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“No.”
That was all he said. “Oh,” she managed to say.
He stepped closer, and she could finally see him in the light of the new moon. He looked so tall and handsome, and for some reason she felt more herself. It was just Tom, after all, and she knew him.
“My feet are freezing,” she said. “Do you want to come inside? Have a drink?”
He glanced down at her feet with a smile. “Yes. I’d love that.”
When they reached the porch, Tom picked up the box he’d left as she unlocked the door.
“What is it?”
He shook his head.
She turned the light on and shut the door, and it felt so oddly comfortable to be inside with him that she smiled. It felt just like it had the first time she’d let him in. “It’s not the gun, is it? Because I really don’t want it back.”
“Ha,” he said. He smiled, then laughed. “No. It’s not the gun.”
Oh, God, he looked so handsome, and so different, wearing jeans and a button-down shirt already rolled up at the sleeves. She suddenly realized that it was a Tuesday night. And he was here. Her happiness fell away.
“Tom. Oh, my God, you weren’t fired, were you?”
He laughed again, thank God. “I wasn’t fired.” He winked. “But I did get a few days off whether I wanted them or not. It’s lucky, really, because I wanted to bring you this.”
She took the box he handed to her, ready for it to be heavy, but it felt nearly empty.
Her birthday wasn’t until July. She couldn’t guess what else it could be. “I’m glad you weren’t fired,” she finally said, making him laugh again, and somehow that made her want to cry. She liked him laughing. She liked him here in her house.
“Should I open it?” she asked. “Do you want a drink?”
“A drink sounds good,” he answered, and Isabelle agreed. She handed him the box and went to get a couple of beers. He was waiting on the couch when she returned.
For a moment, she wondered if she should take the chair, but that was stupid. So stupid when she could be close to him for a moment.
He set the box on the table. “It’s from Ecuador,” he said, and she finally understood that this wasn’t about her and Tom.
She went stiff and stared at the box. “More evidence?”
“No! Christ, Isabelle, I wouldn’t do that to you. I just wanted to bring you something of your dad’s. They told you he’d died, but I didn’t know how much else you knew about his life.”
“His life?” She shook her head in confusion. “You mean in Ecuador? Nothing.”
Tom nodded and drew his keys from his pocket. “He had a small apartment.” He drew the key over the tape that sealed the box. “No wife. No family. He arrived fourteen years ago and never left. He went for coffee every afternoon at 3:00 p.m. after siesta.” He opened the flaps of the box and handed it to her.
“He was quiet,” Tom said. “His life was quiet. He died of a heart attack five years ago. There’s not much else to tell.”
Isabelle looked into the box, still in shock. She lifted out the crushed paper and drew out a plastic evidence bag. There was a black wallet inside.
“I’m sorry. They took his driver’s license, so there’s no photo of him. But there are some old pictures inside.”
“Can I open it?” she whispered. When he nodded, she drew the wallet out and spread it ope
n, amazed that the smell of leather still wafted up. And just beneath it, the faint scent of the cheap cologne her father had always favored. “Oh,” she breathed, even before she pulled the photos from the wallet.
There was one of her as a baby. A pose she recognized. Then another of her as a teenager. She’d never seen that one before. It was her, smiling and cheerful and open and waving at the camera. The last picture was of Isabelle’s mother. It was a tiny square, cut from another photo. Her mother in their kitchen, a hand held up to shoo the camera away.
“It’s not much,” Tom said. “They kept his passport. It was a counterfeit. But his wedding ring is supposed to be in there. And a watch.”
