. .” He trailed off. “She never quit. Not on me. Not on us.” He stared out across the stones. “Forty years.” Another shake of his head. “Wrote me letters. Told me ’bout her job at the diner. Cleaning houses. She got hired at a hotel. Good job. Twelve years. Then when the arthritis set in, she . . .”
He stared down. “I wasn’t there when she . . .” He wiped his eyes. “They came and told me in my cell. Said she had died. That’s all.” He snapped his fingers. “Like that, she was gone.” He was quiet a long time. “When I was young and full of vinegar, I used to talk about the day my ship would come in. The day I met her, it did. She was my whole world.” He shook his head. “Life is hard. Harder than I expected. On both sides of the bars.” He knelt down and dusted off her stone. “Celeste, I want to tell you that you’re a good woman. The best even. And I’m sorry. Sorry for . . . not being there when you needed me. And for everything in between. I’m . . .”
Clay fell quiet. He leaned on the stone and lifted himself off his knees. Then he unfolded his handkerchief and wiped his eyes. I let him cry. His shoulders shook, suggesting he’d been holding those tears a long time. Finally, he straightened his new suit and donned his hat. He spoke softly. Staring at the earth. He glanced at me and back at the stone.
“Celeste always talked about seeing me in a suit. When I got out. How we’d go to dinner. Dancing. I hope she likes it.” Standing in the sun, Clay wobbled. I caught his arm, and he leaned on me. He coughed. A deep, productive cough. I couldn’t tell if it was returning or leaving. The only thing apparent to me was that whatever had kept Clay alive until this moment, whatever had gotten him through prison and from prison, was gone.
We stood there over an hour.
Having said his goodbyes, we turned and began walking toward the gate. He was a good bit taller than me, so when he spoke his shadow fell across me. “I want to thank you for getting me here, Mr. Murphy.”
“I’m sorry it wasn’t a good bit sooner.”
He opened the gate, then stared behind us. A long minute passed. “Me too.” Another suck through his teeth. “But not nearly as much as her.”
Standing in his shadow, I knew I was watching a beautiful love story play out in the air around me.
We walked back to the hotel while Clay leaned on me. More so than usual. A light rain dusted our shoulders. After a couple of blocks, he spoke. “You figured out what you’re going to tell Ms. Summer if and when you can’t find her daughter?”
“No.”
He looked at me but said nothing. His face said plenty.
Summer sat poolside when I returned in the early afternoon. A novel on her knees. Number thirteen. Fumbling with her hands. The sun was falling and the crowds were filling the waterside bars en route to Mallory Square for the sunset ritual. Staring at Summer, two things caught my attention: the book and her bathing suit. A bikini. And it’d been a while since I’d noticed a woman in a bathing suit.
“Nice suit,” I said when she caught me looking. Red-handed. A razor cut on her ankle suggested she’d shaved her legs.
Self-conscious, she fiddled with her straps. “Is it too much? It’s all I could find. They didn’t have a one-piece.” She reached for a towel.
“Not too many people trying to cover up in Key West. Down here more clothes come off than on.” I sat across from her. “Can I ask you something?”
She waited. Sweat had formed on her top lip, and her bare shoulders showed the remaining effects of the oysters the night we’d first met. They were healing, and it struck me again that she hadn’t complained a bit. Not once. “Why do you work so hard to cover up what so many would show the whole world?” I waved my hand across all the shapes and sizes of the pool deck. Most wore suits that were a few sizes too small. Wearing a memory.
She set the towel down. Summer was beautiful. A class all by herself. She just didn’t know it. Or, if she had at one time, something or someone had convinced her it