Page 24 of Dearly Departed

We laugh until I’m lightheaded and the lack of blood flow to my brain starts to seem dangerous, then get ahold of ourselves. Catherine puts her hand back in mine.

“I’m glad you’re here,” she says. “I’m glad it’s you.”

The smallest tremble in her voice betrays that there’s more she might say, that she might even want to say, but I don’t press the issue.

“I’m glad it’s you, too, kitten. I can’t imagine a honeymoon without you.”

“I can imagine being on a much better one with you. Honestly, I don’t think this one should count at all. When we’re in Mougins, then we’ll say it’s our honeymoon.”

“I’m in total agreement.”

We stand together and look at the darkness under the trees.

“The moonlight doesn’t go very far, does it?” Catherine poses the question as if we’re standing together at an art gallery. “It’ll only be light if we’re closer to the beach.”

“It seems so.”

The shadows under the trees shiver. No, it’s the leaves—wide and green, rustling in the breeze. Not the shadows themselves.

“I’m buying a flashlight for my purse at the earliest possible opportunity,” Catherine mentions. “Like, as soon as we’re at a store that sells one.”

“I’ll buy it for you,” I tell her gallantly.

“I know you will.” Her hand tightens on mine. “Do you think⁠—”

Catherine is interrupted by an explosion and startles toward me, pressing herself close to my side. Across the trees, an orange flame shoots into the night. It’s high enough for us to see. A black cloud burbles up after it, breaking apart into the sky.

“Oh, shit. Oh, no. That was the plane, wasn’t it?”

A smaller explosion sends a thin column of fire jetting up above the treeline.

“I think so.”

“That’s way closer than I thought it would be! Do you think he blew up the plane on purpose? Do you think he blew himself up?”

“I think we have to assume he didn’t. And either way, if the plane is a fireball, there’s no reason for him to stay with it anymore.”

“So he’s coming,” Catherine whispers.

I grab my bag off the sand, and we run into the terrifying shelter of the trees.

It doesn’t take long to leave the shrubs and the palm trees behind. The farther we get from the shore, the taller the trees get, and the thicker the trunks. If I had developed a secret interest in wildlife, I might be able to take a stab at identifying some of the various plants.

Since I haven’t, there’s nothing to distract me from the task at hand, which is walking.

The canopy blocks out most of the moonlight, leaving us in a darkness so murky it’s almost liquid. I hate it. Plenty of things move in my periphery, but none of them make enough noise to convince me that turning my head would help.

If there is a redeeming factor, it’s that the ground under the larger trees is emptier than it was in the forest Catherine ran into in New York. The soil is still completely inappropriate for Italian leather shoes, even if they are sneakers. I would choose a rundown strip mall over this.

But at least we’re not having to force ourselves through heavy underbrush.

“I think we should go back,” Catherine says. “Make sure we can find the ocean again.”

It takes longer to find the beach. The closer we get to the ocean, the more we stop to take listening breaks. It’s several centuries before we get to a place with a clear view of the sand and the sea.

“Are those lights?” Catherine whispers.

“I don’t know,” I whisper back. They look like stars. Then they look like they could be lights on a boat of some kind. Then they look like they could be a faraway city. “The line at the horizon could be clouds.”