Gone (13 page)

I thought about it as I finished with the closet, then went from room to room, snapping pictures, but found nothing else interesting or revealing. Finally, I entered Olivia’s office and sat at the desk, where, as I already knew, Mr. Seasons had found the laptop computer and the few photos he’d shown me. The office chair was on rollers, covered in soft stressed leather. I leaned back, put my feet on the desk, and let my mind wander.

Where are the things she doesn’t want anyone else to see?

Nathan had asked that question and he was right. Everyone has a secret place where they hide their most personal possessions—myself included. Unless Olivia had anticipated her rooms being searched, I had missed something.
What?

I sat up and took a closer look at the desk. It was an antique office desk made of oiled oak, too masculine for most women but exactly the sort of thing I liked. Had Olivia sat here when she’d made entries in her journal? It still bothered me that her diary had ended so abruptly. Two entries on the same page, dated the week Ricky Meeks had arrived, then only blank pages afterward. Was it possible that she had written about their relationship but had torn the pages out for safekeeping?
Yes.
More likely, though, it was Meeks who had found the diary and destroyed any entries that had incriminated him.

I scooted the chair away from the desk and looked at the floor. For a diary, Olivia had used a common spiral notebook like students use in school. The kind that scatters tiny shards of paper when a page is ripped out. On my hands and knees, I found several such shards scattered like confetti beneath the desk, hidden from the maid’s broom.

Did it prove someone had taken pages from the diary? No . . . but it was evidence that it
might
have happened. If so, where were the missing pages?

I took a photo, then stood and checked the trash basket. Empty. Meeks wouldn’t have hidden the missing pages inside the desk, but Olivia might have done exactly that if the desk contained a safe hiding place.

I sat in the leather chair and went to work. One by one, I opened drawers, testing each for a false bottom. There were no secret compartments, but the large bottom file-sized drawer was locked. It didn’t take me long to find the key, which was hidden on a hook beneath the desk.

Inside the drawer was the private cache I’d hoped to find minus the missing diary pages—at first glance, anyway. There were several packets of letters tied in bundles with red ribbon. One batch might have been from the guy Olivia had dated during what Mr. Seasons referred to as “her rebellious stage,” the short period where she’d experimented with drugs—the dated postmarks matched up. They contained greeting cards or birthday cards, from the looks of the envelopes, the sort of stuff people don’t send by e-mail. There was a smaller stack from Olivia’s father—one letter from France, two from Monaco, one from Madrid—along with a few dozen envelopes that dated back to her middle school years, all from what were probably old girlfriends.

I didn’t take photos of the envelopes nor did I open even one. The prospect of reading Olivia’s private mail gave me the creeps, so I refused to invent an excuse to do it. After placing the letters on the desk, I then took out an ornate wooden box that might have been a jewelry case. Maybe the missing pages of her diary were inside.

Not even close. When I opened the lid and saw what was inside, my ears began to warm from embarrassment for Olivia . . . plus a mixture of embarrassment and guilt for myself. The day before, I’d experienced a similar reaction. It was when Loretta had intentionally shamed me by talking about the “electric candle” she’d found hidden among my clothing. Olivia, though, had been smarter. Instead of shoving her pleasurable items into a drawer, trusting that all people are decent, she’d protected her privacy with a locked door and a hidden key.

I felt sneaky and rude when I realized what I had stumbled onto. Even so, my eyes couldn’t help lingering on the items the girl had collected. There were several what Loretta had referred to as “gadgets.” Different shapes, petite sizes, two of them so unusually designed that it took me a moment to decipher their purpose. Only one was cheap enough to rely on a plug-in cord—a brand available at most pharmacies but that also could be found in a shoe box I now kept hidden on my top closet shelf. The other objects, though, appeared either soft and expensive or as complicated as computer games, which possibly explained why they required wall chargers.

Good for you,
I thought, feeling even closer to Olivia than when I had fixated on her photo as an awkward, unhappy child.
No risk of disappointment, or guilt, or clumsiness.

How well I knew the freedom that the privacy of my aloneness offered . . . and the comfort only my own imagination could provide. Olivia’s life was the same in that way, too. She had experienced the same physical loneliness. Probably the same frustrations and fears as well. It was such a powerful secret to share that my feelings of sneakiness vanished. I would not take photos of what I’d found, of course, but it felt okay to do what I was doing.

No longer embarrassed, I noted what else the box contained, using just my eyes, not my hands. Wedged among the pleasurable items was a vial of lotion, several DVDs in plain paper sleeves, what might have been magazine photos, and sheer lace panties folded on the bottom. True, I felt more sisterly toward Olivia, but I wasn’t going to rummage through her intimate things for the sake of lace panties or pictures of movie stars wearing tight jeans. The DVDs, though, were a different story. They were stacked faceup, easy to see if I was willing to use an index finger to flip through them.

I was willing. The nosy, bawdy woman who hides inside my head, though, was soon disappointed. Instead of sensual, erotic titles, the DVDs were unlabeled except for one, upon which, in Olivia’s hand, was written
Orchid House
, along with the date
May 17
.

