“What you were looking for.” He locks eyes with me, his lips curling into a question mark.
I smile back and let go of my shirt. “Maybe,” I inhale sharply. “Maybe I did find it.”
The world, the cold water, the gawking onlookers disappear in a tight blur around me and I feel a strange rush of clarity.
The silence between us stirs as we blink and smile.
“Well, I’m glad,” he says, eyes again searching the pool beyond me. “So, who’s your friend? The boxer-brief guy.”
I feel my ears warm despite the cold drenching me and turn to see what Martin is seeing: Matthew is hefting himself over the rail near our belongings.
“That’s Matthew.” I rub one ear lightly, trying to dissipate the heat. “He’s a friend from work. He invited me to brunch.”
“And a swim, apparently,” Martin is laughing.
I’m laughing along, but my mind is spinning again and I’m having trouble following. I’m saved from having to reply when the security guard grunts again, with a menacing gesture.
“I better get back,” I say, not moving.
Martin smiles down at me, eyes swimming in the pooled reflection. “I guess I’ll see you around,” he says, still not moving.
“Yeah,” my mind returns to the harsh coldness of my dripping clothes as I speak. “Bye, Martin.”
“Bye Liam.” He glances one more time at my wet shirt before turning and heading away. I retrace my steps back to our side of the pond to climb the rail and reclaim my clothes.
Matthew has already removed his shirt and is pulling dry pants over wet underwear, water dripping down his back. I remove my soaked shirt too, mirroring his actions. The security guard is tromping away slowly with a shake of his head, grabbing his belt with both thumbs.
“I’m sorry we didn’t find your dime,” I say, fighting the true fight that is dry sock against wet foot.
Matthew smiles at me. “Thanks for helping, anyway.” He pauses long enough to get a shoe on and tied. “This was fun.”
I finish tying one shoe and find myself gazing across the pond to the place where Martin had been standing. There’s an emptiness on the sidewalk without him.
I look back at Matthew, who’s bent in half, flinging dry shoelaces with wet fingers and we both start cracking up laughing, cold and dripping.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Okay, this time there’s a new twist. I’m going to hang out with a person. The clue is rather cryptic and includes an address for the Hearthstone Senior Living facility in town, and a name, Gregory Hampton. Then it says that I’m going to learn a new card game. So, I’m on my way to play cards with an elderly person, I guess. Never underestimate the mystery!
And so, I find myself checking into the front desk in the giant welcome area of Hearthstone. There are several dignified elderly men sitting in various overstuffed chairs and leather sofas of this room. It’s very welcoming and brightly lit. The woman at the desk gathers my information and gives me directions to a room. Her directions make me feel like I’m in for a labyrinth of travel, but once I enter the hallway, getting around is intuitive. This care facility has rooms built around a courtyard, so the hallways have numbered doors along one side, and giant plate-glass windows along the other which look over a beautiful indoor garden area. The sunlight coming through the trees of the open courtyard is bright and cheery in the long hallway, and several doors have minor decorations. It’s very cozy.
I get to room 59 and knock lightly. A simple, undecorated wreath is hanging from the door, made of either grape branches or forest willow. I hear shuffling inside, the doorknob fumbling, and then the wreath swings as the door opens.
“Yes?” an older man, about shoulder height, is standing in the doorway, mouth open, eyes smiling.
“Hello, I’m looking for Gregory…”
“You found him,” he says, clapping one hand on my shoulder, finding my hand with the other for a rough handshake. I find myself being pulled through the door. “I’m glad you’re here. I’ve been expecting you. I thought you were coming yesterday.”
I’m pushed through the doorway, past a small lounge area with a small sofa and a chair, and through a single glass doorway to an outside patio area with small wicker furniture and a table. As we walk he’s mumbling or humming, I can’t tell which, but his body language clearly indicates that I’m to pull up a wicker chair and get comfortable.
“I’ve forgotten your name,” he says with a curly-handed flair, “I’m not so good with remembering things these days. I was told your name, but I think some days I might just forget my own name. I think that’s why it’s written on the inside collar of all my shirts.” He laughs hysterically at himself, heading back inside. “Would you like some…” He pauses and freezes, rubbing a crooked hand into his temple, then flicking it over his head in a snapping motion. “A drink. The hot one. Coffee.” He finally lands on the word, and then makes eye contact again, the question now on his face.
“Um, sure,” I say. I can’t help but smile.
He continues to narrate his coffee task from the small kitchen beyond the lounge area, and then makes his way back with two cups of coffee, sets them down carefully and then joins me in a chair. “Hope you like it black, because that’s how it comes. I don’t have any of that fancy flavor stuff if that’s your thing. Now remind me your name, son?” He looks up at me, grabbing his mug carefully between two withered hands.
“Liam. I…”