Randy White - Seduced

I clenched my teeth until I had calmed. “You might change your mind when you see this.” I opened an envelope. “He left us his hunting cabin and a hundred acres of citrus. You, me, and Reggie; divided equally. Then we get into some complicated areas that an attorney-”

“Salt Creek Gun Club?” she interrupted. She’d spent time there; I could tell by her dreamy expression. “That’s the prettiest place there ever was. That river path, where the moss hangs so soft and cool? Many’s the time I told Harney we should be… we should be buried-” Her voice broke; she grabbed the second envelope and ripped it open and quickly regained control. “This must be for me, too. By god, this is better than Christmas.”

The envelope was addressed in masculine pencil to Darling Lorrie -Loretta’s nickname used only by the former lieutenant governor. In it were dozens of photographs-the oldest, black-and-white prints with scalloped borders. Thirty years of photo technology was in that stack, including faded Polaroids, and color shots so bright, they looked as if they’d been painted. My mother got through a few, saying, “Here’s me and Harney at the first moon launch… Here we are in Times Square… This here was took in a country I can’t pronounce-no… it was Paris. Yep, by the Arch of Trumpets. I can tell by the pigeons.”

“Paris,” I said. “In Europe? Where was I while you were jet-setting around?”

“Damned if I know-probably on a camping trip with your Uncle Jake. You expect me to stay housebound while you’re out having fun? Thick as thieves, you two-and never did thank me for that tent I patched so you’d have a place to sleep. Neither one, even a word.”

My jaw tightened again while her quivering hands chose another photo. “Aw… this was Christmas at the Biltmore. You wouldn’t know the name-it’s a big, expensive hotel in Asheville. Don’t Harney look fine in that suit? That’s where he… that’s where Harney… where we went after the first time he proposed…”

My mother’s emotions got the best of her then. She gave a great, shuddering yawn, then broke down, sobbing. I got an arm around her and sat her on the couch. With me, I brought the photo taken years ago at the Biltmore Hotel. While I held her close, I looked into my mother’s secret past. Mr. Chatham had been a big, confident man with curly hair and a Don’t cross me smile. Loretta, who was now a little bird of a thing, had once been a beautiful woman. Proud of it, too, judging from her fashionable jeans and tight snow-bunny sweater. On her face was a sly, territorial smile, her lover’s hand cupping the underside of her breast. I might have been looking at the photo of a woman I’d never met.

Strange how the eye is tricked more often by memory than light.

I said, “Go freshen your makeup. The girls will get on the church bus if I don’t call them soon. You still want to go to church, don’t you?”

She sniffed, and rubbed her eyes. “Every Sunday, I ask the Lord for forgiveness-all the sins Harney and me committed over so many years. I don’t know why I bother. I truly don’t. The Lord, He knows what’s really in my heart, and, truth is, I don’t regret one single moment I spent with that man. Not one, Hannah. In fact-you really want the truth?-my only regret is, there were times we could’a been together, but I said no out of conscience. All those lost moments of happiness we could have shared! You don’t think God knows? He does. So today, I’ll put a hundred-dollar bill in the plate, and buy the girls pizza. You go on, dear. There’s no need to drive us.”

What Loretta meant was, she didn’t want the awkwardness of having her daughter around when she had so much good news-and five thousand dollars-to share with her friends.

I said, “At least let me help you with your makeup. It looks like you’ve been crying coal dust.”

When the door to the church bus hissed shut, I headed for the dock but stopped halfway. The black catamaran skiff was drifting just off the channel, while the driver leered at me over his Yosemite Sam mustache. When he was sure I saw him, he thrust out his arms, as if inviting a tango partner, and yelled something about cold weather, then, “Wanna dance instead?”

His name was Larry Luckheim, according to my deputy friend Birdy, who had shared the information over a glass of wine. He’d moved to the area from Canada via Okeechobee, where the Bass Pro circuit had dumped him for cheating. Quaaludes might have also played a role. Now he was fishing light tackle out of Placida and trying to rebuild his reputation as Buddy Luck, Native Guide .

Birdy had told me some other details as well. Twice, women had filed restraining orders against him. There’d been several assault charges related to bar fights, and a court order had mandated two weeks of psychological evaluation. It was three months before Luckheim was released. Bipolar disorder, was the vague diagnosis.

Equally as disturbing, Birdy’s background check turned up zero information prior to the man’s twenty-fifth birthday. No driver’s license or voter’s registration, and no arrests.

On the bright side, it was illegal for Luckheim to buy, own, or possess a firearm.

What Birdy didn’t have to tell me was, the man was a bully. I strode toward him, determined to establish the boundaries of my personal world-the dock, my skiff, and the boat that was beginning to feel like home.

“I bet you’re more of the clogger type, aren’t you?” he hollered. “You’ve got the look of hillbillies and whiskey in those legs of yours. Oh… and catfish. I bet you’re death itself on saltwater cats.”

I ignored him, while battling to keep my skirt down and my demeanor aloof despite the fact I was barefoot.

“Hey, I found my copy of Florida Sportsman . Those pictures don’t do you justice, but at least you were wearing shoes. Hell… I’ll buy you shoes-if you give me your autograph, and let me take you dancing.”

He twirled an invisible partner and attempted a sultry looked as “they” dipped. The effect was grotesque.

This was not the first man I’d dealt with who was jealous of magazine pieces written about me, a woman guide who taught fly casting and whose clients had won tournaments. Thanks to good photography-and, for all I know, Photoshop-the stories had gotten a lot of attention, most of it pleasant, some not. But this, by far, was the craziest man to take offense.

I went into my cabin, locked the door, drew the curtains, and changed clothes. When I came out, I was wearing khaki shorts and a navy blue sweatshirt. The man was still there, within casting distance of the dock, separated only by the cleaning board and a gooseneck lamp. I took out my phone, let him see me do it. As I dialed Birdy, he grabbed a bait-casting rod and freed a fishing lure that rattled with treble hooks. “Who’re you calling? You’re not the only one who’s got cops as pals. You’ve been checking on me, girl. That’s not right, us being in the same profession and all.”

We were close enough now, he didn’t have to yell. Instead, he spoke in a cheery, conversational way-then suddenly snapped a sidearm cast. The lure, with its silver gang hooks, came at me like a bullet, threading the space between the lamp and the cleaning board. Before I could flinch, he thumbed the spool and stopped the lure inches from my face. The lure plopped into the water at my feet while I finally did react in a lurching, clumsy way. Embarrassing-which is what he wanted.

“Why’d that scare you? Hell, I’d choose a Shimano over any sniper rifle in the world. You’ve never seen an expert fisherman cast before, have you? Here, honey, watch this.”

He did it again. Again, I ducked away from the lure. It was a reflexive reaction I couldn’t control, yet I kept the phone to my ear while Birdy’s recorded voice said, “You know the drill.”