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"I thought you were getting your head together," Tim continued. "But you're back to where you were right after you left the island."
"I was moving on. But then…" He hesitated, knowing he was about to sound like a lunatic.
"Then what?" Tim prodded, curiosity in his gaze.
"I thought I saw her at Fisherman's Wharf," he confessed.
Tim's eyes widened in surprise. "She's dead, Drew."
"Well, she appeared very much alive to me. Her hair was brown not blonde, but her face was exactly the same, and when she looked at me, she stiffened. I couldn't see her eyes, she was too far away, but I could feel her recognition."
"You could feel it?"
"I know it sounds—"
"Crazy?" Tim asked, cutting him off. "So what happened next? Did you talk to this woman?"
"I lost her in the crowd."
"If she recognized you, why didn't she stop to talk to you?"
He couldn't answer that question. "I don't know."
"You do know. It wasn't her. Whatever you thought you saw was just your imagination. Just like today, when you believed a balding forty-year-old fisherman was your hot blonde bartender."
"It wasn't like today." His jaw tightened. "I didn't see her on that boat, but I did see her on the wharf."
"You saw what you wanted to see. You're obsessed with her. I'm sorry now I ever took you to the island. I wanted you to relax and have some fun with no strings attached. That's what most people do when they go down there."
"That was my plan, too," he said. "And if she hadn't died so suddenly, maybe I wouldn't still be thinking bout her. But ever since I saw her a few months ago, I've been wondering if she somehow escaped the fire."
"Seriously?"
He ran a hand through his hair. "Yes. I called her former employers at the bar and the charter boat service."
"And?"
"They confirmed that she was dead, no miraculous rescue."
"How much more evidence do you need?"
"None," he said shortly. "Look, you don't need to worry about it."
"I'm worried about you."
"I will be fine."
"Maybe I should talk to my friends down there, see if I can get any information on her."
"Like what?"
"I don't know," Tim said. "Maybe she has a twin sister living in San Francisco. What was her name?"
"Ria Hastings."
"Do you know anything else about her?"
"We didn't do a lot of talking that night."
Tim gave him a knowing smile. "She was one beautiful woman. She didn't give me the time of day."
"Why would she? You were wasted and surrounded by women."
Tim laughed. "True. I had a great time down there, as I always do. I love that island. Every visit is better than the last. The women are beautiful and free-spirited, and the rum flows like water."
"I don’t think I'll be making any return trips."
"I'll ask around," Tim said. "It can't hurt."
"Whatever."
"What are you doing the rest of the day?" Tim asked as they started walking toward the building.
"Family birthday party this afternoon. My nephew, Brandon, is turning six."
"Is that the kid with autism?"
"Yeah. The party is really for my sister, Nicole, who tries to make Brandon's life as normal as possible, whether he likes it or not."
"Rough gig."
"I'll say. What about you?"
"I'm going to take a run this afternoon, then hit the clubs in North Beach with Paul tonight. Why don't you come with us?"
"I'll think about it," he said, not particularly excited by the idea. He was over the club scene. Same people, same drunken conversations.
"Another woman might take your mind off Ria," Tim suggested.
"So far that hasn't worked," he muttered.
"You haven't met the right woman."
As Tim walked away, his words ran around in Drew's head.
He had met the right woman. She just wasn't alive anymore.
* * *
"Tory? Tory!"
Ria turned abruptly at the sound of sixteen-year-old Megan's impatient voice. "Sorry, what did you say?"
"I said—what do you think of the dress, Aunt—I mean, Tory," she stumbled. "Sorry."
