another kate

 By the time Bobby got back to the taxi stand from the island tour ($40 with engaging commentary and apocryphal island lore), the 3:00 was unloading.  The Carol Jean, his favorite. The trucks pulled out first. Then the cottagers drove off in their SUVs, bicycles and baby joggers strapped on the trunks. He didn’t see the Bakers. Once the cars were off, the walk-ons were released. Judging by the garment bags and general hilarity, there was a wedding this weekend. Or maybe two. He watched the hotel-bound roll their wheelie bags off the boat, then stop to try to get their bearings. The wheels didn’t do that well on a sandy sidewalk, but most had booked in town at the National or the Surf and didn’t plan to walk far. People who didn’t know where they were going headed for the taxi stand. He was third in line and got a fare. Down the Neck again. The Simmons’ place. Yes, he knew where it was.

    After the party unloaded their stuff, he turned around in the yard and stopped on the dirt road for a minute to text Kate. “So sorry about your father’s death,” he wrote. “I know how much you love him. If you want to talk, give me a call.”

    The phone rang as he passed the dump. He hadn’t spoken to her since she left the island. They had agreed to a summer romance with no future and no strings. She was an up and comer; he was an over the hill, irredeemable hippie drifter. NGH. Not going to happen, as she would say. But they did like one another.

    She wasn’t crying. Her voice was lifeless. It didn’t really even sound like her.

     “I hear you found him.”

     “I did. I’m so sorry.”

     “I guess they don’t know anything yet. In the absence of any evidence, I’m blaming Her.”

     “ Your stepmother?” He pulled over at Mosquito Beach and sat, holding the phone.  “They like me for it.”

    Finally, she spoke. “Well, I guess they must have found out how much my father disapproved of our, whadyacallit, friendship.”

    “I never really got why. I mean, yes, I’m too old for you. But he must have thought you were serious.”

    “I told him not. But he thought I shouldn’t be wasting my time on an Islander.  Should be doing the social rounds with the Witherspoon boy or something. He was always big on marriage. Shit, he did it enough.”

    “He was married more than twice?

    “Oh yeah. Married my mother. Traded up to a younger model—his assistant. That didn’t last long. Then he took up with the Wannabee Bride. Wannabee widow, now.”

     He thought. There was no gentle way to ask his question. “We never talked about your family, because I didn’t want to know any more than I already knew. But I am assuming you want to know who did this, and I am assuming you don’t think it was me.”

   “Right. What?”

   “Did your father have a lot of money?”

   “Yes. Big computer chip manufacturer. He sold it for millions. Don’t know how much is left after this real estate buying spree Catherine’s been on.”

    “Do you inherit?”

    “Yes. My brother and I. And Her. I think the prenup was equal thirds, but how the property is divided I don’t know. I haven’t seen a will. I don’t care about the money. I don’t want the money. I just want my daddy.”

      He heard emotion in her voice at last. He thought about her dark hair falling around his face as she bent over him. He wanted to wrap her up in his arms and hold her safe.

     “Where are you? Is anyone with you? Are you coming out here?”

     “I’m in Brooklyn. In my apartment. Alone. My brother texted that he’s flying into Providence tomorrow. I guess I’ll meet him on the Block. My mother is in Greenwich, celebrating.”

       “She’s still bitter?”

      “You have no fucking clue."