The date caught my eye because it was about two weeks after Meeks had arrived in Naples. Was it possible the girl had been recording the progress of her new orchid house and had accidentally—or intentionally—included video footage of Ricky?

Mr. Seasons had told me I could remove useful material from Olivia’s room as long as I cataloged it and returned it. I was holding several DVDs in both hands, my brain arguing with my conscience, when a voice asked from the doorway, “Find anything juicy? I did—
maybe
.”

The DVDs jumped from my hands and clattered to the floor, I was so startled. It was Nathan. Laughing as I knelt to retrieve the things, he said, “You’re not the only girl with a guilty conscience who’s sat at that desk. I found Olivia’s art studio.”

Too irritated to wonder what he meant, I replied, “How’s a man your size move so quiet? It’s not human—and just plain rude. Someone should tie a bell around your neck.”

Unfazed, Nathan was walking toward me, saying, “I didn’t risk asking the security guard why the studio’s padlocked. He was out back for some reason when I got there. So I had to wait until he was gone. Did you see him?”

I glanced at the window as I shook my head. Was there a chance the guard had seen me at Olivia’s desk? The possibility troubled me, but it was unlikely. I had checked the window several times.

“Her art studio’s the cottage next to the orchid house,” Nathan continued. “So I used a screwdriver and took off the hasp. He’ll never even know we were there unless you—” He stopped in midsentence, watching me slam the wooden box closed before he could see what was inside. “Hey,” he said, “what’d you find? You’re hiding something.”

Ignoring him, I returned the box to the drawer, stacked the packets of letters as I had found them, and then locked the drawer in too much of a hurry to remember I’d left the DVDs on the desk. “Turn your back,” I told Nathan.

“What?”

“You heard me. I found something of Olivia’s that’s private. And that’s the way it’s going to stay. Private.”

Exasperated but in a good-natured way, Nate spun around. While I hid the key under the desk, he couldn’t help chiding me, saying, “You’ll probably want to buy a new lock for her studio, too, if you’re feeling that protective. There’s a reason she doesn’t want anyone to see her paintings. You two ladies have a lot in common, Hannah. Just like I said.”

FOURTEEN

T
OO STUBBORN TO ASK
N
ATHAN TO EXPLAIN HIS REMARK
about Olivia Seasons’s paintings, I remained silent as I followed my friend out the private entrance, past the orchid house, then into a one-room studio that felt smaller because its windows were shuttered.

“See?” Nathan said, pulling the door closed. “She didn’t want anyone peeking in here. That alone should tell you something.”

I didn’t reply. In appearance and mood, the studio was the polar opposite of the orderly rooms where Olivia lived. It was a chaos of color and canvases, most of them stretched on frames, several sitting unfinished on easels, many more hanging limp as animal skins, tacked as a patchwork mosaic on every wall. The space had a nice odor of linseed oil and wood, but it did nothing to disperse the atmosphere of shadows and secrecy.

Voice low, Nathan said, “Personally, I think she’s pretty freakin’ good. The orchid stuff, she was copying Georgia O’Keeffe, that’s obvious. But her original stuff—it looks pretty recent—she’s a troubled girl, but she’s got talent. You mind if I take some shots to show Darren?”

I shook my head
no and hissed, “Shush!” which froze Nate where he stood.

For more than a minute, I stood motionless, letting my eyes adjust, allowing details to come into my head without seeking anything in particular. Even in silence, the room echoed with Olivia’s presence, a frantic energy that had been trapped inside these four walls even as she, using paint and brushes, had sought to escape from . . . from . . . from what in my soul I felt to be the truth . . . or at least suspected was true.

Even so, I tried to comfort myself with answers that were easier, less personal. Had Olivia painted such sensual, potent images to escape the captivity of her father’s home? His wealthy friends? Escape the boredom of a life that provided her with everything yet demanded nothing?

Yes.
That was an important point—a separate truth that had not yet registered in my heart because such an existence was outside my experience. Growing up wealthy, I realized in that instant, was dangerous for an outsider like Olivia—as it would have been for me. It might be a clear advantage for women who grew comfortably into their own skins, who inherited confidence as naturally as I’d inherited size 10 feet. But for a young girl who was awkward and shy, wealth might rob her of the need to fit in with the outside world, as well as the strength and gradual courage required to strike out on her own, and make a living.

Beside me, Nathan asked softly, “You okay?” He was asking for permission to at least move, if not talk.

I nodded. “I needed some time, that’s all. I didn’t expect this.”

“There’s nothing crude about her work,” Nathan, the boyfriend of an artist said, defending an artist I already empathized with more than he would ever understand. “They’re impressionistic . . . sensual,” he added. “Sure, obviously sexual, too. Lots of frustration . . . maybe even rage. You think?”

No—I
knew
but didn’t reply. When Olivia was done painting orchids, banyan trees became her subject. No, her obsession—there were dozens of photographs tacked up on the easels and walls, mostly close-up shots, which reflected the microview she painted from. Whole canvases devoted to a cluster of leaves or a single muscled bough. Banyans are unlike other trees in that they claim increasing amounts of ground around their trunks by dropping air roots to support the weight of their limbs. After many decades, a banyan tree resembles a luxurious mound of green that sits on an acre of poles—a visual mix of masculine and feminine that Olivia recognized and had used.

