At nine Sammy checked his pocket watch, stood and kissed her cheek, and in hues of sunshine climbed into the waiting car.
He sank into the plush leather and closed his eyes to the quiet of the engine. As they took a wide arc around the town of Monta Clare, he opened his window to sweetened air as front yards bloomed and he breathed content.
The driver almost missed the turn, the track appearing like a notch in the wild. At the old farmhouse Sammy climbed out and took in the view, from the flats of the grassland toward the St. Francois Mountains. It was a place he had not visited before, but now he understood the enthrall.
He found Marty Tooms behind the house, digging out a patch of bindweed. When Tooms saw him he rose, offered a smile though they were now perfect strangers.
“You must be from the bank,” Tooms said, wiped his hand on dark jeans and extended it. “I spoke with Mr. Fulbright, and he said it was alright if I came tidied the land ahead of the auction this weekend. To be honest there wasn’t all that much to do.”
Sammy smiled. “That’s because I heard the old police chief used to come by each month and tend it. He was all heart, you know.”
Marty smiled, for the smallest moment unable to find his words. “There are some places where the good memories are easier to locate. You’ll find a buyer now people know, I’m certain. I hope they love it like…like me and the chief did.”
“I’m not from the bank, Marty.”
Tooms kept the smile but frowned a little. He stood tall, no outward mark of the past years. Sammy knew he rented a small apartment two towns over. Days he worked at a timber yard in Preston, weekends he volunteered at the Thurley State Park, tagged trees and checked footpaths, gates, and stiles. He’d been freed without fanfare, did not make a claim to be compensated because by his own admission he had done so much wrong.
They found the body of Callie Montrose buried beneath the cotton candy wings of the okame cherry on Nix’s land. Saint had sat on the small bench beside it, same as Nix had for twenty years, and took a moment to remind herself of the simple complexities of life as colors spread from the crown.
Sammy knew that right and wrong were subjective terms, also knew some men set their own price on redemption.
They walked toward the house.
Tooms kept his eyes down until Sammy drew the thick envelope from the car.
He noticed the tall man’s hands shook a little as he opened it and thumbed the pages.
“I don’t understand,” Tooms said.
“The land is yours, Marty. The house, the acres. The memories. Everything you can see. It’s all yours again.”
Tooms looked around.
“Someone left you a painting. It’s worth a fair amount of money. I took the liberty of giving you a loan against it, buying up this land because I know Ernie Fulbright is tired of keeping it on the books.”
Tooms cleared his throat. “A painting?”
“A painting I spent the better years of my life staring at. A painting that I’d like to leave hanging where it is. Alongside the others. Because they remind me of…of a friend. That’s your interest payment. We can sort the finer details, and of course you can come view it whenever you like. Or you can tell me to go to hell.”
Tooms looked at him.
“I know this doesn’t make an awful lot of sense to you, but maybe it will when you see it.”