go?”
“It’s a tragedy on so many levels.” Serge ran a finger along one of the floor beams. “At least I’m at Marjorie’s place. A Pulitzer was won right above our faces. Always feel better coming here.”
“Why didn’t you go inside?” asked Coleman. “The screen door was open.”
“I decided to sleep under the house instead because I didn’t want to trespass.”
“I wouldn’t really call that sleeping,” said Coleman. “You were yelling loud.”
“What was I saying?”
“Felicia.”
Serge closed his eyes hard.
“Sorry,” said Coleman. “Thought you’d gotten over her.”
“You never get over something like that. You just try to keep it in a box on an out-of-the-way shelf in your brain. But then you open the closet to look for an old sousaphone—”
“I’m getting hungry.”
“Thanks for listening.”
Coleman poked his stomach. “But it’s making the noises.”
Serge turned his head sideways. “The sun’s starting to come up, which is the signal to get out from under houses.” He began crawling. “We’ll grab breakfast at the Yearling.”
“The book?”
“Just come on . . .”
The Firebird took the western bend on Alachua County Road 325, past a dark body of water, and approached a brief bridge. The sun’s rise was known but not felt: A dewy fog hovered over the marsh grass, keeping the morning gray.
“That bridge sure is tiny,” said Coleman.
“It’s the bridge of my life.” Serge pulled over on a dirt road and threw his arms out in opposite directions. “We’re on a thin strip of land between two lakes, Lochloosa and Orange, and that bridge crossed the creek that connects them, Cross Creek, namesake of Rawlings’s classic memoir and the Oscar-nominated movie starring Mary Steenburgen as the author.”
Serge got out of the Firebird and walked toward a small wooden structure. “This is my favorite place on earth, for now. You can actually rent these little shotgun shacks right on the edge of the creek and hear the water going by. Isn’t it great? Can you feel the Rawlings magic?”
Coleman rubbed his tummy. “Can we get some food now?”
“No! We must go sit in the shack and dig it!” He produced a key from his pocket.
“You rented one of these?”
“Of course.” Serge stuck the key in the knob. “I first thought of lodging under Rawlings’s house, but you can’t open a suitcase.”
“What about this Yearling place you said we could eat at?”
Serge turned around in the doorway. “See that old rustic building over there?”
“Yeah. Looks closed.”
“One of the finest restaurants in Florida way out in the sticks with handed-down family-recipe cracker cuisine. There’s something on the menu called cooter. Any place that serves cooter rocks my world.”
“Great! Let’s eat!”
“Doesn’t open till lunch.”
“Serge!”
Serge went inside the shotgun shack. “Gives us time to groove on the cottage. Now get in here and groove!”
It was a cozy little place with everything in one room: two classic beds with wooden posts, old table and chairs, antique cabinets that would now command top dollar as “shabby chic.”
Serge sat on one of the beds and swayed with enthusiasm. “This is so perfect. Can you hear that famous water?”
Coleman moped on the other bed. “My belly.”
“Maybe if you tried swaying. Just follow my example. I’m in such a happy place that I don’t think I can possibly ever leave.” Serge swayed some more. Then suddenly bolted upright. “I got to get out of here.”
“What’s the matter?” asked Coleman.
Serge ran out the door and began pacing on the dirt road. “Dammit! I came out to experience harmony and raise my empathy quotient, but then I had to go and have that nightmare. Now I can’t get it out of my mind.”
“Serge, it hasn’t been that long yet since it happened. You need more time.”
“It will always be an open wound until I find out who killed her. I didn’t mention this
“It’s a tragedy on so many levels.” Serge ran a finger along one of the floor beams. “At least I’m at Marjorie’s place. A Pulitzer was won right above our faces. Always feel better coming here.”
“Why didn’t you go inside?” asked Coleman. “The screen door was open.”
“I decided to sleep under the house instead because I didn’t want to trespass.”
“I wouldn’t really call that sleeping,” said Coleman. “You were yelling loud.”
“What was I saying?”
“Felicia.”
Serge closed his eyes hard.
“Sorry,” said Coleman. “Thought you’d gotten over her.”
“You never get over something like that. You just try to keep it in a box on an out-of-the-way shelf in your brain. But then you open the closet to look for an old sousaphone—”
“I’m getting hungry.”
“Thanks for listening.”
Coleman poked his stomach. “But it’s making the noises.”
Serge turned his head sideways. “The sun’s starting to come up, which is the signal to get out from under houses.” He began crawling. “We’ll grab breakfast at the Yearling.”
“The book?”
“Just come on . . .”
The Firebird took the western bend on Alachua County Road 325, past a dark body of water, and approached a brief bridge. The sun’s rise was known but not felt: A dewy fog hovered over the marsh grass, keeping the morning gray.
“That bridge sure is tiny,” said Coleman.
“It’s the bridge of my life.” Serge pulled over on a dirt road and threw his arms out in opposite directions. “We’re on a thin strip of land between two lakes, Lochloosa and Orange, and that bridge crossed the creek that connects them, Cross Creek, namesake of Rawlings’s classic memoir and the Oscar-nominated movie starring Mary Steenburgen as the author.”
Serge got out of the Firebird and walked toward a small wooden structure. “This is my favorite place on earth, for now. You can actually rent these little shotgun shacks right on the edge of the creek and hear the water going by. Isn’t it great? Can you feel the Rawlings magic?”
Coleman rubbed his tummy. “Can we get some food now?”
“No! We must go sit in the shack and dig it!” He produced a key from his pocket.
“You rented one of these?”
“Of course.” Serge stuck the key in the knob. “I first thought of lodging under Rawlings’s house, but you can’t open a suitcase.”
“What about this Yearling place you said we could eat at?”
Serge turned around in the doorway. “See that old rustic building over there?”
“Yeah. Looks closed.”
“One of the finest restaurants in Florida way out in the sticks with handed-down family-recipe cracker cuisine. There’s something on the menu called cooter. Any place that serves cooter rocks my world.”
“Great! Let’s eat!”
“Doesn’t open till lunch.”
“Serge!”
Serge went inside the shotgun shack. “Gives us time to groove on the cottage. Now get in here and groove!”
It was a cozy little place with everything in one room: two classic beds with wooden posts, old table and chairs, antique cabinets that would now command top dollar as “shabby chic.”
Serge sat on one of the beds and swayed with enthusiasm. “This is so perfect. Can you hear that famous water?”
Coleman moped on the other bed. “My belly.”
“Maybe if you tried swaying. Just follow my example. I’m in such a happy place that I don’t think I can possibly ever leave.” Serge swayed some more. Then suddenly bolted upright. “I got to get out of here.”
“What’s the matter?” asked Coleman.
Serge ran out the door and began pacing on the dirt road. “Dammit! I came out to experience harmony and raise my empathy quotient, but then I had to go and have that nightmare. Now I can’t get it out of my mind.”
“Serge, it hasn’t been that long yet since it happened. You need more time.”
“It will always be an open wound until I find out who killed her. I didn’t mention this
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