Amanda Stevens - The Dollmaker

“Because a guy’d have to be crazy to leave you sitting out here all alone. Especially in that yellow dress.”

She’d cock her head, smile in that way she had. “And you’re not crazy, are you, Dave?”

“Nope. What I am,” he’d say softly, bending to brush his lips against hers, “is just about the luckiest son of a bitch in the whole wide world.”

Dave turned off the conversation in his head as he glanced at Marsilius. “I’ll go up in a minute. I need to clean out the ice chests first and hose off the boat.”

“I’ll take care of that. You go on now, don’t keep her waiting any longer.”

But when Dave turned toward the house, Marsilius called him back, frowning. “Look here, son. I don’t know what she’s got on her mind, but I could tell something was bothering her. You go easy on her, hear?”

“What do you think I’m going to do? Throw her off my porch?”

“You’ve always been bad to hold a grudge, Dave, don’t claim you ain’t. She married somebody else and that didn’t sit well with you. I reckon you made that plain enough. But something’s going on with that girl and there’s no sense in you going up there making her feel any worse about it.”

Dave just shook his head. “You don’t give me much credit for anything, do you?”

“I speak my mind, if that’s what you mean.”

Dave left without another word and walked up to the house through the oak and pecan trees that ringed his property. The breeze picked up, scattering leaves across the path in front of him, and the sky took on a greenish tint.

He paused at the edge of the yard to slip on his shirt before striding down the dirt pathway to his house. A moment later, he drew back the screen door and stepped up on the porch.

Even when she turned, when he saw her full on, she didn’t seem real to him. It was like he’d awakened from a deep sleep, a dream still hovering at the edges of his consciousness, and in that fleeting moment he couldn’t tell if what he saw and heard and felt was real or only a vision.

The screen door snapped shut behind him, and as their eyes met, a smile died on her lips. Her gaze moved over his face, taking inventory of the bruises and the stitch marks near his scalp. “What happened to you?”

“Let’s just say I had a difference of opinion with someone, and leave it at that.”

Their eyes met again and she looked away. “You never change, do you, Dave? You always did have a talent for trouble.”

“According to Marsilius, it’s one of the few things I was ever any good at.”

She didn’t return his smile, but instead glanced around. “I like your place. It’s nice here. Peaceful with all the trees.”

He accepted the compliment with a shrug. “It’s not much to look at, but it’s home.”

“Home,” she said softly, turning to stare out at the yard, making a point not to look at him.

Dave watched her standing there, and a lump rose in his throat. She wore a white cotton skirt and sandals, with a blue camisole that matched the turquoise of her eyes. Her hair was clipped up in back so that he could see the fine, glistening hairs at her nape.

He swallowed, tore his gaze away. “Marsilius said you wanted to see me about something.”

She turned, and what she saw in his eyes seemed to take her aback for a moment. Her hand fluttered to her throat, covering the pattern of freckles on her chest that he had once traced with his fingertip.

“I’ve come to see you about a professional matter. If you have the time,” she added hesitantly.

“Sure. Just give me a minute to get cleaned up. I’ve been out on the water all afternoon.” His hands trembled as he took the key out of the flowerpot and unlocked the front door, but he managed to say evenly, “You want to come inside where it’s cooler?”

She glanced at the door, then shook her head.

“Suit yourself. How about something cold to drink?”

“I’m fine. Don’t worry about me.”

“Okay. I’ll be back in a minute.”

Dave closed the door between them and stood for a moment, eyes closed, the sound of his heartbeat loud and uneven in his ears. Someone had once told him that the past, more than DNA or fingerprints, was what made each human being unique. A person was shaped by the places he’d been and the things he’d done and seen. For Dave, it was what he had lost.

He didn’t know why Claire had come to see him, but he told himself it didn’t matter. He couldn’t let himself get drawn back into her orbit. He couldn’t let himself wish for something that was never going to be, because there was no going back, ever.

There was no changing the past or the person he had become because of it.

A little while later, he climbed out of the shower, dressed quickly and ran a comb through his wet hair before going back downstairs. He took a pitcher of tea from the refrigerator, filled two glasses with ice and carried a tray out to the front porch, where he set it on a small table between the two rockers.

“How about some tea? I don’t know about you, but I’m parched.” He handed one to Claire.

She thanked him and took a sip. “It’s good,” she said in surprise. “Sweet, but still with a bite. It reminds me of Mama’s tea.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” Dave said. “How is Lucille?”

“She’s fine. But I expect you already know that, don’t you?” When he didn’t say anything, Claire smiled. “I know you keep in touch with her. She let it slip once.”

Dave shrugged. “She was always good to me. I never saw any reason to cut her out of my life just because you and I split up.”

“She thought the world of you.” Claire paused, glancing out the screen at the rose bush that grew at the corner of the porch. Dave saw the pain that flickered in her eyes before she could hide it.

“Why are you here, Claire?”

She set down the glass and pressed her hands against the sides of her skirt. “You said the other night that you’d moved your office down here. You’re doing P.I. work again.”

“That’s right.”

“I’d like to hire you. I need you to find something for me.” Her face was calm, but her voice shook a little as her gaze met his in the fading light.

“You want me to find something for you,” Dave said, his voice flat, hollow. “Does this have something to do with the divorce?”

“Did Mama tell you about that?” She sounded surprised.

“Lucille never mentioned it. I heard it from someone else. Is it true?”

“Yes. Alex and I are divorcing, but that’s not why I’m here. And I should probably tell you up front that I don’t have much money. I’m hoping when you hear me out, that won’t be a factor.”

Dave sat down in one of the rockers and took a drink of his tea. “You have my attention. What is it you want me to find?”

The twilight softened her features. She looked pale and serene standing by the screen, but when she spoke, her voice was edged with anxiety. “I want you to find a doll for me.”

“A doll.” He almost laughed, but he saw that her expression was serious when she came over and sat down beside him. “What happened? Did Lucille get robbed or something?”

“This isn’t about Mama, either.” Claire’s eyes searched his face. “I think the doll I’m looking for was sculpted by a local artist named Savannah Sweete. She lives somewhere in Terrebonne Parish. Her specialty is portrait dolls.”

“If she lives that close, she shouldn’t be too hard to locate. Did you try looking her up in the phone book or on the Internet?”

“She has an unlisted number and I couldn’t find an official Web site. She’s been wheelchair bound since an accident a few years ago, and I’ve heard that she’s a recluse. Even if we find her, it may not be that easy to get in to see her.”