In her paintings, a lone branch resembled legs partially spread, a single leaf created a feminine triangle. A buttressed trunk had the muscularity of a strong man’s thigh, a dangling root thick as a hawser was so unmistakably phallic that it caused me to turn away but also sparked inside my abdomen a familiar burn that had been with me off and on for the last several days.

“Before the gym rat came along, you say, she dated only one other guy?” Nathan was following me as I moved around the room, which was irritating because I had to guard how I reacted to a painting or risk one of his all-too-accurate gibes.

“Gym rat?” I said, then realized he meant Ricky Meeks. “There was a guy a few years ago who got her into cocaine, but he didn’t last. She was smart enough to dump a loser like that and move on.”

“She’s about the same age as us?”

I replied, “A year younger, born in late May.”

“God help us,” Nate said. “One Gemini hunting for another Gemini—there’s four times the chance you’ll both end up lost. And she’s dateless and single just like you.”

“Mr. Seasons isn’t paying you to crack jokes,” I answered with a chill. “He’s paying us to find his niece. A fact you might consider is how careful someone like Olivia has to be when it comes to men. I’m referring to these paintings, how it might explain her frustrations. Do men want her for who she is? Or are they only after her money?”

“From what I’ve heard so far,” Nathan replied, “it’s neither. No wonder she ran off with the first guy who came along.”

“Stop being mean,” I shot back. “We don’t know for sure she’s with Ricky Meeks. Or that it happened like you’re saying.”

“Bull crap. She’s with him, and you know it. Look around the room—that girl had so much sexual tension built up, I’ll bet she went shooting out of here like a balloon.”

I faced Nate, hands on hips, and squared my shoulders. “So what! Even if she’s with him, Olivia didn’t leave with a man like him because she wanted to. She’s got her own mind and she’s too smart. He drugged her or forced her, or something. I’ll bet you money on
that
.”

Nathan smiled and was remarking on my protective attitude but then stopped and squinted at me, his bald Buddha head shining. “Why’s your face flushed? It’s not hot in here. And it’s not because you’re mad.” His smile broadened while his face swiveled from me to the painting of the engorged dangling root I had been ignoring but was still close enough to see from the corner of my eye. “Hannah,” he said finally, straight-faced, “I think you’ve found your soul mate. Good news is, he’s hung like a fire hose and won’t leave the lid up. Bad news is, he’s a freakin’ tree.”

I started to say something sharp in reply but then began laughing. Couldn’t help myself because of the boyish look of innocence on Nate’s face that was pure fakery but also reminded me of our school years when he had been puny and I’d backed down more than one bully who was tormenting him.

“You’re a mess,” I said. “Go wait in the truck and play video games,” then gave him a shove to clear my path. I had noticed another garbage bag in the corner and wanted to have a look.

Several minutes later, Nathan was asking, “What’d you find? What are you reading? From the look on your face . . .
Hey
, you want me to call the cops?”

I had found the missing entries to Olivia’s journal, ten detailed pages crumpled into a ball so tight that only a strong man could have done it. Much of it was written in her shorthand code, which would take me a while to decipher. “Quiet,” I replied, then nodded to the contents of the bag, part of which I’d dumped onto the floor. “Take a look. There’s a balled-up canvas in there, too. Why would she throw away her own paintings?”

Even before Nate had gotten the canvas spread out on a desk, I recognized the charcoal curves of a man’s broad bare shoulders and a face that was featureless but for two ears like spiked horns, a spit curl, and a wolfish leer.

“He didn’t let her finish it,” I said, feeling a building anger, “because Olivia was painting the truth about who he is—not just what her eyes saw.”

Nathan replied, “You wanted proof they’re together. I guess this is it.”

The same might be true of the missing pages I’d found, but I needed time alone to decipher the girl’s shorthand. “We shouldn’t be in here,” I said, “she wouldn’t like it. Where’s the screwdriver? You need to fix that hasp.”

Nate did it while I moved the sickly orchid from Olivia’s bedroom to the orchid house, where the air was dripping hot on this June afternoon but still felt fresher than the studio where the missing girl had locked away her secrets.

I was so preoccupied with what we’d seen and found, we were halfway home before I took a break from the missing pages and checked my messages. There was one from Gabby Corrales, asking me to call about tomorrow night’s party; several from Loretta, who was swearing, she was so mad, the neighbors had hired a backhoe to destroy the rest of the Indian mound; and one from Cordial Pallet that provided some hopeful news.

“An old fishing partner of his knows where Ricky Meeks fuels his boat!” I told Nathan, who was driving.

“Where?”

I said, “At a little marina near Marco Island,” but was thinking,
Just like Mr. Seasons hinted at to begin with
.

“The Ten Thousand Islands?” Nate said. “Did he name a place? The area’s huge.”

I was thumbing numbers into my phone. “That’s what I’m going to find out right now.”