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  Charles stopped to watch the retriever do what retrievers do, and turned and walked away from the pier. He slid the tip of his cane in the wet sand and walked for a couple of hundred yards. I walked beside him and realized this was the only time since I had known him that he had gone that long without talking.

  Silence was broken when he said, “I spent yesterday and last night with Heather.”

  I remained silent, and we continued walking.

  “We talked about Nashville.”

  Duh!

  He pointed his cane toward the horizon. “She’s got a stubborn streak as long as from here to Wales.” He shook his head. “Come hell or high-tide she’s set on following her dream to Tennessee.”

  “You try to talk her out of it?” I bumped into him as he stopped and watched a colony of seagulls perched on the beach resting after a morning hunting breakfast.

  He stepped away from me and continued to look at the birds. “Chris, you know how, umm, how shall I say it, vocally challenged my sweetie is. What do you think her chances are of becoming a successful singer?”

  I wanted to say nonexistent, but I was walking a tightrope. They were a couple—a strange couple—and I didn’t want to insult his sweetie. “There’s a lot of competition and much of it’s in Nashville. I suspect her chances are slim.”

  Charles surprised me when he chuckled. “How about I’d have a better chance of being crowned Queen of England?” Charles started walking again.

  So much for insulting her, I thought. “That may be true. Have you said that to her?”

  He glanced at me. “Every time I start thinking you have half a brain, you say something stupid like that.”

  Charles took an abrupt left turn and headed toward the beach access crossover at Sixth Street. We walked two blocks to East Cooper, and without saying a word, turned toward town. Christmas decorations adorning a house on our right and being February, that would normally have brought a smile to my face. Not today. The ominous feeling I was getting from Charles’s discussion and more-telling, his silence dimmed my view of anything humorous.

  We had walked two more blocks. “She wants me to go.”

  I nodded.

  “My life is here,” He waved his cane around and pointed it toward town. “It’s my home … it’s my … Chris, it’s my everything. I’m in my sixties, and after all those years, God, for some reason, sent Heather my way. She says that same God’s calling her to Nashville.”

  I doubted God had anything to do with Heather being called to Nashville.

  “You feel you need to go with her.”

  He took three more steps, stopped, and turned toward the ocean and away from me. “Yeah.”

  Perhaps it would be best. Heather could make the rounds of open-mic venues, realize stardom might not be in the cards, and return to the island where her quirkiness was normal.

  “When are you going?”

  “Starr said open-mic night at the Bluebird Cafe is on Mondays so we’ll have to leave in the next couple of days. Chris, I’ve got a favor to ask.”

  I had been waiting for this. They didn’t have a drivable car and whenever Charles and I had to make a road trip, I was the designated driver. A few days in Nashville could be fun.

  “What?”

  “Would you go with us to buy a car?”

  I wasn’t expecting that. “How long are you planning to stay in Nashville?” I was prepared to offer to drive them.

  “Forever. We’re moving.”

  After spending hundreds of hours with Charles, I didn’t think he could say anything that would shock me. I was wrong. I was stunned.

  “Moving,” I said, trying to hide my shock.

  He stopped and moved to the side of the road. “Heather says nobody hits it big the first day. Says it takes years of making the rounds of free appearances, knocking on studio doors, and working with her agent, before the sky opens up and the sun shines in, whatever the heck that means. She’s talking like that since she started trying to write more songs.”

  “Where will you live? What will you do?”

  “I’ve got dough left from the inheritance.”

  Charles and I had shared in the estate of an elderly lady we helped save from a horrific hurricane that destroyed her house a few years back. She had no family and left her estate to us. I had spent most of my share on the failed gallery, while Charles had hardly spent any of his.

  I said, “True.”

  “We can find a cheap place to live and what do I do here? Nothing. It shouldn’t be harder doing nothing there. She said she planned to take singing lessons; said they’d help tune up her voice. She has her massage skills so she could get a job anywhere.”

  I couldn’t think of a kind comment about her taking singing lessons, and said, “What if she doesn’t find what she’s looking for?”

  “Suppose it’ll be no different than her not finding it here, except without an ocean in the backyard.”

  While I had to support my friend, I felt like someone had rammed a knife in my back. I put my arm around his shoulder, pulled him close, wiped a tear from my eye with my other arm, and stepped back.

  “So when do you want to go car shopping?”

  Charles looked at the sandy berm and mumbled, “Today.”

  A good chunk of Charleston’s car dealers were west of town on or near Savannah Highway, so that’s where I headed with Charles in the front seat and Heather, along with her guitar that was as ever-present as Charles’s cane. When she got in the car carrying the guitar case she said she wanted it to be as happy with the car they bought as she and Charles would be. I thought she was kidding, although I wouldn’t have bet on it.

  Charles’s previous car buying experience had taken place twenty years ago when he bought a used Saab 900 convertible. I knew because the Swedish vehicle was still sitting in his parking lot in a spot it hasn’t moved from in the last five years. As yard or parking lot art, it was attractive, but as transportation it had as good a chance of moving on its own as does the Folly water tower. I wondered who would inherit the Saab after they moved, but didn’t ask; more out of fear it would be bequeathed to the person who was driving them car shopping.

