The Purgatorium

Chapter Thirteen

Daphne stared longingly at the ocean and might have made a run for it had Stan not spoken.

"Damn, it's hot."

Daphne was shivering, cold as ice.

The road turned down the headland toward a gravelly beach below. As they descended, the sun moved in front of them. Behind her, up on the headland, was the little island fox.

Pete said, "I have a daughter about your age."

"Really?"

"Yeah. Stephanie. She's eighteen."

"I will be, in August."

"My son's twenty-five, but I never see him. He lives with his new wife in Costa Rica. They have a baby girl I've never met."

"Why don't you visit them?"

He held out one hand and then dropped it to his side. "I will. Some day."

"Why not as soon as possible?"

"Oh, it's complicated. My son doesn't want to see me."

Daphne crossed her arms at her chest and, without thinking, asked, "What happened?"

"To make a long story short, his mother died, and he doesn't want me to go on with my life."

"Maybe he just needs time."

"Maybe." Then he asked, "You get along with your parents?"

Daphne sucked in her lips and nodded.

"You tell them you love them?"

She shrugged. "It's been a while."

"How come?"

"I don't know."

"That's too bad. Life's short and goes by fast."

They'd been walking for what seemed like an hour when Stan lifted his finger toward the sea and said, "That's Morse Point over there, but I don't see any boats. Why don't we go on down to Punta Arena and eat? We can talk about what we want to do from there since it's about halfway to the resort."

As they continued their descent in silence, Daphne was unwillingly immersed in images of Brock—Brock blowing her kisses from across the pool, Brock swimming his magnificent butterfly, Brock playing chess with Joey, Brock begging her to please get help. Daphne loved him. As soon as she saw him, she loved him.

She now saw him, weary-eyed and frowning. "Maybe we need a break."

A swarm of butterflies lifted from the morning glory and into the air around Daphne.

"There's someone down there on the beach," Pete said, stopping the horse. "A man."

Stan dug through his pack and found a pair of binoculars. He pointed them toward Punta Arena. "I've seen that man before. He works for the resort."

"Let me see." Daphne took the binoculars from Stan. The man below was pulling a kayak onto the beach, his oversized bathing suit hanging low over his fleshy, bulky form. A long ponytail whipped in the wind. "That's Larry." Hairy Larry.

"What's he doing?" Pete asked.

Daphne handed him the binoculars.

"He's alone," Pete said. "Thank God there are no others."

"But they could be close by," Daphne said. "Searching for me."

"And me," Pete said.

"Let's sneak up on him," Daphne suggested. "Maybe we can get information out of him."