Cynthia Thomason - An Unlikely Match

He came around the car and walked with her to the front door. The massive solid oak panels were bleached and splintered from decades in the Florida sun. The brass lobster claws used as knockers were pitted and black. Holding up the key ring he said, “Now to figure out which one of these works, if any of them do after all this time.”

She stood at the bottom of the short cement steps and looked around the grounds. “There must have been some nice gardens here at one time,” she said.

Jack didn’t know one flower from another, but even a Manhattan apartment-dweller like him could tell that nothing much had bloomed at Dolphin Run for a long time. Untended for years, the bushes had been reduced to scraggly limbs stripped of their leaves by countless storms. Even the grass had given up its struggle and lay brown and windswept atop sandy, parched soil and ant-hills. He must have given her a quizzical look because she laughed.

“I’m talking about the flower beds. See how they’re enclosed with bricks and logs? Obviously someone once created an appealing arrangement for the gardens.”

Jack pushed and pulled at one of the warped doors as he twisted the key in the lock. “Well, like I said, this place needs a gardener.” After putting his shoulder into the effort, the entrance finally swung open. “Let’s hope it looks better inside.”

He waited for Claire to go ahead and then he followed. The first thing he noticed was the musty smell. And then he saw the cobwebs hanging from old oak beams crossing a twenty-foot-high ceiling. And of course there was the dust. Everywhere. Not for the first time, Jack was grateful that he was in charge of security for Anderson Enterprises, not development of properties, or in this case, redevelopment. “Good luck, Ethan,” he mumbled under his breath to Archie’s absent son and chief assistant. “This could be your greatest challenge.”

Claire had moved into the large room where a dark wood counter off to one side identified the space as the lobby and check-in area. Jack took his pad out of his pocket, flipped to an empty page and began making notes. He counted grimy windows and estimated the need and cost for security wiring. While he jotted figures, he noticed Claire wandering over to a towering fireplace made of fieldstone. Several dozen wooden ducks were lined up along the thick mantelpiece. She next walked to a huge easy chair, picked up a pillow that depicted a speckled trout on one side, and slapped her hand on top of the fish. Dust rose in a swirling gray cloud. After gently laying the pillow back where she’d found it, she strolled around the room, past heavy oak furniture, and focused her attention on dozens of nautical carvings on the walls.

Jack didn’t share her obvious interest in the furnishings of Dolphin Run. He hadn’t personally selected the items for his own apartment in New York. He’d hired a professional to purchase the sleek metal and teak furniture that filled the four rooms of his high-rise coop. His only requirement had been that the choices were new, uncomplicated and as maintenance-free as a man’s possessions could be.

But he quickly formed an opinion about the decor in the lobby of Dolphin Run. Every piece was overstuffed, bulky, and either dust-covered or mildewed. And while a big man like himself might be able to stretch out on any of the chairs for a nap, most of the choices were damned ugly. Once again he was thankful he just had to make the place safe, not attractive.

As he watched Claire move to the four corners of the room, he imagined she must be having the same thoughts. Noting the intensity with which she stopped and stared at each odd piece of angler’s art, he decided that she probably wasn’t sorry she’d come with him. She’d leave with a few choice images of this place that she could describe to her friends. As if on cue, she said, “It’s an interesting room, don’t you think?”

He chuckled. “Interesting? More like unbelievable,” he said.

Her voice was almost reverent. “Oh, it is. It’s absolutely enchanting.”

Enchanting? Okay. He’d just been hit with Claire’s first curveball. That word hadn’t occurred to him at all. He might have told her so if movement outside the lobby window hadn’t distracted him. Someone was on the other side of the glass, and whoever it was had been watching them.

THE TWO WORDS THAT CAME OUT of Jack’s mouth were like pistol shots. “Stay here,” he barked in a tone that didn’t allow for dissension.

Claire turned away from the wall and stared at him. “What?”

He was racing for the door. “I said, stay here. Don’t come outside.”

She started to follow him, but he stopped her with a threatening glare.

“What’s going on?”

“There’s somebody outside looking in the window.”

She stood, watching him, one hand on her hip. “Oh, for heaven’s sake. It’s probably nothing.”

He was out the door, but his words trailed after him. “Probably, but you don’t know that.”

From the entrance, Claire observed him run around the right side of the inn, and then she hurried through the lobby to a dining room whose windows opened to the back of the property. He was right. Someone was hobbling across the grass toward a boathouse. Claire didn’t know who it was, but she was absolutely certain the person posed no threat. He could barely walk. Thankfully, Jack must have analyzed the situation and come to the same conclusion. He caught up with the intruder and, instead of tackling him, he grabbed hold of his elbow and spun him around.

Claire darted into a big, open kitchen, fought a moment with the lock on the back door, and finally ran into the yard. As she approached the two men, she recognized the trespasser right away. Oddly, it seemed as if Jack did as well. The first thing she heard was his exclamation of surprise.

“It’s you! What are you doing here?”

Coming to a quick stop, she said, “You know Curtis?”

His hand still on the old man’s elbow, Jack said, “Yeah. I bought him a bowl of clam chowder yesterday.”

“Well, let go of him. You’ll hurt him.”

Jack scowled at her, but he dropped his hand. Then he glared at the homeless fellow. “Am I hurting you?”

“He’s not hurting me,” Curtis admitted.

“Then you probably should answer the man, Curtis,” she said. “This is Jack Hogan. He works for the developer who bought this property. You need to tell him what you’re doing here.”

“And how you got in,” Jack added.

Curtis looked from one to the other but finally settled his gaze on Claire. “I’m sort of living here now.”

“Oh, no, you’re—”

Claire stopped Jack with a sharp look advising him to let her handle the situation. “What happened to the shed behind the hotel in town? I thought you stayed there at night.”

“The new manager ordered too many table linens. They needed the space for all the cartons. I imagine I can go back there once some of the older napkins start wearing out.”

“How did you get in here?” Jack asked again.

Curtis pointed to a vague spot in the near distance. “Over there.”

“Show me.”

The three walked over to a section of the iron fence where the shrubs had been broken down and trampled. When Claire saw the results of Curtis’s breaking and entering, she knew Jack would not take it well.

He got down on his haunches and stared at the gaping hole that had been dug under the fence. “You’re a resourceful old guy, aren’t you?”

Curtis shrugged. “I gotta be.”

“Is this the only entrance you’ve burrowed into the property?” Jack asked.

From the look of guilt on Curtis’s face, Claire knew it wasn’t.

“Show me the others,” Jack said.

By the time they were through touring the grounds at Curtis’s slow pace, they had uncovered four tunnels into Dolphin Run. Curtis explained his need for multiple entrances by saying that the place was simply too vast for one old man. “I never know where my ride will drop me off at night,” he said. “So I dig a new hole rather than walk all around the property to an old one. I don’t get around too good anymore.”