  After a back-and-forth discussion between Charles and Heather, they decided they wanted to find something large enough to carry Heather’s worldly belongings and Charles clothes. Charles’s apartment was rented for three more months, so he would have time to come back for his books. Unless they bought an eighteen-wheeler today, he would have to rent a U-Haul to move the collection to Nashville. Heather said she wanted them to get a Toyota because she had a dream last night where she was driving one through a field of sunflowers and a quartet of rabbits were propped up on their hind legs singing “You Are My Sunshine.”

  I was proud of myself for not laughing. I said, “Okay.” After all, she was a psychic.

  Charles felt he was being ignored and added, “George W. Bush said, ‘More and more of our imports come from overseas.’”

  I was beginning to feel I was in that sunflower field. Instead of laughing or crying, I pulled in the parking lot of a Honda dealership. Heather asked me to drive through the used car area so she could see if the car of her dreams was there. It wasn’t and she said to keep going. Charles gazed at four long rows of used vehicles and shook his head.

  After the same results at three more dealers, Heather yelled for me to stop. We were in the second row of used cars at the Fred Anderson Toyota of Charleston. She hopped out of the car and made a beeline for a red metallic Toyota Venza crossover, and a middle-aged man wearing a Toyota logoed jacket made a beeline toward Heather.

  In the next five minutes, the helpful salesman, who told us his name was Thom, with an h, shared that the three-year-old “almost new” vehicle had thirty-nine thousand “easy” miles, was one owner, accident free, packed with everything Toyota put on a car, and the color was called Barcelona Red. He said since it was February, he could offer a fantastic deal on the “pristine” vehicle. I was
almost convinced he was going to give the car to Charles and Heather. Instead, he said it was a steal at a hair under twenty thousand. That probably was more than Charles had earned during his thirty plus years on Folly, and he gasped when the salesman threw out the number. I didn’t think it sounded bad, and when the salesman learned Charles would be paying cash, he said he would twist the manager’s arm and might do better.

  To Thom’s delight, Heather was jumping up and down and had a huge grin on her face, so Charles agreed to a test drive. The four of us climbed in, and if the salesman was surprised, he didn’t show it when Heather insisted on taking her guitar. I was pleased how well the vehicle drove and was impressed by how low-key Thom had been. He pointed out each feature, but didn’t apply high-pressure sales tactics. Charles appeared to get more in the swing of things, and when we returned to the lot, told the salesman to give us a few minutes, and if we were interested we would join him in the building.

  Our discussion didn’t take long.

  “That’s it, that’s it,” Heather said and giggled. “That’s what I was driving in the field. It’s meant to be.”

  And it was. It took fewer than twenty minutes for us to negotiate another thousand off the price, for Charles’s trembling hand to write the check, for the title and registration paperwork to be filled out, and for Thom to say they could pick the car up in the morning.

  Our ride back to Folly consisted of Charles mumbling over and over again, “What have I done?” and of Heather singing over and over again, “You Are My Sunshine.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  I was exhausted after ferrying Charles and Heather around and watched the local news, something I did to see if there had been any murders in Charleston that Karen might be investigating. Fortunate for the citizens of Charleston and for Karen, no suspicious deaths had been reported. I wanted to call and see if she had decided about the job, yet I wasn’t ready to know. I had told Charles I’d meet him at his apartment in the morning, help him pack whatever he would be taking, and take him to pick up their chariot. He said with luck, and Heather’s ability to get her stuff together, they would leave by mid-afternoon. Realizing Charles and Heather would be leaving tomorrow was enough for me to assimilate. I wasn’t a big reader, so reading materials were in as short supply in the house as was food, and nothing of any interest was on television. It was still early but maybe I could go to sleep and not dream about sunflowers and rabbits.

  I was awakened by a strange sound and glanced at the bedside clock that glowed nine-thirty. I shook my head and had to think which nine-thirty. It was dark outside, so it was still night and I had only been asleep a couple of hours. I remained still and waited to see if I heard the noise again. Had I dreamed it?

  No dream—there it was. The distinct clink of breaking glass came from somewhere in the house. I sat up and reached for my cell phone on the bedside table. The only light in the room was from the illuminated numbers on the clock and I fished around for the phone before remembering I had left it in the living room.

  Nothing nearby could be used as a weapon. I didn’t know if the intruder was armed or why he or she was here. I wasn’t certain what to do, but figured staying in bed, wasn’t it.

  The floor creaked as I took my first two steps. To me, it sounded as loud as a jet, but in reality, the noise wasn’t enough to carry outside the bedroom. I was at the door when I heard a sharp crack of breaking glass coming from the spare room. Someone was removing glass from the window frame.

  The sound gave me hope. Whoever it was may not be inside. The person didn’t worry about masking noise since it was only nine-thirty and he must’ve thought I wasn’t home. The only weapon in my arsenal was surprise. Would it be enough to scare off the intruder?

  I tiptoed to the door to the spare room and reached around the corner for the light switch. I gave a second, and third, thought to running for the back door rather than doing what I was about to do. Instead, I held my breath and flicked the switch.

