Fay Robinson - The Notorious Mrs. Wright

“How about when we dock we ride out to the lighthouse or to the beach?”

Damn, now he’d gone and done it. He wanted to kick himself.

Her eyes lit up. “Really?”

“We can have dinner later and you can check out your competition. We could even see a movie after, or go on one of those ghost tours.”

“That sounds wonderful, but I’ve never taken a whole night off before.”

“Then you’re due one. They can get along without you for a little longer, can’t they?”

Whit was walking a fine line. Spending more time with her meant additional opportunities to get information. But it also meant increasing difficulty in retaining his objectivity, already on shaky ground. But a few more hours together probably wouldn’t hurt…maybe.

“Come on,” he coaxed. “At least help me shop for presents for my nieces and nephews. Otherwise my sisters will be mad and they won’t spoil me anymore. You don’t want that on your conscience, do you?”

“Of course not.”

“Then come with me. And let me take you out to dinner. We’ll have a night on the town. Whatever you want to do.”

“All right, but I’ll need to call in and leave word for the manager. Do you think we’ll be back by midnight?”

“What happens at midnight? Do you lose a slipper and turn into Rodney Dangerfield?”

“Maybe,” she said with a giggle.

Lord, it was a sweet sound.

“Late date?” he asked.

That really got her tickled. “Yes, fifteen of them. But they don’t have to wait until the stroke of twelve to turn back into mice, unfortunately.”

“Huh?”

“Never mind. I’m being silly. But I really do need to be back by then to make sure everything’s properly closed up.”

“Scout’s honor, I’ll have you home whenever you want.”

“We’re you ever a Boy Scout?”

“Not even close.”

TOM WRIGHT loaded the microfilm reader with a roll carrying the April 17, 1984, edition of the Los Angeles Times and fumbled around trying to figure out how to work the machine. He didn’t like hiding what he was up to from his mom or lying about his whereabouts, but she got so freaked out when he asked questions about his dad that he’d decided he’d get his answers another way.

As he’d told her, the bike rental shop had wanted him to come in today and work four hours. But then he’d read an article in the newspaper about this place, a Family History Center they called it, where you could find out about your relatives. He’d asked his boss for the day off and told his friend Tony Parker what he was doing, in case he was late getting to Tony’s and his mom called.

Tom fiddled with the knobs. If he could figure this out, he might actually find something.

He asked one of the workers for help. She showed him how to fast-forward, focus on the pages and move them up and down. The name index didn’t list William Wright, but Tom hoped to find a news story on his father’s accident. The worker suggested he look ahead two weeks in case the navy had delayed reporting it.

He found nothing, not even an obituary.

“Are you certain the date of death is right?” the woman asked.

“Yes, ma’am. My mom gave it to me years ago, but I wrote it down.”

“Do you know what your father’s date of birth was or his social security number? A middle initial would be good, too.”

“No, ma’am, I don’t, but I might be able to get them.”

“That would help. Meanwhile, I know of a couple of databases we can check and some online sources. Let’s see what we can find.”

An hour later, they still hadn’t come up with anything. Tom’s disappointment grew.

“That’s odd,” the lady said. “I would’ve thought we’d at least find newspaper articles. Well, here’s what we’ll do.” She went and got a booklet and handed it to him. “In here you’ll find instructions for requesting your dad’s military records. Those may or may not have the details you want about his death, but they should give you something. One little tidbit often leads to another. Try to fill out as many of the spaces on the form as you can and indicate you want information under the Freedom of Information Act.”

“How much will that cost?”

“The search is free, but they’ll charge you a fee per page for photocopying. They’ll notify you of how much it is before they send the records, though.”

“How long will all this take?”

“Honestly, it can take months.”

“Months?” He slumped in the chair.

“I know that’s discouraging, but they get several million requests every year.”

Tom nodded. Whatever it took, he’d do it.

“Meanwhile, I suggest you talk with your mom and surviving members of your family to see what news clippings and documents they already have. That’s the best place to start with a genealogy project. What about your grandparents, your dad’s parents? Are they still alive?”

“No, ma’am. At least I don’t think so.”

“Did your dad have brothers or sisters?”

“Not that I know of. My mom’s never talked too much about her people or my dad’s. She told me once that her and my dad got married real young and their families didn’t like it too much. They stopped talking to each other. I never met my grandparents. I don’t even know their names.”

“That’s too bad. But much of this information is readily available if you know where to look.”

Tom perked up. “Really? Tell me how.”

EMMA WOULD REMEMBER this afternoon as close to perfect. After the boat ride, Whit retrieved his rental car from his motel and took her out to Anastasia Island. He made her climb all one hundred and ten of the circular steps of the lighthouse, and then coerced another tourist into taking a photograph of them together at the top.

After, they visited the public pier, since he said fishing was one of his favorite pastimes. They sat on the concrete seawall and talked. She asked if he’d been out on one of the charter boats yet.

“A few days ago.”

“Which one?”

“Uh…The Blue…something or other.”

“You don’t remember?”

“Not off the top of my head.”

“I don’t know of one with blue in its name.”

“I could be wrong.”

A couple of hours later, they drove back to the mainland and parked behind the restaurant, then strolled Saint George’s pedestrian walkway, shopping for gifts for his seven nieces and nephews.

Ignoring her pleas not to, he picked a hibiscus flower to put behind her ear and bought silly matching T-shirts with cartoon fish on them that read I’m Hooked on Saint Augustine. He insisted they both had to put them on over their clothes and have another photo taken.

After dark he fed her ribs and took her on a carriage ride through downtown. The slow clop-clop of the horse’s hooves on the street as they rode along was as soothing as soft music.

“You’ve asked about me,” she said, “and now it’s my turn. You’ve told me hardly anything about yourself.”

“Not much to tell. I was born in Lansing. I work with my dad in the office. My sisters live nearby so weekends tend to be a family affair with all of us getting together at my parents’ house. I like to play golf and watch football.”

“And fish.”

“Yeah, and fish. I inherited that gene from my dad.”

“Tell me about your mom. What’s she like?”

“She’s great. She sells real estate, loves antiques and asks me at least once a day when I’m going to do my part to add to her pool of grandchildren.”

“You’ve never been married?”

“No, and I can’t say I’ve ever even been serious about a woman. I work long hours, and it’s hard to sustain a relationship. What about you? Why haven’t you remarried?”