to hide whatever he may be feeling. Polite enough. Puzzled. ‘Sir?’
‘Are you looking for me?’ He won’t recognize the spike of hope in Bobby’s voice.
‘I’m not sure. I’m looking for . . .’
‘Bob Chaplin. Goldman Sachs?’ He’s lost everything that he used to be, but Bobby still has that strong handshake.
‘You’re a broker then.’
‘Was.’
The young man considers. ‘Then, no.’
‘Oh. You must be lost,’ Bobby says, disappointed.
‘Not exactly. GPS.’
Of course. Confident post-millennial dude, fully equipped. There’ll be a laptop and a digicam in the backpack, enough DVDs to let him fly home without getting bored; smartphone in the pocket of the Florida shirt. It hasn’t been that long since Bobby himself lived in the high end, high velocity, high tech working world – color copiers, CD and DVD burners, extra screens so you can do everything at once. Blackberry, iPhone, which is the phone of choice? He’s lost track. He rocks with homesickness for all that. Whoever this kid is, he probably thinks Bobby is retired, as in, over with. Nice old fud tending his front walk. I’m not that old! ‘iPad.’ What am I forgetting? ‘WiFi booster.’ He adds, to establish his credentials, ‘Next-generation everything.’
‘Pretty much.’ Nice grin. Nice looking kid, sandy hair, not from around here, too pale. Tourist, probably, fresh off the plane.
It’s not half-bad, standing out here with him. If Nenna comes along she’ll see that he is by no means Mr Lonely Guy. He has other people in his life. Nice kid, Bobby thinks. If we hit it off, ask if he’d like to meet for a drink later, down at the club. The psychic accident that brought Bobby back to Fort Jude makes him reluctant to look up old acquaintances but it would be extremely cool to walk into the Fort Jude Club with this personable young guy from up north. Don’t just stand here, start the conversation. It would be rude to ask what he’s doing in Pine Vista, where tourists never come.
Bobby says what you say to outsiders. ‘I bet you’re enjoying our sun.’
‘What? Oh. Yeah, I guess.’ The young man isn’t attending to the conversation, not really. He’s studying the house. If they were in a horror movie he’d see Maggie Chaplin’s pale face bobbing at the window; she never goes out. In real life Al Junior could wander out on the porch any minute now, scratching the wedge of belly where his T-shirt has ceased to meet his jeans. To Bobby’s relief the face of the house stays blank.
‘Oh,’ Bobby says. ‘You came to see the house. It’s a kind of a landmark.’
‘The house.’ Whoever he is, the kid jerks to attention. ‘Is that your house?’
Oh God, don’t ask him if he wants to look around inside. Not with things the way they are. ‘If you’re a contractor, we’re not looking to renovate right now.’
‘I’m not.’
‘Who are you, anyway?’
Now the kid tilts back the hat to prove that he has nothing to hide. He has a very sweet grin. ‘Nobody you’d know.’
‘I guess I mean, what are you doing out here in Pine Vista?’
‘Is this Pine Vista?’
Bobby says drily, ‘It was supposed to be.’
‘Sir?’
‘Just an idea my grandfather thought he had. But you.’
‘I. Um, I’m looking for . . .’ Whatever he’s looking for, he isn’t ready to say. Instead he jerks his head at the house. ‘Do you know who lives there?’
‘I do. Temporarily,’ Bobby adds, but not fast enough. Who are you kidding? ‘I mean, for as long as it takes.’
The stranger looks disappointed. Bobby isn’t exactly doddering but the kid says, the way you do to an old person who gets confused, ‘You’re sure.’
‘Hell yes I’m sure.’ Oh, don’t dismiss me like that! ‘What are you really here about?’
He has a hard time getting it out. ‘Do you know who owned it before?’
‘I told you, my father.’ Bobby isn’t sure why this makes him so angry. ‘And his father before that. And tell whoever you’re representing that we don’t intend to sell.’
‘I’m not here to buy anything!’ Wounded, the kid thrusts a picture at him. ‘Look, I just. I’m looking for this lady’s house?’
Everything in Bobby stops. All he hears is the rush of his own blood. It takes him a while to drag a response out of the dead silence in his heart. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘Did you know her?’
Shaken, Bobby is glad that he, and not this young guy, is the old person here. He is too young to know how carefully we are taught to dissemble. ‘I