  White light bathed the spare room and blinded me. More glass from the window shattered and I blinked a couple of times for my eyes to adjust. I saw the silhouette of someone’s back falling away from the window frame. A gloved hand appeared on the ledge. One leg had been inside and caught on the sill as the body tried to pull it out. I moved toward the window. If I couldn’t catch the intruder, I had to see who it was. A sliver of glass slashed into my foot and changed my priorities.

  I stumbled. My foot felt like it was walking on burning coals. My knees hit the floor and I grabbed my foot. My eyes watered from pain and from the abrupt switch from pitch black to bright white light. I pulled the shard out and looked at the window. He was gone.

  I hobbled to the window and stuck my head out, looked both ways, and saw the headlights of a truck was barreling down the street from the direction of the Washout. Nothing else. All I was left with was the second broken window pane in two weeks and a painful cut on the foot.

  I pogo-sticked myself to the bathroom using the walls as a crutch to lean against on the way. My foot felt like it had a Samaria sword stuck through it, but under the harsh bathroom light, I saw there was little bleeding and the cut was minor. I rinsed it in the tub and put some anti-bacterial cream on the wound before applying a bandage I found under the sink.

  I hobbled to the living room and plopped down in my chair. I looked at the door to the spare room and despite a foot that still felt like it was on fire, realized how lucky I was, and how foolish I had been to burst in on the intruder without anything with which to defend myself. I looked at my phone on the table beside the chair. Do I dial 911 and have a fire truck, an ambulance, and several patrol cars in front of my house for a minor injury? Instead of 911, do I call Chief LaMond?

  I continued to stare at the phone and wondered what calling anyone would accomplish. The intruder had worn gloves so there wouldn’t be prints. He didn’t get in the house so nothing had been stolen. And why would I want police, EMTs, and no telling who else, traipsing around the house and telling me there was nothing they could do. Besides, adrenaline had taken me from the bed to the spare room and now here, but I realized I was exhausted and tomorrow would be worse. I wondered what could be in my house to cause someone to break in once and now try again, and to have left the not-so-subtle hint for me to LEAVE TOWN. Did the intruder try a second time because I scared him off the first time before he found what he was looking for? Again, what could it be? And, could it have been a female breaking in? The question was bouncing around in my head when I fell asleep.

  Another noise woke me. It was the phone that jolted me out of sleep rather than the sound of breaking glass.

  “Where are you?” Charles yelled. “It’s almost sunrise and you’re not here.”

  I wanted to yell, “I’m not there because it’s almost sunrise.” Instead, I said, “Give me a half hour.”

  “Hurry. I’ve been helping Heather get her stuff together, and we need to get moving. The car’s going to be ready in three hours?”

  My brain wasn’t awake enough to do the higher math, but at first thought, we could get Charles’s stuff together in thirty minutes and be at the Toyota dealer staring at Thom nearly two hours before he told Charles the car would be available. I didn’t share any of that with my anxious friend.

  I hobbled to the bedroom to get dressed and decided there was one other thing I wasn’t going to share with Charles: last night’s break in. He didn’t need to worry about me. His mind was made up about going with Heather and as a good friend, I needed to respect his decision; respect it even though it hurt more than the gash in my foot.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Charles and I had finished packing and had his stuff by the door awaiting the arrival of his car. We had driven to Charleston, and were now sitting in front of Thom’s desk an hour before the time we were to be there as he told us for the third time the features of Charles’s purchase. Charles didn’t appear to be paying attention and kept looking at his wrist where most pe
ople wore a watch. My friend didn’t own one, but it didn’t stop him from the visual reminder to Thom. It was still forty-minutes before we were told he could get the vehicle.

  I’m sure Thom was relieved, and I know I was, when a service rep called to say the Venza was out front and ready to go. Charles beamed as Thom handed him the keys. I asked Charles if he wanted to stop at a liquor store so I could buy a bottle of champagne to break over the front fender to christen his new craft. His frown indicated he didn’t see humor in my suggestion. I didn’t either.

  I followed him to his apartment and helped him load three copy paper boxes in the hatch. He borrowed my phone and called Heather to see if she was ready to load. After saying, “Yes, sweetie,” twice and kissing the phone’s screen, he asked if I could help them load the car. In a moment of weakness, he said once they got to Nashville he was going to buy a cell phone. He had never had one, nor had he ever had an answering machine or a computer, so I had to tell him how to find a store that sold phones. He promised to call with the number.

  I’m not a sappy person, and was embarrassed that I had to wipe tears away on the short ride to Heather’s apartment. It was hitting me that my best friend was leaving. I also reconsidered my decision not to tell him about last night’s excitement. No, nothing good would be accomplished by raining on his parade out of town.

  Heather was on the front step when we pulled up in front of her building. Her guitar case rested on her lap and a huge smile adorned her face. She jumped up and down—actually, she jumped up and gravity brought her down—when Charles opened the hatch from the driver’s seat. She threw her arms around him like he’d arrived home from three years in the Sudan after serving in the Peace Corp.

  I stood back and watched. I wanted to be happy for the couple and Heather’s success in the music world, I truly did, but all I managed was a fake smile.