‘I know, Mum. I’ll be back mid-week and we’ll sort things out. I promise.’ One way or another, this disharmony must end. I either have to accept Alice in my life or not. I’m unsure what the latter means for me, for my marriage and my family, but at some point, I need to draw a line under it all. We can’t carry on as we are.
I’m awake early the next morning, and although the travelling made me tired, it wasn’t enough to fully slip into the local time zone. I think I probably managed about five hours’ sleep. I cross the road to the local diner and order pancakes with maple syrup for breakfast and a pot of coffee. It reminds me of Luke and me talking about going to America one day. It was a wet Sunday afternoon and we hadn’t been married long, Hannah was just a baby and we were trying to plan our first family holiday. America with a six-month-old baby seemed a tad ambitious but we had cuddled up to each other with a glass of wine, making an imaginary list of all the things we wanted to do when we went to America and promising that one day we would actually do it. Pancakes with maple syrup had been high on my list, which had made Luke laugh and he had teased me for a long time afterwards.
I smile at the memory and a wave of sadness drowns the happy thought. I look down at the pancakes and suddenly they don’t seem so appealing. Not today, not on my own without Luke or the girls. I push the plate away, pay the bill and leave.
Sitting in the rental car, I take my phone from my bag and look in my saved notes for the postal address of Alice Kendrick and input it into the sat nav. It tells me the location is forty minutes away and I take my time as I drive on the freeway for the first time, paying close attention to the directions, the traffic ahead and the traffic signals, remembering that you can go on a red light if you’re making a right turn and nothing is coming. It’s a little unnerving, but I manage it. Soon I’m travelling over the bridge that connects Amelia Island to mainland Florida. It’s a small island of just thirteen miles in length and a population of less than twelve thousand. It’s a popular tourist resort yet, according to the tourist board’s website I read earlier, maintains a small friendly town atmosphere.
It’s not long before I pull off Jasmine Street and follow directions to a small cul-de-sac, where the sat nav announces I’ve arrived at my destination. It’s a detached bungalow in a road with similar properties, some detached and some semi-detached, but all looking very well kept and modest. Nothing flashy or ostentatious here. Tall trees offer plenty of shade from the blazing sun, which dapples the road with spots of golden light. Long threads of Spanish moss hang from the trees, reminding me of tired party streamers the morning after New Year’s Eve celebrations.
Looking at the house, it’s hard to tell if there’s anyone home. The street is very quiet and there’s no sign of life from any of the houses.
I climb the porch steps and knock on the door. I listen intently for any sound of life, but there is none. I haven’t come all this way to be put off by an empty house. I take a glance up and down the road, but there still doesn’t appear to be anyone about, so I make my way around to the side of the house. There’s a gate and when I try the latch, it’s unlocked and opens inwards, allowing me access to the back garden. It looks as if it was kept nice and tidy at one point. Perhaps that was Patrick Kennedy’s thing – maybe he liked gardening.
I peer through the glass of the back door into the kitchen. Nothing is out of place. There are no cups or plates on the side waiting to be washed up. There’s no tea towel flung carelessly on the worktop or fruit sitting in the bowl waiting to be eaten. It looks like a show home. I try the handle to the back door but, unsurprisingly, it is locked. I rattle it all the same, just to be certain. I can’t see into any of the other rooms as the blinds are shut.
There are two bins by the side gate. Feeling like some sort of amateur detective, I go over to look inside them. It might give me an indication of how long it’s been since someone was here. The first looks like the recycling bin, with a few empty food boxes and drinks cartons lying in the bottom, but as I open the second, the smell that hits me almost makes me want to vomit and the buzz of flies that evacuate the bin makes me squeal, drop the lid and jump back.