of the telephone ringing and ringing.

  I sat up in my hotel bed, my eyes wide, my nightshirt sticking to my back, the ever-present feeling of having lost something important—a hand, or a foot—the feeling that it was still there, but every time I reached for it, I grabbed only air.


  Sun streamed in between the curtains, brightening the room with daylight. I fumbled on the nightstand for my cell phone, glancing at the clock that read eight thirty. I blinked my eyes, wondering how I could have slept so late, then remembered I hadn’t fallen asleep until after the last time I’d looked at the clock at four. I sat up as the phone vibrated in my hand, then glanced toward the next bed to find Beau watching me, his blue-green eyes reflective as he sucked his thumb and scratched at the pilled red hat.

  I smiled at him, then felt the familiar quickening of my heart, realizing that the only person who would be calling my cell number would be Detective Kobylt. My trepidation changed to curiosity as I looked at the phone and recognized the 504 New Orleans area code.

  “Hello? ”

  “Is this Julie Holt? This is Nancy Mayer from Mayer and Ryan. I apologize for calling so early, but I have some very exciting news that couldn’t wait.”

  It took a few moments for me to become fully awake. Finally, I managed, “Exciting news?”

  “Yes. We have a strong interest in the Abe Holt painting you brought in yesterday. I knew putting it in the window would do the trick.” I could hear the woman’s smile in her words, but there was something else in her tone, too. I didn’t have to wait long before I figured out why.

  “There’s a small catch, however.”

  I held my breath. “Yes?”

  “She’d like to meet with you first to discuss the portrait. I don’t think this will be a hard sell, and you’re even more knowledgeable than I am about the painting, so I’m sure this is just a formality. But the woman is an old and frequent customer of ours, so I was hoping you’d be agreeable to a meeting.”