A Spirited Gift

As our house was in fairly good order, we went next door and checked on our neighbors. Their homes had been hit a little harder. We swept sand, mopped water and put up tarps in places that needed repair. It would take a few days to get the insurance adjusters in to appraise the damage. In the meantime, everyone would have to make do.

When we were finished, we had lunch together. Most people didn’t have generators. When something happened and they were on the verge of losing the food in their refrigerators and freezers, they hauled out grills and smokers to cook as much food as could be saved. I had no doubt that there would be large crowds at supper, inside and outside the house. Not everyone put in enough seafood to feed an army like Gramps did. But at these times, it was a good thing.

The weather was nice. I decided to walk down to Missing Pieces for a while. I wasn’t really expecting any customers. There weren’t many out-of-town visitors in October, and most local people would be occupied with their own storm cleanup.

But I never minded being at the shop, even without customers. It was Gramps’s idea for me to open a shop to sell the things I collected. He said the house couldn’t hold any more and I could make some money. As usual, he was right.

The only thing I’d known him to be wrong about was not telling me about my father. When I’d first found out, he’d said it was my mother’s story to tell. But with her dead, that left him in the hot seat. It was hard hearing from a stranger, the infamous Bunk Whitley, of all people, that a big part of my life had been a lie perpetrated by the two people I trusted and loved most. Old Bunk was supposed to be dead. People had a way of coming back sometimes.

I knew it would be hard for him to explain why he’d lied. Gramps was basically an honest, decent person. He had a stronger sense of right and wrong than most people—which had made him a good sheriff.

He was protecting me, I realized that. But I was an adult. I didn’t need protection from the truth. No matter what kind of man my father was, I could handle it. From what I’d seen and the research I’d secretly done, Danny Evans wasn’t cut from the same cloth as Gramps. He’d made a lot of mistakes in his life. But it had been a while since he’d been in trouble—about as long as he’d been sober. Surely everyone deserved a few chances.

Martha Segall was waiting outside Missing Pieces on the weathered boardwalk when I arrived. She was the town nuisance—although she’d been called worse by the town council. She attended every town meeting and was an alternate on the planning and zoning board. She’d run for town council when Duck first incorporated, but frankly, no one liked her well enough to vote for her. So she just came to every meeting and complained.

“About time you got here,” she said when she saw me. “I’ve got this package I want to send to my son in Dallas. When do you think it will get there?”

I had become the UPS packager for Duck recently—I didn’t make a lot of money from it, but every bit helped. I opened the shop and set down my bag before I answered. “I don’t think UPS will pick up or deliver until the repairs have been made to the bridges.”

“And when will that be? And before you say you don’t know, let me remind you that you are also the mayor and up for reelection next year, missy. So answer carefully.”

I thought about it. There was no clever response. “I know I’m the mayor, Martha, and I know I’m up for reelection. But what I don’t know is how much damage was done to the bridges or how long it will take to repair them. We can walk down to town hall and see what Nancy knows about it, if you want.”

“All right. Maybe then you’ll know what to tell the next person who asks.” She took a small notebook out of the pocket of her rain jacket and wrote in it. “That’s right. I keep track of these things. And it’s a sad state of affairs when the town clerk knows more about what’s going on than the mayor. Mad Dog Wilson might just get my vote for mayor next year.”

I smiled and closed the door to Missing Pieces. I’d rather have tea and look at all my treasures than spend time with Martha, but I was the mayor and that was part of my job.

Town hall was only a few doors down on the boardwalk. It was filled with Duck citizens complaining and yelling at Nancy, who was trying to answer their questions. The phones were working again—and they were ringing off the hook. It was like a scene from one of those badly made disaster movies I’d loved so much as a teenager.

And as much as I loved my fellow Duck citizens, this was no way to get the answers they needed. I tried to calm everyone down, to no avail. Finally, I grabbed my gavel from Nancy’s desk and pounded hard with it until everyone was quiet.