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On impulse, I tore off my jean jacket, T-shirt, and jeans, stripping down to my boxers. I kicked off my sneakers and jogged into the water, running on sharp shells, then diving into the first bracing wave. I popped up on the wave’s other side, the cold water forcing a half agonized shout and a half war cry, my body reacting to all of the pain and the heartache and the love.
I yelled again and again, diving under the next wave and the next, plunging in again and again, feeling the bracing cold and the tart salt and the clinging seaweed and the gritty silt swirling everywhere, then I rubbed my face and my chest and my underarms and my head with seawater, scrubbing away the pain, washing off the impurities, cleansing myself of the past.
I started swimming parallel to shore, the waves pounding powerfully around me, and I felt surprised when my body served me, my heart pumping and my lungs filling with air. I’d gotten in the best shape of my life in recovery, lean and cut, and I felt my own strength with every stroke. I didn’t feel the chill of the water anymore and kept going, fighting the current, the waves, and the whitecaps.
I felt more and more power with every hard stroke, giving me the will to know that I had a power of my own, that I could get through these waves, that I really would get through this mess of my life, and maybe I could even get my family through it, too.
I turned around and swam back in the opposite direction, but the undertow kept tugging me backward. Still I took one stroke and the next, fighting the waves to get back, my lungs beginning to burn, my thighs beginning to ache, my shoulders begging for a break, but I kept going.
I made my way toward the beach and was finally able to stand, my feet newly immune to the shell shards as I jogged onto the shore, wiping my eyes clear and feeling wonderfully elemental, a part of everything around me, the water, the beach, the sky, even the sinking sun, and I knew I was a different man than when I walked in.
I was better, I was stronger, and I was finally myself. I was returning to my life, but this time, I had closure. I realized that I’d needed to talk to Carrie and face up to Jesse’s death. I’d had unfinished business all along. But now, something clicked in my brain, like a mental switch. I was going to get back to meetings and stay sober one day at a time. I couldfeelit inside.
And I was going to save the Devlins, too.
I just had to figure out how.
Chapter Forty-Six
It was dark by the time I crossed the border into Pennsylvania and reached the Main Line in Sunday night traffic, typically light. Shops and businesses were closed along the route, but I kept checking the rearview. I felt edgy being back, but first things first, I called my mother.
“Mom, hi, where are you guys?”
“Still at the office. We’ll be here until late. We’re getting ready for the start of business tomorrow. How are you, honey?”
“Fine. Sorry I wasn’t there to help. Did you hear from John?”
“No. Your dad’s not happy.”
“How about the detectives?” I realized she didn’t know about my real relapse. I’d have to get my other car later, in front of Ellen’s Eatery. “Did they call or anything?”
“No. Angela got back to me, though. She’s available to meet with you tomorrow morning.”
“Terrific, thanks. I’ll speak to her directly from now on. You don’t have to be in the middle.”
“I don’t mind, I want to help. Where have you been?”
“I’ll tell you when I see you. I’ll be there in half an hour. Gabby there?”
“Yes, and Martin.”
“Good, see you soon. Love you.”
“Love you, too.” I hung up as I approached the garage where I kept my other cars, scanning the scene. The office buildings that flanked it were dark and the only activity was across the street at the entrance to Paoli Hospital. I took a left up the steep drive and could see the lights on in the garage. My buddy Billy Riordan owned the business and lived in the apartment above, a terrific mechanic who worked all the time, like most of the self-employed.
I parked the Maserati in the back next to my Toyota RAV4 and cut the ignition. It might be my last time in the driver’s seat, but there was no time for long goodbyes. I got out of the car, chirped it locked, and headed for the side door of the garage.
“Billy!” I called out, walking through his cluttered office to the garage, where he was digging in his tool chest next to a Ford F-150 on the lift. The garage was reasonably clean, with tall rolling tool chests, a Shop-Vac, a generator, a compressor, and trash cans. Gray cinder-block walls were covered with grimy signs for Pennzoil, Interstate Batteries, and Mopar parts. The air smelled like oil, which I loved.
“TJ, good to see you.” Billy glanced over his reading glasses, a surprisingly cool look with his Maori tribal tattoos. He was in his fifties but looked younger, which he attributed to daily Krav Maga and permanent bachelorhood.
“You, too. Billy, I’m gonna make your night. I want to sell the Maserati. It’s time to put away childish things.”
Billy smiled. “You’re going to make bank, son.”
“We both are. I’ll pay you a finder’s fee if you sell it for me right away. Talk to one of those suits who keep asking. See if you can get them bidding against each other.”
“Sweet, thanks. Will do.”
