She said, —My husband booked it online.
We were told the owner lives up on the bluff now.
Older woman, I think.
Why?
I heard my own voice answer from a distance.
—She’s family.
That word tasted wrong as soon as it left my mouth.
The woman softened.
—Oh.
Sorry.
The cleaning lady mentioned the house was sold a few years ago, but that’s all I know.
Sold.
A house Clara had once insisted she could never part with.
A house she told me held every memory of Marina’s childhood.
A house I had partly imagined my money was helping preserve.
I thanked the woman and walked back to the sidewalk in a daze.
That was when an old man from the neighboring porch called out to me.
—You all right there, son?
He sat in a weathered chair with a folded newspaper on his lap and a fishing cap pulled low over his eyes.
Something about the way he looked at me suggested that he was not just making conversation.
He was placing me.
I walked toward the fence.
—Did Clara Whitmore move?
He squinted harder.
—You’re Robert,
aren’t you?
My throat went dry.
—How do you know my name?
—From the wedding picture Clara used to keep on the mantle.
And from the funeral.
I was at the church.
Been a long time, but I remember faces.
A strange current ran through me.
—Then you know where she is?
He hesitated.
That hesitation changed everything.
—Mr.
Whitmore, he said slowly, I thought you knew.
—Knew what?
He looked toward the harbor, then back at me, as if deciding whether he wanted any part of what was about to happen.
—Clara moved to Seaview Villas about three years ago.
Unit 18.
Up on the bluff road.
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