A few of the bills at the bottom of the first stack are salvageable and many in the second. A partial Ben Franklin stares up at me. Smiling. Smirking.
My eyes tear up. If these charred blocks were bundles of hundreds, I just ruined $10,000 per bundle. Given about half the second bundle is in decent condition, I figure I’ve burned $15,000.
Wait. The ashy flakes in the kiln . . . they’re similar to the flakes crumbling off these brittle bills.
I scramble to my feet to compare the residue within the kiln to that in my hands. The matter is too consistent for me to assume it’s a coincidence.
“My God,” I say aloud. “How much did I burn?”
Worse yet, if these are hundreds . . .
Jesus, is this my money? From my safe-deposit box? Did I, in one of my sleepless, out-of-my-mind moments, think hiding this money in a kiln I couldn’t possibly ever use was a good idea?
I tear out of the studio and fly up the stairs.
I yank my suitcase out from under the bed and unzip the top compartment, where I’ve been storing the cash.
“Oh, thank God.” It’s all there. Whatever I’ve yet to spend is still right where I left it, along with the mysterious velvet box that holds the blue-stone ring.
My relief quickly fades, however, when I consider what that money might have been.
Did I just incinerate the money Micah stole from his father?
The money feeding some illegal operation, for which his employment with United terminated?
Hell, even if I just burned money someone hid there for a rainy day—mattress money—it’s still disturbing.
I lean back against the wall and shove my suitcase back under my bed with a measured kick.
God, Micah. What kind of mess did you leave me in?
For a moment, I allow myself to sink into the feeling of being in his arms again. I know it was just a dream, but it keeps haunting me. For a brief moment in the middle of the night, somewhere between sleep and wakefulness, I was kissing him. And what did he say? Something about the color blue.
Just the power of suggestion, I’m sure. Mama’s blue table, the boat docked near Simonton Street Beach . . . it was named Azul. Blue flowers, blue skies, blue waters. The blue-stone ring . . . why on earth did he have it?
“Mommy? Nini and I are hungry.”
I look up to see Elizabella standing in the doorway.
That’s right. I was getting breakfast together before I was distracted.
I wipe tears from my eyes. “Me too, baby.”
She approaches with some hesitation but ultimately wiggles her way onto my lap and rests her head on my chest. “Mommy’s okay?”
“Mommy’s okay.” I kiss the top of her head. “Come on. Let’s get some yummies for that tummy.”
After a quick gathering of fruits and breads, which is all I have left in the kitchen, Bella and I migrate to the back porch. Papa Hemingway winds about my legs.
“Good morning.”
I turn toward the voice, which I recognize as Christian’s.
He’s climbing out of the pool, a caulk gun in his hand.
“Hello.” I place the melon and croissants on the round table.
“How are you feeling this morning?” Christian nears.
I drop an arm around my daughter, answer my neighbor—“I’ve been better”—then turn to Elizabella. “Say hello to Mr. Renwick.” I’m about to add that she allowed him to carry her to bed and tuck her in last night, but it suddenly feels too familiar a thing to say.
Maybe after I landed a few kisses on his mouth, I shouldn’t worry about being too familiar.
There are many things about last night that I ought to just forget. Dreaming about Micah won’t bring him back. And kissing Christian Renwick won’t make the dilemmas in my life disappear.
“Where’s Emmy and Andri?” Bella climbs onto a chair.
Christian shades his eyes from the morning sun. “Playing tennis, I think.”
“See them later?”
“Maybe,” I say.
“Rough morning?” He approaches the porch and wipes a glob of caulk onto his shorts. His smile is casual, inviting.
“Well, I don’t usually drink that much.”
“Evident.”
“Evident, huh?” I assume he’s referring to my repeatedly kissing him.
“Are you all right? Last night was rather”—he tilts his head from side to side—“intense.”
I suppose that just about covers it—from the heated kisses on the dance floor to my massive freak-out after the mysterious phone call on the beach. “Bella, eat some cantaloupe.”
“Chocolate pudding,” she says.
I ignore her counter-offer and push her chair a smidgen closer to the table. Her hair is an unruly mop, and yesterday’s dirt still encrusts her fingernails. I’m acutely aware, now that I think about it, that I must look rather mussed myself.
“I sort of remember something about hair of the dog. I’m contemplating a shot of that rum you left on my porch—”
“Rum?”
“Maybe in a glass of orange juice or something.”
“Veronica, I didn’t leave you any rum.”
“It was on my front porch. The day I got here. I assumed you’d left it.”
“Not me.”
Who could it have been, then, who left it? But before I can ponder too long, he’s talking again: “So I was worried about you last night. There we were on the beach, you know . . . and I’m thinking you’re a free woman—not necessarily that you’re ready to be one—and then . . .”
Our gazes lock.
I don’t know what to say.
“So you want to fill me in? Or do you want to leave me here, filling in the blanks on my own?”
He probably deserves an explanation, but what would I say? I’m a person of interest in my husband’s disappearance? Is that what I am?
I open my mouth to explain, but this situation is nearly inexplicable.
I clamp up and turn to the table, where Bella has acquiesced to a wedge of melon. “Have you had breakfast?”
“No. But I brought you a coffee.” He points to the porch railing, where a collared cup awaits. “I figured you might need it.”
Is he for real? If things were different, I might want to bottle him and sell him at the farmers’ market in Old Town. Maybe it’s true, what they say about southern hospitality. “Thanks.” I haven’t had a cup of coffee since before Micah and I began our crusade with in vitro fertilization, long before Elizabella was conceived and born, but I remember the long nights Natasha and I crammed for finals with mocha roast at the ready.
Screw it. For the first time in forever, I’m not trying to get pregnant. I deserve to start living. I draw in the scent of it.
“It’s just black,” he says. “I wasn’t sure how you—”
“I don’t take coffee, period, usually. But I’ll make an exception today.”
“So you don’t usually drink alcohol. You don’t usually drink coffee. Do you have any vices?”
“I’m thinking of investing in a few.”
“I did the same during a rough patch after the drama with my ex. Careful, or you’ll find you like vices.”
“Actually, lately, I’ve been doing a lot of things I don’t normally do. Pottery, painting, installing glass inserts into cabinet doors . . .” Burning bundles of money. Kissing strangers. Lord, it’s been a destructive twenty-four hours.
I hand a napkin to Bella, who has yet to take her eyes from our neighbor. “You’re already working on the pool?”
“I stayed most of the night, keeping watch, on your porch.”
I do a double take and pause to study him. “You didn’t sleep?”
“I was worried. Under the circumstances, I figured I should . . . you know . . . you were pretty shaken up. So just in case.”
He spent the entire night on my property? Outside?
I should thank him. Or I should tell him to drop the caulk gun and walk back through the gate. Option two is probably smarter. It’s either better for me because he’s turning into something of a stalker, or it’s better for him to stay away from the crazy lady in the big yellow house.
Then again, if Christian really was here most of the night, he can confirm whether or not we were alone, whether or not he heard or saw someone enter the house.
“Did you see anyone?” I swallow over a dehydrated lump in my throat. “Or hear anything?”
He begins to shake his head.
“I had this dream, and it was so vivid, so—” I shut up. There’s something in the grass, not far from where Christian is standing.