Whiskey Beach(111)
“He would not.”
“Okay, maybe he’d give the kid a break, but he’d sure as hell body-block his only son.”
“Maybe true, but no hints from me. Still, let’s go inside and get your Easter basket before her father comes down and grabs them all.”
It was a good day, though he ate enough candy that the idea of waffles for breakfast made him a little queasy. But he ate them anyway, and put everything aside to enjoy the moments.
His father in light-up bunny ears that made Selina belly-laugh. The pleasure on his grandmother’s face when he gave her a pretty bowl filled with mixed spring bulbs in fragrant bloom.
Waging war with water pistols against his brother-in-law and accidentally (mostly) shooting his sister dead in the heart when she opened the terrace door.
Surprising Abra with a vivid green orchid because it reminded him of her.
They feasted on ham and roasted potatoes, tender asparagus and Abra’s herbed bread, on eggs deviled out of their colorful shells—and more—in the formal dining room. Candles flickering, crystal winking, the sea singing its siren song against the rocky shore made the perfect backdrop for the very good day he’d predicted.
He couldn’t remember the Easter before, with Lindsay’s murder so fresh, with the hours he’d spent in interrogation, the living fear that the police would, again, knock on the door. And this time take him away in handcuffs. All that blurred now—the pale, strained faces of his family, the gradual and steady retreat of those he’d considered friends, the loss of his job, the accusations flung out at him if he ventured into public.
He’d gotten through it. Whatever hounded him now, he’d get through that.
He’d never give this up again, this feeling of home and of hope.
To Whiskey Beach, he thought, lifting his glass and catching Abra’s eye, Abra’s smile. He drank to it, and everything in it.
When he stood on Monday morning after helping load cars, the feeling of hope remained with him. He gave his grandmother a last good-bye hug.
“I’ll remember,” she whispered in his ear. “Stay safe until I do.”
“I will.”
“And tell Abra she won’t be teaching her morning yoga class without me much longer.”
“I’ll do that, too.”
“Come on, Mom, let’s get you in the car.” Rob gave his son a one-armed man hug, a slap on the back. “We’ll see you soon.”
“Summer’s coming,” Eli said, helping his grandmother. “Make time, okay?”
“We will.” His father walked around to the driver’s seat. “It was good to have all the Landons in Bluff House again. Stay ready for us. We’ll be back.”
Eli waved them off, watched them until the road curved away. Beside him Barbie let out a quiet whine.
“You heard him. They’ll be back.” Turning, Eli studied Bluff House. “We have work to do before that. We’re going to find out what that asshole was looking for. We’re going to give Bluff House a clean sweep. Right?”
Barbie wagged her tail.
“I’ll take that as a yes. Let’s get started.”
He started at the top. The third floor, the servants’ domain back in the day, now served as storage for odd pieces of furniture, trunks that held vintage clothes or memorabilia previous Landons had been too sentimental to discard, and too practical to display.
After the search, the cops hadn’t bothered to replace the dust sheets, so they lay in white piles like snowdrifts over the floor.
“If I were an obsessed treasure hunter, what would I be looking for up here?”
Not the treasure itself, Eli decided. “The Purloined Letter” aside, hiding in plain sight had its limits. No one could believe any of the previous occupants would have tucked a chest full of jewels away within the saggy divan or behind the spotty mirror.
He wandered around, poking into boxes and trunks, tossing dust covers back over chairs. The light streamed in so motes danced in beams, and the silence of the house accented the toss and suck of the surf.
He couldn’t imagine living with the army of servants who’d once slept in the warren of rooms, or gathered in the larger space for meals or gossip. There’d never be true solitude, true silence, and forget genuine privacy.
A trade-off, he supposed. To maintain a house like this, and live and entertain as his ancestors did, required the army. His grandparents had preferred a less elaborate lifestyle.
In any case, the days of Gatsby were done, at least in Bluff House.
Still, it seemed a shame and a waste to have an entire floor occupied by shrouded furniture, boxes of books, trunks filled with dresses layered with tissue and sachets of lavender.