“Were you working at the Saint back then?”
“Nah. I was working day shift at the paper plant.”
“So. The drowning?”
“Well, now that you mention it, I do remember that. I was kinda seeing a guy on the side who worked as an EMT back then. He was working that day. By the time they got down to the pool, the kid was dead.”
“Huh.” Whelan set his beer down on the bar top and twirled it between his hands.
“Where did you say you’re from?” she asked, not bothering to hide her curiosity.
“Me? I’ve lived all over the place. Most recently, Orlando.”
“Since I’m being nosy, what brings you to a backwater like Bonaventure? And why’re you interested in something that happened so long ago?”
“I just took early retirement. My mother passed away recently, and while I was cleaning out her condo, I found some old letters and stuff. Things that made me think maybe it’s time I figured out the answers to questions that I’ve been wondering about for a long time.”
“And you think the answers might be here?”
“Could be. I got nothing better to do. And this seems like an okay place to do nothing.” He stuck out his hand. “By the way, I’m Whelan.”
She shook, briefly. “Cool. Like Waylon Jennings?”
“Different spelling, but close.”
“And I’m Marie.”
“Like Marie Osmond?”
That gave her a laugh. Not even.
“Hey,” she said, after a moment. “You looking for work?”
“Might be. What do you have in mind?”
“You could try out at the Saint. They always need help.”
“Maybe I’ll check it out.”
“You, uh, might want to think about spiffing yourself up a little first. They’re real persnickety about how the help looks.”
“Oh.” He swept his hair back under his cap. “I got ya.”
She pointed at the tattoo on his right forearm. Semper Fi with the Marine Corps screaming eagle.
“You served?”
“Yup.”
“Good for you, but you’re gonna want to cover that up. The GM has a bug up his butt about that kinda stuff. No tats, piercings, long hair. You apply for a job, you need to look like one of them clean-cut Mormons that go around door-knocking and handing out Bible tracts.”
By the following Monday Whelan was wearing a set of coveralls in what he’d come to find out was the ever-present Saint signature pink. His hair was shorn, mustache gone, and the tattoo was hidden beneath long sleeves—at least until he started work and ditched it.
They’d made him an assistant supervisor on a landscape crew, which he found surprising, but not challenging.
This week they were weeding the miles of colorful flower beds that lined the roadway leading to the resort. It was hot, backbreaking work, but he found the mindlessness suited him. Weeding, planting, mowing, blowing; there was a rhythm that appealed to him. He clocked in at seven and out at four. Then he went back to the apartment over the surf shop, showered, and cooled down. Some nights he fixed himself a sandwich for dinner and watched a Braves game, other nights he grabbed something at one of the bars or restaurants in the village before turning on his app and driving.
He usually stopped accepting fares at eleven, because he’d quickly learned that anyone he picked up later than that was more than likely an obnoxious drunk.
