The Leaving(52)

How would they ever figure out what his tattoo meant?

So what if he liked to take pictures?

How could that possibly be a clue?


They decided he would drive this time. So that she could call Chambers, tell him about the penny, the guard, everything.

Just not yet.

Because as soon as they were on a main road again, stopped at a light, Lucas reached out and took her hand again.

And she held on and it felt strange and right.

And he kept looking over at her, and she at him, and after a while it started to feel like he shouldn’t be driving, not when they were both so distracted.

And finally she said, “Pull off somewhere.”

And at first it seemed like there was no possible good place to stop, but then she saw an old motel with a large parking lot in front and said, “There!” and he pulled into the unpaved lot, kicking up a cloud of dirt.

The GulfShores Motel was abandoned—stickered with orange signs about violations of who even knew what kind. Drapes blew through broken windows. An ice machine sat silently alongside a pillaged snack machine.

It didn’t matter.

They weren’t going in.

He parked in a far corner of the lot and turned off the engine.

She waited.

But only for a moment. Then leaned toward him and —so fast— he pulled her into his arms and kissed her and she kissed him back and . . .



Attacked.

X’d out



/

/



/



And the kiss was freeing.

And claustrophobic.

And familiar.

And there was this unease that pricked at her heart.

And just kept

pricking


and picking


and pecking away.





“We were in love,” she said when she pulled away.

He nodded.

But . . .

And he went at her again.

And . . .

This time, less tentative.

This time, all in.

Her hands in his hair, their bodies finding their way to each other over consoles and stick shifts.

His chest against hers, his hands finding the skin on her lower back, his mouth moving to her neck and ear and back again.

This wasn’t the first time.

But all that was lost and might never be recovered.

But she’d chosen him once.

They’d chosen each other.

That said something about who she was, who he was.

That in spite of all they’d forgotten, this had come through.

This hadn’t entirely been erased.

She had to trust that.

The penny.

Had to see it through.

She could almost feel the weight of a light jacket—her handmade jacket?—on her shoulders.

Could feel her fingers, pushing fabric through a machine.

She could feel him,

wanting her,

taking it off.





Lucas


Driving seemed to steady him. Pushed away the


SPINNING HORSES KISSING BEACH

CLICK HISS SW + LD HEARTS


The swallowed penny had worked. So what of the tattoo?

Why, if he’d done it himself, had he gone to all that trouble only to make his clue so vague? So unclear? So that if the plan to escape hadn’t worked, the tattoo would have seemed . . . what . . . benign? Meaningless?

They drove in silence.


MOUTHS. PIERS. LOVE. HOLDING HANDS.

LOOKING OVER SHOULDERS.

ON THE SIDE.


So much to process. He was afraid to speak, really.

Then finally, as they approached town, she got her phone out and called Chambers. She told him about the penny. About Anchor Beach. About the guard there. How he remembered them, and her jacket. How their initials were carved into the pier.

“Tell him about the book,” Lucas said.

She nodded and explained it all. It already felt like so long ago—Orlean with his unruly hair and sad eyes. The bar, the rainstorm.

“Oh, and one more thing,” she said after they’d agreed that Lucas would meet with Chambers to speak more about The Leaving in the morning.

For a second Lucas couldn’t think what she’d left out.

“We’ve both been skipping the bottom step of staircases,” she said. “Like out of habit? That has to be a clue, too, right?”

Lucas pulled up to Opus 6 and turned off the engine.

Scarlett said, “I don’t think I can make that promise,” and ended the call abruptly.

“What was that about?” Lucas gathered his camera and bag.

“He wanted me to promise we wouldn’t go off on our own again, wouldn’t try to investigate.” She got out to come around to the driver’s side. He stood and wondered, should he kiss her again? And he studied her eyes, her body for clues. But now it seemed like somehow—here—that was all gone.

All a dream.

That photo.


EYES LIKE SOIL. FUZZY DICE. RAIN.


It was real.

They were real.

It had happened.

But . . .

“Chambers said he’d go there, interview the guard,” she said, getting into the car. “And I guess let me know what he says after you talk to him?”