“I’m looking for Edgar DaSilva,” Toby said. “Do you know where he might be living these days?”
The bartender frowned. “Ed? Yeah. The house on the hill. It’s about five minutes from here.”
The house on the hill was small, no more than a couple of rooms, but it was apparent someone artsy lived there. Chisels stood beside half-formed wood carvings of monster fish and several wooden easels on the lawn.
“Please,” Toby muttered. “Please be here.Please.”
He knocked on the front door, but there was no reply. Wanting to swing his fist through the nearest monster fish, Toby turned to head back to his scooter when an older man came around the corner. He was tall, his long grey-brown hair tied back in a ponytail. He was also absolutely covered in tattoos, and when he smiled, Toby saw all three of Edgar DaSilva’s daughters in his face.
“Hello there,” the older man said pleasantly. “What can I do for you today?”
Toby’s heart started beating so hard it hurt. “Hi, sorry for interrupting, but are you…?”
“Edgar DaSilva?” The older man’s smile grew wider. “Yes. And who might you be?”
“Toby Tennant. I’m, uh, here about your daughters…”
“Ah.” Edgar rubbed the daisy chain tattoo on his left wrist. “Yes, it was starting to feel that way. Come inside, Toby. I’ll make some tea.”
The interior of the house was cramped and untidy, but clean. Every possible surface was covered in tubes of paint and canvas, wooden frames and carvings, chisels, and tins full of brushes. Toby sat in one of Edgar’s many chairs and, over an entire kettle’s worth of tea, told the story of Deborah DaSilva’s arrival, Scott and Noah’s visit, Tabby’s disappearance, and Nicole’s miscarriage. Edgar listened intently, his face shifting between sorrow and worry, but Toby sensed an underlying serenity in the man. As though his concern couldn’t touch an inner knowledge that absolutely everything would be fine. He now understood what Tabby, Scott, and everyone else had said about Edgar. He made you feel better. Calmer. Like he was giving you strength of character with every sip of tea and passing word.
“… and so I flew to Bali,” Toby finished. “Because we all—that is Sam and Nicole and Scott and Noah and Tabby—need you to come home.”
“Right,” Edgar slapped his hands on his tattooed knees and stood. “Time to get moving then. Where did I put that suitcase?”
He wandered to his paint-splattered shelves and poked at a few jam jars full of what looked like wood chips. Toby was confused, not just by the fact Edgar seemed to be looking for a suitcase in a jar, but by his complete lack of surprise.
“You… you’ll come back to Melbourne with me?” he asked.
“Of course,” Edgar said.
“For how long?”
Edgar turned, his weather-beaten face full of confusion. “Oh, for good, I’d imagine.”
“Seriously?”
“Yes, I’ve been missing home of late. My girls. My old plants. The studio.”
Toby’s head felt like it was melting off. “So… why didn’t you come back?”
Again, Edgar looked puzzled, as though the answer was obvious. “I was waiting.”
“For what?”
“You, as it turns out. Now, where is that…?” He turned and began shifting through piles of loose paintings. Toby knew he should get up and help if only to save valuable time, but he couldn’t let Edgar’s last comment go.
“Sorry,” he said. “Did you know I was coming?”
“Of course not. I haven’t been able to get the phone line reconnected. It’s been a real pain.”
“Then what were you waiting for?”
“Guidance,” Edgar said, lifting a pile of neatly folded T-shirts off an armchair.
“About what?”
“Not about,from,” he said, moving the t-shirts to a different armchair. “The universe always tells you these things if you’re willing to listen.”
