Randy White - Gone

No, I could not-particularly after what I’d experienced when a drunken Martha Calder-Shaun had come tapping at the guesthouse door last night, wearing only a T-shirt and panties. I hadn’t admitted that to Gabby, of course. I hadn’t even shared it with Nathan and wasn’t sure I would, although I had debated it in my head for the hour it took us to get to Port Royal. If anyone would understand, it was him.

“Robert’s gay,” Gabby had informed me after talking awhile about people’s behavior in a way that sometimes sounded mean but more often fair and thoughtful, which had impressed me. “He won’t admit he’s gay, of course-and Ricky goes both ways, which I know from at least one trip for sure. So maybe that’s the answer. Ricky probably has something on Robert. Plus, he brings in money. That’s what it always comes down to, sweetie: money. If anyone tries to tell you different, they are totally full of mierda . Money, money, money . Know what that means?”

Even if I didn’t, I’d have understood from the way she said the word.

–

ALL OF THESE THOUGHTS and snatches of conversation were colliding inside my head while I attempted an orderly search of Olivia’s rooms, occasionally taking photos with my cell phone to help me remember what I was seeing. It was difficult to keep my mind focused, and the little I found was upsetting instead of helpful, although it meshed with what I knew about the girl.

“You come from opposite backgrounds,” a buzzed Lawrence Seasons had confided last night, “but Olivia and you strike me as similar in at least a few ways. Subtle similarities, unusual, and hard to put into words. You both have a sort of attractiveness that… well, it takes some time to appreciate. Unique, you know? And the look in your eyes when your attention wanders. Olivia was detached from people, even in a crowded room. My guess is, the same’s true of you.”

Unusual similarities despite our differences . That part, at least, was soon confirmed.

Olivia’s dressing room closet, which was large enough to stock a women’s department store, was so empty my footsteps echoed off the tile floor. Inside were hundreds of empty hangers but only a few simple dresses, mostly in earth colors-which I happen to prefer-and several careful stacks of shorts, jeans, and blouses that were suitable for gardening and hiking-or even fishing-all neatly folded.

I snapped a few photos, which was useful because the flash revealed something my eyes had missed. Against the far corner were three overstuffed garbage bags covered by a white sheet, which caused them to blend in with the walls.

Donations to Goodwill was the first explanation that came to mind. If so, Naples had the luckiest store in Florida, judging from what I found. Inside were some of the most beautiful jackets, dresses, blouses, and women’s suits I’d ever seen. Rather than hurry, I began transferring garments to hangers, telling myself that creating an orderly display from the jumble was better than scattering Olivia’s personal things on the floor. It showed respect, and also provided a cleaner overview of the girl as a person-the way her mind worked, her private preferences.

This was the first discovery that proved how similar our tastes are. Or were. Olivia was a jeans girl who liked her pants snug fitting, low on the hips, tapered lean at the calves, which is best for wearing boots. Same with me. She preferred understated clothing to the ornate. Many of the designer labels were foreign, but some I recognized from clothes I had admired in stores and catalogs but were too crazy expensive to buy-several Versace blouses among them. A few labels I knew from my own closet: Calvin Klein, Polo, and a cocktail dress that was almost exactly like a black Donna Karan I’d discovered on sale at T.J.Maxx and had guarded on my way to the checkout as if it were stolen treasure.

I snapped more photos, then couldn’t help but carry Olivia’s version of the dress to a mirror and hold it up to see how it would fit. She was a tall girl, too, but thinner-a diagnosed anorexic, Mr. Seasons had told me. Even so, I liked what I was seeing. The dress was elegant but informal… and sexy in a tasteful, flirting sort of way, so I’d yet to find an occasion, or the nerve, to wear it.

As I looked into the mirror, I imagined Olivia modeling this same dress right here where I was standing-she undoubtedly had. I imagined her striking similar poses, her face replacing my own so totally that I had to give my head a shake. To clear my mind, I thought about tomorrow night’s party and remembered that Gabby had told me to wear something classy but comfortable-a black cocktail dress would work.

“Maybe,” I whispered to the girl staring at me from the mirror. “We’ll see.” Then I returned to the closet to check the other garbage bags-a decision that affected me in a way that was more emotional than expected.

I’m not as crazy about shopping and clothing as some women, but I do have a love for shoes-boots especially-as well as fine purses and wallets. The odor of soft leather and the feather lightness of shoes or boots beautifully crafted can lift my spirits faster than anything I know. More than once when feeling depressed or lonely, I have bought new shoes or a handbag I couldn’t afford, indifferent to the guilt I knew I’d experience the next day when I returned it.

Olivia was much the same, which was soon obvious, but wealthy enough to avoid the humiliation of standing in line at the return counter. I found dozens of pairs of shoes-sandals, espadrilles, heels, and boots. My God, the boots! Beautiful hand-sewn leather from Italy, butter-soft in my hands, several pairs I would have loved to own. Especially a pair of black butch-looking faux biker boots that were ankle-high with silver pirate buckles on the sides. I’d coveted a similar pair at Saks-eight hundred dollars! Thank God, Olivia wore a size 9, which was a size too small for me or I’d have been tempted to try them on. There were also purses by Kate Spade and two fine wallets, one exactly like the brown clutch wallet I’d bought for my birthday only a few weeks ago. T.J.Maxx again. On sale, half retail.

As I took more photos, I wondered if Olivia had enjoyed the same feeling I got when finding such treasures in a store. Of course she had. The proof was right here. The connection gave me a strange feeling, but not so strong it erased obvious questions. Why would Olivia dispose of so many beautiful things in garbage bags? Tired of wearing them? That struck me as improbable. Every garment smelled and looked so new. More likely, it had to do with her recent monkish behavior. Even so, no matter how religious, it didn’t make sense. A pious woman who had gained or lost a lot of weight might donate fine clothing, stuffing it into garbage bags, but no woman in her right mind would part with a pair of classic boots.

In her right mind…

Was that the only explanation?

No. I wouldn’t let myself believe that a girl who was about my age, with similar tastes, had actually lost control of her own brain. Olivia had been lonely-I could relate. She had some neurotic quirks-who doesn’t? But insane? Just thinking the word gave me a chill.

It took a while, but I settled on other possibilities. Olivia had been so unhappy, she’d decided to sever herself from the person she had once been, so she had thrown away her finest clothes to prove she no longer cared about material possessions. Or… or she’d done it as a form of penitence, a way of punishing herself for whatever guilty things she had done or imagined. That possibility, at least, might explain why she could allow herself to fall under the power of an abusive man like Ricky Meeks.

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.