Duma Key(120)

"That's great," I said. "Thank you." This sounded limp, at least to my own ears, but I still hadn't figured out how to respond to such compliments.

"Having you turn up as an actual paying tenant at Salmon Point is sad and ironic," Hadlock said. "For years you might know this Elizabeth reserved that house as an artist's retreat. Then she became ill and allowed it to be listed as just another rental property, although she did insist that whoever took it would have to lease it for three months or longer. She didn't want any Spring Breakers partying in there. Not where Salvador Dal and James Bama once laid down their storied heads."

"I can't say that I blame her. It's a special place."

"Yes, but few of the famous artists who stayed there did anything special. Then the second 'regular' tenant comes along a building contractor from Minneapolis recovering from an accident, and... well. Elizabeth must be very gratified."

"In the building biz, we called that laying it on with a trowel, Dr. Hadlock."

"Gene," he said. "And the people who were at your lecture didn't think so. You were marvelous. I only wish Elizabeth could have been there. How she would have preened."

"Maybe she'll make the opening."

Very slowly, Gene Hadlock shook his head. "I doubt that. She's fought the Alzheimer's tooth and nail, but there comes a time when the disease simply wins. Not because the patient is weak but because it's a physical condition, like MS. Or cancer. Once the symptoms begin to manifest, usually as a loss of short-term memory, a clock begins to run. I think Elizabeth's time may be up, and I'm very sorry. It's clear to me, I think it was clear to everyone at the lecture, that all this fuss makes you uncomfortable-"

"You can say that again."

" but if she'd been there, she would have enjoyed it for you. I've known her most of my life, and I can tell you she would have supervised everything, including the hanging of each and every picture in the gallery."

"I wish I'd known her then," I said.

"She was amazing. When she was forty-five and I was twenty, we won the mixed doubles amateur tennis tournament at The Colony on Longboat Key. I was home from college on semester break. I've still got the cup. I imagine she's still got hers, somewhere."

That made me think of something You'll find it, I'm sure but before I could chase that memory to its source, something else occurred to me. Something much more recent.

"Dr. Hadlock Gene did Elizabeth herself ever paint? Or draw?"

"Elizabeth? Never." And he smiled.

"You're sure of that."

"You bet. I asked her once, and I remember the occasion very well. It was when Norman Rockwell was in town to lecture. He didn't stay at your place, either; he stayed at the Ritz. Norman Rockwell, pipe and all!" Gene Hadlock shook his head, smiling more widely now. "Ye gods, what a controversy that was, the howling when the Arts Council announced Mr. Saturday Evening Post was coming. It was Elizabeth's idea and she loved the hubbub it caused, said they could have filled Ben Hill Griffin Stadium-" He saw my blank look. "The University of Florida. 'The swamp where only Gators come out alive'?"

"If you're talking football, my interest begins with the Vikings and ends with the Packers."

"The point is, I asked her about her own artistic abilities during the Rockwell uproar and he did indeed sell out; not the Geldbart, either, but City Center. Elizabeth laughed and said she could hardly draw stick figures. In fact, she used a sports metaphor, which is probably why I thought of the Gators. She said she was like one of those wealthy college alumni, except she was interested in art instead of football. She said, 'If you can't be an athlete, hon, be an athletic supporter. And if you can't be an artist, feed em, care for em, and make sure they have a place to come in out of the rain.' But artistic talent herself? Absolutely none."

I thought of telling him about Mary Ire's friend Aggie Winterborn. Then I touched the red pen in my pocket and decided not to. I decided what I wanted to do was to get back to Duma Key and paint. Girl and Ship No. 8 was the most ambitious of the series, also the largest and the most complex, and it was almost done.

I stood up and offered my hand. "Thank you for everything."

"Not at all. And if you change your mind and want something a little stronger for the pain-"

iv

The drawbridge to the Key was up to allow some rich guy's toy to wallow through the pass to the Gulf side. Jack sat behind the wheel of the Malibu, admiring the girl in the green bikini who was sunning on the foredeck. The Bone was on the radio. An ad for some motorcycle dealership ended (The Bone was big on motorcycle sales and various mortgage services), and The Who came on: "Magic Bus." My stump began to tingle, then to itch. And that itch spread slowly downward, sleepy but deep. Very deep. I inched the volume up a tick, then reached into my pocket and pulled out the stolen pen. Not blue; not black; it was red. I admired it for a moment in the late sun. Then I thumbed open the glove compartment and pawed around.

"Help you find something, boss?"

"Nope. Keep your eye on yonder honey. I'm doin fine."

I pulled out a coupon for a free Checkers NASCAR Burger Ya Gotta Eat!, the coupon proclaimed. I turned it over. The flip side was blank. I drew quickly and without thinking. It was done before the song was. Underneath my small picture I printed five letters. The picture was similar to the doodles I'd done in my other life while dickering (usually with some dickhead) on the phone. The letters spelled PERSE, the name of my mystery ship. Only I didn't think that was how you said it. I could have added an accent over the E, but that would turn it into something that sounded like Persay, and I didn't think that was right, either.