Randy White: Gone

The lighting is important, so I take some time and get it just right. Then I feel a lonely girl’s delight as I watch a grown woman change moods as she changes and rechanges her outer skin. That woman is a whole lot different from the homely child she once was. That woman has long, long legs. Her thighs might be a tad heavy, her ankles definitely too thick-but not too thick to wear elegant stiletto heels with peep toes. Or a pair of crystal pumps that the woman found for ten bucks at a Palm Beach thrift shop. Ten bucks! The woman has decent hips, too, and a waist that appears skinny enough, but only because her shoulders are so darn wide from swimming laps. Things get better, though, as the lonely girl’s eyes move up the mirror where the woman spills out of her favorite 34D bra just enough to cause the girl to get teary-eyed and smile, because she, in her own mind, is as about as shapely as an ironing board balancing two peas.

Sometimes it takes a while to convince myself that the woman in the mirror is me. Not a fashion model, nope. That’ll never happen-unless God drops everything else to lend a hand. Or unless shower curtains become some kind of fashion craze. But my body is pretty darn good, thank you very much. And my face is strong and sometimes handsome-even pretty-when the light is right. Good high cheeks, glossy hair, and eyes that are sharp and perceptive when they aren’t focusing on those few old scars that even the little girl realizes helped create the strong woman she has become.

Just being alone on a fast boat improved my mood, feeling the sunlight and smelling the wind. By the time I’d showered and changed, I felt a lot better, even though I had only thirty minutes to get to Captiva Island for my appointment. By car, the drive would take an hour even in the light summer traffic. So I did what I often do when in a hurry: I got in my boat and flew.

MR. LAWRENCE SEASONS PLACED A NAPKIN BENEATH HIS glass, scowled at the ring on the table, then summoned the maid, before telling me, “I invited you because we have a problem and a woman’s insight might be helpful. It has to do with my niece. She hasn’t disappeared, exactly. But we don’t know where she is and she won’t return our calls. Every two weeks, though, as required by the trust, she telephones the executor’s office-that’s my office. But then hangs up before my secretary can ask any questions.”

I said, “Hmmm,” as if I understood, but, of course, I did not. “How can your secretary be sure it’s your niece calling?”

“We gave her a list of test questions that only Olivia could answer. It’s the first thing she does when Olivia checks in.”

“Olivia…?”

“Olivia Tatum Seasons. My late brother’s only child.”

I asked, “Any close friends you could get to talk to her?”

“We’ve tried,” Mr. Seasons said. “Olivia doesn’t have many friends-not that she trusts, anyway.”

“What about Ms. Calder-Shaun? She seems like a nice lady. Or her mother? Sometimes a minister can talk to people when no one else can.”

He shook his head. “Her mother moved to Europe long ago. And Olivia’s stepmother is only ten years older than Olivia. She was an actress. Still is, I suppose. And, well”-Mr. Seasons swirled the ice in his glass-“she and the stepmother have never gotten along. You can see why it’s become a problem.”

“What about Olivia’s cell?” I offered. “Most phones have a GPS signal.”

The man attempted to cloak his impatience at what I realized was an obvious suggestion but was still polite enough to reply, “Yes, actually, we did think of it. She’s turned off the GPS service. Or gotten a different phone.”

To my left, outside the ballroom-sized enclosure that screened the swimming pool, a cabana, and an outdoor gas kitchen, I could see a dock through the foliage, and the shiny transom of Mr. Seasons’s expensive yacht. The vessel dwarfed my little skiff, which was tied in the shallows like a waiting pony. I was beginning to wish I was on my boat, and gone. But I tried again by asking the niece’s age and what she was like.

“As a person, I mean,” I said.

“Olivia just turned thirty-about the same age as you, I would guess. But her behavior is not as… solid ?” The man thought about it for a moment, his silver hair catching the light. “No, that’s not the right word. Olivia has lived a privileged life, I’ll put it that way. It’s like mothers who use antibacterial soap. Their children don’t build up the necessary immunities-you know, out there wrestling in the mud, swapping germs on the playground. The same with Olivia. Her father’s wealth protected her, so now she doesn’t possess the immunities-street savvy, you might say-that a woman needs to function in the real world.” He paused when we heard the click of shoes on Mexican tile.

I had been doing my best not to gawk but the maid was marching toward us and I couldn’t help glancing beyond her into the library beyond. Through doors framed with pecky cypress, I saw a room that was a museum of artwork and antiques. A chandelier sprinkled light across a marble floor, then spilled over onto sculptures, Renaissance-looking paintings, an oriental carpet, and the largest fireplace I’d ever seen in Florida, or anywhere else.

I said to the maid, “Thank you, ma’am,” as she poured tea over ice, then returned my attention to Mr. Seasons. “I can’t imagine how I can help. But I’d be pleased to try.”

The man waited with exaggerated patience while the maid wiped the table and didn’t respond until she was out of earshot. The interruption prompted him to say, “Everything we say here is confidential-I’m sure I don’t need to tell you that.”

“Sure-of course,” I said, and tried the tea. It was unsweetened instant tea, weak as tap water. I was reminded that by boating five miles across the bay, I had entered a different world. I’d left behind what remains of Old Florida and was now in one of the wealthiest enclaves of the North’s southernmost state.

“You know, I’ve been very impressed by your competence as a fishing guide,” he continued. “I hope I didn’t offend by mentioning confidentiality. It’s not that I’m sharing some terrible family secret, it’s just-”

“First thing I learned,” I said, trying to help the man, “is my clients have a right to their privacy, whether they’re on my boat or a thousand miles away at home. What they say when I’m around leaves when they leave the dock. Fishing guides who aren’t respectful don’t last very long.”

“Exactly,” Mr. Seasons said, then sat up straighter and smiled as if a pleasing thought had just come into his mind. “I bet Captain Jake taught you that. Professionalism. He took a lot of pride in what he did.”

“My uncle knew his business,” I agreed.

“My God, I fished with Jake for almost twenty years before he got sick. All kinds of weather. I’ve always said you can learn more about a man’s character in eight hours fishing than you can in eight years at some damn office pretending to be something you’re not. That applies to women, too, of course. You are a very impressive young woman, Captain Smith.”

I smiled my appreciation, although I don’t particularly like being called captain. In my mind, a real captain stands at the wheel of a ship, not a twenty-one-foot skiff.

Mr. Seasons’s mind was still on the subject of fishing. “March and April were my favorite months because we’d hunt those big female tarpon at the mouth of the river. But we’d go holidays, too. Christmas was always fun, if the bay wasn’t too rough. I remember one afternoon-this was around Thanksgiving, I think-it was glassy calm, like summer, and Jake took me offshore looking for tripletail. Now, the tripletail is a very strange fish, isn’t it? Floats on the surface like a giant leaf. So convinced it’s invisible, you can scoop it up in a net, don’t even need bait. Some people are like that. Unaware of their vulnerability, secure in their own illusions. I’m afraid my niece, Olivia, might be one of them.”