Celeste
Once Daisy is out of sight, I head upstairs and make my way to the attic door. There’s no lock on it. There should be, but everything in this old house is so rusted and worn that any visitor would notice a new lock and wonder who the hell locks their attic.
I ease open the door. Narrow stairs ascend into an eerie twilight, lit through filthy dormer windows. With every step, dust whirlwinds around me. I should change into my sweats. I’m turning to retreat when I remember that I lent them to Daisy.
I climb to the top and peer through the motes of dust dancing in the dim light. Stacks of boxes line every wall. Furniture covers the floor. I wasn’t lying when I said it was a mess. It looked like this when I arrived, and while I’m tempted to see whether there are any antiques I can sell, the clutter is more valuable as cover for everything I need to hide.
As I step onto the top landing, I catch a soft plinking noise. Is that . . . water?
Dripping water?
I actually have a leak up here?
Of course I do. Well, that saves me the trouble of making one. I crest that last step and reach for the light. Before I flick the switch, something on the floor catches my eye. It’s covered in a layer of dust, but that’s nothing new. What is new? The fresh footprints tracking through it.
Daisy
The umbrella breaks halfway to the store. It’s already ancient, creaking as it opened, rain dripping through tattered holes. Then a gust of wind grabs it, and I fight for control as the umbrella flips inside out. When I battle it around, it flips the right way . . . and two rusted struts snap.
I remember Celeste standing there with a dripping black umbrella in one hand as she gave me this ancient red one.
I shake my head and hold the umbrella up as best I can while I make my way to the corner store. It’s exactly what I expect from a settlement so tiny it doesn’t appear until you zoom the map to full size. According to my research, Fort Exile isn’t even a town. It’s an honorary name for a cluster of homes that never earned the status of town, village or even hamlet.
The story goes that there was once nothing here but a government outpost so far from everything else that its two-person staff dubbed it Fort Exile. The name stuck. As for why it appears on maps at all, I chalk that up to whimsy. It brings the occasional tourist this way . . . who will discover nothing here except this one store, a low-slung building that combines a gas station, corner store and garage. Also bait shop, post office, coffee bar and, if the sign can be believed, “tax services.”
When I first arrived, I’d visited the store and found the contents as expected—an overpriced assortment of basic commodities for those who didn’t care to make the ten-mile trek to the city.
As I walk in, a bell chimes, and a male voice calls a greeting from the garage.
There’s no sign of the middle-aged clerk, and the lights are dim. I glance back at the sign on the door. The Closed side faces my way. Okay, it is open.
The voice comes again, as if interpreting my silence correctly, “Glory called in sick. Just grab what you need, and come get me to ring you through.”
I smile. In a town like this, when your employee doesn’t show up, you run double duty and trust that whoever’s in your shop won’t fill their pockets and run.
I gather what I need and set it on the counter. Then I walk into the garage. It’s even darker than the shop. The only bright light shines from beneath a pickup raised on a jack. I spot a work boot, presumably from the guy underneath the vehicle. One tanned arm peeks out, skin bathed in reflected light. Rolled-up sleeves show a tribal tattoo that makes me scrunch my nose. This, too, is not unexpected—people pick whatever symbol catches their fancy, whether it belongs to them or not.
“I have cash,” I say. “I could leave it on the counter with a list of what I took.”
“One sec,” he says. “I just need to . . .”
A grunt and a crack, and another grunt, this one of satisfaction. The dolly wheels squeak as he rolls out. One look at his profile, and I realize my mistake. That tattoo isn’t taken from another culture. His light-brown skin is more than a Florida tan.
That’s when he turns my way, and recognition slams like a fist into my gut. In my mind, I hear a boy’s voice say, “Yeah, my mom’s half-Seminole, and my dad’s all asshole.”
No. Please, no.
It’s been so many years. I’m mistaking him for a boy I knew. It cannot possibly be—
Cannot possibly? That’s really what you’re going with? The impossibility of returning to Florida and seeing someone from your past?
Months of planning shatters at my feet. If I’ve recognized him, he’s recognized me, and I am undone.
“Hey,” he says as he rises, his friendly smile sparking into true warmth. “I know you.”
I have any chance here, it is to confess. Spill my story and pray for understanding.
I open my mouth.
“You were in a few days back, right?” he says. “I caught a glimpse as you were leaving, and Glory said you were just passing through. You passing back? Or waiting out this damn storm?”
I hesitate, not believing my reprieve. But he stands there, his smile warm and friendly and nothing more.
He doesn’t recognize me. Why would he? It’s been twenty years, and it’s not as if I returned to this part of the world without taking precautions with my appearance.
I only remember him because he occupies a bigger space in my memory than I would in his. A boy who’d been kind when I needed kindness. A man with that same kindness in his eyes, despite biceps big enough to lift a car and tattoos that tell me he’s spent time behind bars. I grieve a little, seeing those prison tats. Grief for the inescapability of his fate, the fate of so many who’ve lived our life. We wanted out, he and I. A better path to better places. I’m not sure either of us found it.
“Tom Lowe,” he says, extending a hand. Then he sees the grease streaks and pulls back with a rueful laugh. “Mmm, on second thought, better stick to hello.”
“Daisy,” I say. “Daisy Moss.”
“Nice to officially meet you, Daisy Moss. I hope you found someplace warm and dry to wait out this storm.”
My gut instinct is to say something noncommittal. For the past month, that’s been my response to questions as innocuous as “So, where are you from?” Yet the words that leave my mouth are “I took shelter in a shed, but the homeowner was kind enough to let me stay in her lanai.”
“You must mean Celeste,” he says, as if this is the only answer.
He walks to the bench and takes a glop of cleaner from a jar, rubbing it on his hands as the sharp tang of orange fills the garage. “Good. She’s new around here—inherited the place from her granny a few months back.”
“So I heard.”
“Glad she took you in. This storm’s a real witch. Never seems to end. Hurricane season, huh?”
As he dries his hands on an old towel, I glance at the workbench.
“I don’t suppose you rent tools,” I say.
He looks over, brows rising.
“Celeste has a leak, and I’ve promised to fix it. From the looks of her house, though, I have a feeling any tools there belong in the last century.”
He chuckles. “Middle of the last century more like. Sure, we can work something out. Or I could swing by and fix it myself.”
“I owe her,” I say. “And I know what I’m doing. I’m a carpenter by trade, but I’ve spent more time repairing leaks than crafting fine furniture.”
“I know what that’s like. I’m an aviation mechanic, and I pay the bills keeping these junk heaps on the road. Gotta go where the jobs are.” He waves me into the shop. “Let’s get you rung through, and then we’ll talk tools.”