Waking, fully rested, on Monday morning, Faye hears a stream of water sliding down the gutter spout then a clatter of fronds, the next-door neighbor’s cabbage palm under assault as a thunderstorm off the Gulf sweeps across Crooked River. Wrapping the sheet and blanket tightly around her, she gazes out a window now streaked with drops of rain.
The rain will keep falling off and on all morning, but it won’t dampen her spirits or temper her upbeat mood. For she has woken happy, miraculously happy. By telling Dave Kershaw about Mexico last night, a great burden has been lifted from her shoulders, and she feels light on her feet today, skipping down the stairs.
In the kitchen she looks out at the grey rain and leaden sky, considering the days, weeks, months she carried all those horrendous secrets bottled up inside her like a ticking bomb because she didn’t trust anyone, anyone, to understand her plight. Not to sympathize but simply to recognize—clearly, without blinders—the evil the human monster she encountered in Quintana Roo embodies. All those interminable months she buried that knowledge, those primal emotions, those dreadful mental images so deep inside her no one, not her therapist or her parents or even her sister Hannah could possibly unearth them. On the other hand, if anyone would know how she felt it would be a cop. And that’s what made Kershaw such a godsend. Without planning to, last night she had instinctively opened the bottle and poured the poison out, and no matter what happens between her and Kershaw now, she will always be grateful for his empathy. For his compassion. For telling her, when she finished, that she was brave.
As the latest shower passes over the neighborhood, followed by a brief lull in the storm, she takes Sunny for a quick jaunt around the neighborhood. By now many of the neighbors have gotten used to seeing her walking Dieter’s dog and this morning one of them, an older gentleman standing behind the black mesh screen of his lanai with a book in his hand, waves. Smiling, she returns his greeting, still a little startled by her buoyant mood. Maintaining a firm grip on Sunny’s leash, she pauses to admire the elegant old neighborhood, the trim green lawns and wooden sash windows, the flowering hibiscus and scarlet bougainvillea, the screened lanais where southern gentlemen nurse tumblers of Kentucky bourbon or read Shelby Foote’s three-volume history of the Civil War. What a fine idea it was to come here. How—what was the word?—serendipitous? If she had stayed in Terre Haute she’s convinced that she would still be miserable, still be paranoid, still be too fearful to venture out into the light of day. And her secrets would still be secret. But here in Crooked River she’s free to ramble without worry through this charming historic neighborhood, smiling and waving at people she doesn’t even know. When she first arrived at the village in Mexico, this was the attitude she projected. Optimism. Enthusiasm. Joie de vivre. And now somehow, after a long and tortuous interval, here was the joy of life again, tempered no doubt by what happened to her but not dead, not vanquished.
That afternoon Kershaw calls to ask about her plans for the rest of the day. She tells him she thought she’d clean the house, do a little grocery shopping, maybe stop by the nursery to pick up supplies for her next project, an herb garden this time.
So what would you think about meeting afterwards, around five.
Meeting?
For a drink, something to eat.
Are you asking me out on a date, sir?
I suppose, he says, I am.
She hears the amusement in his voice and realizes that they have already reached—built—a comfort zone, an emotional oasis where they’re able to banter and flirt.
Well in that case, she answers, I accept.
Great. Any preference?
How about The Tides. Oysters and beer? I’m guessing a boy from Louisiana wouldn’t object to a few fresh oysters.
On the half shell?
Of course. Is there any other way?
You have the best suggestions.
Oh yeah? Well wait’ll you hear my other ones, she says, a little shocked by her audacity.
She hangs up the phone, tingling. Despite the horrific ordeal she had described to him the night before—a story that would have chased a weaker man away—Dave Kershaw is still clearly interested in her, as she is in him. Was this really happening? Like her newfound happiness, not that long ago the idea of a mature, healthy relationship with a man had seemed out of the question. Just as it now seems, against all odds, within reach.