And she’d been writing nearly every day. Clickety-clack, clickety-clack. He could hear her from his deck when the door to her room was open, typing on the keyboard. She demurred when he asked what she was working on, but he could tell she was pleased. And he was patient. If Paul Underwood was anything, he was extremely patient.
Then this morning, she’d excitedly knocked on his door before breakfast. She was talking so fast, he didn’t understand her at first. She’d sent fifty pages of something new to Stephanie, she told him.
“More Archie—”
“No, no,” she said, shaking her head vigorously. “No Archie. No more freaking Archie. Something else. I don’t even know what it is yet, but listen.” Bea read from Stephanie’s e-mail, lavish with praise for the pages and ending with “Keep going. I love this. I can sell it.” And just like that, Bea was ready to go home.
They’d slipped some cash to a local police officer, asking him to “keep his eyes open” for Leo. They packed their things and booked their flights. They were waiting for the ferry to take them to the larger island’s airport. Paul walked over to Bea as she stood and tossed her empty plate of mediocre food in a nearby trash can. He had a headache.
“I’m going to go across the street to look for aspirin,” he said. “I’ll be right back.” He walked over to the small gas station and accompanying rickety wooden building that sold mechanical parts and a smattering of groceries and other sundries. Flanking the doors were two small stands with boxes of mangoes in various states of ripening, swarms of fruit flies hovering over each crate. Inside, Paul went to grab the guava soda Bea liked. He could hear a lively crowd in a side room, a bunch of men laughing. He smelled weed.
Paul heard Leo before he saw him, recognized the barking laugh that was distinctly Leo’s. He told himself he was just imagining things, that they’d spent so many hours of so many days looking for Leo that he was constituting him out of thin air in the very last minutes before boarding the ferry. But then he heard the laugh again, closer, and the man with the laugh was heading to a rear restroom. Paul ducked behind a cardboard display for Kodak film that had to be at least twenty years old, two life-size all-American teens holding tennis rackets and laughing; the sun had faded all the pigment on the display to various shades of blue so the models looked ghostly in spite of their jauntily cocked elbows and toothy smiles. From his spot behind the display, he saw the back of the laugher’s head, took in his height, his hair, the particular profile that was, absolutely and beyond any doubt, Leo Plumb.
He’d found Leo.
LATER PAUL WOULD TELL HIMSELF he hesitated that afternoon in the bodega because he’d had too much sun. Or that it was the jerk chicken that was already roiling his stomach with ill portent given that they were about to get on a ferry and then a small plane to Miami and then a bigger plane to New York. Or shock, sheer shock. He’d never really expected to find Leo. He hurriedly paid for the soda and a tiny bottle of baby aspirin, which was all they had. As he made his way across the street, he thought about what to tell Bea. Back at the ferry terminal, he found a bit of shade at the side of the building and stopped to think for a minute. Seeing Leo again made Paul realize how much he loathed him. Nathan had told Paul about Leo’s undermining tactics, how he’d questioned Paul’s leadership and competence. Paul had been furious but he also recognized that Leo’s misstep had angered Nathan enough to tip the scale in Paul’s favor. The first influx of Nathan’s funding had already arrived and Paul was working night and day to prove to Nathan that he’d made the right choice.
From afar he could see Bea, still sitting where he’d left her. The straw hat was on the bench beside her; she was getting too much sun. She was wearing the old yellow dress he remembered from her first SpeakEasy photo, the picture he’d chosen for the cover, a decision that somehow ended up being credited to Leo. Like then, her face was in profile, her expression undimmed, hopeful. He walked over and handed her the drink.
“Nice and cold,” she said, holding the bottle with two hands and putting it to her cheek. “What?” she said, looking up at his face. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” he said, attempting to clear whatever was clouding his expression. “I was just thinking that you look really happy right now.” His heart galloped, knowing what he knew and what he wanted to do with what he knew.
“I am kind of happy,” she said, sounding surprised. Their ferry had arrived and its disembarking passengers streamed out onto the dock.