Dragonfly (22 page)

“That’s why you were mad,” I said, remembering his odd reaction our first day back. “And now you have to take it again.”

“Now I’m aceing it, and it’s my last math.”

I shook my head. “I’ve got to get to work.”

“Later, Sunshine.”

* * *

Our project at the paper office made focusing on work almost fun. Nancy had me tracking down anything I could find about Ms. LaSalle for her proposed feature, and I was free to dig through the archives and secretly snoop at will. But I ran into a major road-block. It seemed that even though Julian’s mom was a popular local artist, news about her was nonexistent. Or had disappeared. I’d almost given up when I discovered a 20 year-old story on her return to the Gulf Coast buried in a box.

Alexandra LaSalle had graduated from Fairview High School a promising young art student and went straight to the Savannah College of Art and Design to pursue her degree. Her huge, boldly colored oil paintings of sailboats and sea life were unique and groundbreaking for the time, but she didn’t finish art school. It didn’t give a reason, but a year later she moved to Atlanta where she worked for an advertising firm. She appeared to be doing really well, but inexplicably, she agreed to come back and help Bill Kyser design his new and risky Phoenician complexes that now lined the coast like a wall.

Hurricane Frederick had wiped out almost everything on East End Beach, and Mr. Kyser envisioned his and Mr. Brennan’s new developments rolling out in ten phases. They’d be strong enough to face down any storm, and they’d provide a new, more luxurious take on tourism and property ownership in the area—five-star from start to finish.

It was odd to think Ms. LaSalle returned to be part of this huge money-making gamble, and five years later, she was out of the game. I couldn’t find anything that explained why or how it happened. She’d virtually disappeared, turning up again later as the owner of a small local art and souvenir shop on Beach Road West. There wasn’t a single article that gave me any clues to the reasons.

“How’s it going?” Nancy asked.

“Oh, I’m learning a lot about the history of East End Beach. And I found a great feature on Ms. LaSalle. I put it on your desk.”

“Yeah, I saw that. Good work. I’m considering dropping in at her shop and talking to her. Maybe if she doesn’t see me coming, she’ll be more open to an interview. Hey, you know the Kysers pretty well, right?”

“Some of them.”

“But you’re dating the son. Jack?”

“Umm… maybe I was? It was kind of a strange relationship. And we’re not together anymore,” I said.

“That explains why I’ve been seeing you so much lately.”

I sort of smiled.

“Well, I’m sorry about that,” she gave me a squeeze. “I was going to see if you felt like talking to his dad. A great companion piece would be something on the Phoenicians. You know, reflections on how they changed the area, maybe thoughts on his inspiration. Stuff like that. He brought Alex back. I’d like to hear his side of the story.” She dropped her arm. “But I guess you’re not interested now.”

“No, I’m not.” I shuddered, remembering the scene at the hospital and how unhappy he always was to see me. Even if it weren’t for my situation with Jack, I didn’t want that assignment. “Doesn’t he have like a newspaper person or something?”

“A PR department?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, of course he does, but that’s not what I want. I want more storyteller-type stuff, and since you guys knew each other, I thought he might feel more comfortable talking to you.” Nancy crossed her arms and studied her shoes.

“We didn’t really know each other,” I argued. “Besides, Mr. Kyser’s kind of… scary.”

Nancy chewed her cheek for a moment and studied me. Then she nodded. “You’re right. You’re kind of young and inexperienced still. I’ll get Sharon to handle it.”

And that did it. “No! Don’t give it to Sharon! I mean, I could try.” I was sick of being told what I was too young to do.

“That’s the spirit,” she winked. “Take some notes and let me know what you think. And if you meet him at his office, you won’t have to worry about seeing his son.”

I did take some comfort knowing that much.

“Their offices are over in the Phoenician One complex,” Nancy said. “Penthouse suites. I’ll ask Curtis to call and work it out so he’ll see you. Those guys go way back. It’ll be a great learning experience for you.” She stopped and scooped the old photos off my desk. “Scan these into the computer, and you can give him the originals. Gifts have a way of softening people up.”

“But what if he won’t tell me anything?” I said, looking at the pictures. “What if he gets mad.”

“Just see if you can get us some talking points, conversation starters. Pretend you’re just chatting with an old friend.”

“I don’t have friends like him.”

“Just pretend.”

“Right.”

* * *

My hands were literally shaking when I arrived at the Phoenician offices, and I didn’t know how I was going to take notes without Mr. Kyser seeing it. Luckily Mom had given me a small recorder in case I was too nervous to write. I walked out of the elevator and stopped at the receptionist’s desk.

“I’ve got an appointment to see Mr. Kyser?” I said. “For the paper? Anna Sanders?”

“I’ll see if he’s available,” the receptionist picked up a phone.

A few seconds later, his door opened, and out came Mr. Kyser. I felt a little bead of perspiration slide down my back, but it helped that he wasn’t frowning. Yet.

“Anna. Come in.” he said as if we were old friends.

My heart was hammering as I followed him into his office. Then I froze. Through a wall of windows I could see the Gulf stretching for miles, turning from turquoise to slightly darker blue to deep marine at the horizon. A few sailboats dotted the expanse.

“Oh, how beautiful!” I gasped, forgetting my fear and walking to the window.

“Hm? Oh, right. I forget how it looks the first time,” he said. “You’re not from this area.”

“No, sir. My mom is, but I grew up in Indiana.”

“That’s some flat landscape. They grow corn there.”

“And apples. Have you been?” I asked.

“I went with my dad once when I was a kid. He was interested in stock car racing.”

I thought of the night after the game, and I decided I never wanted to see another car race as long as I lived. Studying his face, it was amazing how much Jack looked like his dad. It sparked that memory of longing… that I was working hard to get over. I watched as he walked over and sat behind his desk.

“So when Curtis called, he said you’re writing for the city paper now,” he said. “That’s some great experience.”

I sat in one of the smaller chairs across from him. “Yes, sir.”

“Curtis is a good man. You’ll learn a lot.”

“I don’t ever see him. I work with Nancy Riggs. She’s doing a historical insert for the bicentennial and she wanted me to ask you about your work on East End Beach.”

He nodded, “I’ve been thinking about that. I would’ve thought you all had plenty on me in your archives. It seemed I was always talking to the paper back then. What we were doing, what was coming next.”

“I think Nancy wanted something fresh. Like your thoughts looking back. If you’re happy with how things turned out. If you’d have done anything differently…”

His expression changed, and I started to grow nervous again. I reached for my bag and pulled out the old pictures. “I found these in the archives.” I stood and placed the first one on his desk.

He picked it up and softened a bit. “That’s Bryant on one of the Phoenician sites. He must’ve been twenty years old when this was taken.”

“I have one of you and him at the ribbon cutting…” I put it in front of him, and he took one glance before standing up to walk over to a small table that held a decanter of what must’ve been scotch.

“Would you like some water? Or a Coke?” He poured himself a drink in one of the crystal tumblers on the tray.

“No, thanks,” I said. Ms. LaSalle was also in the ribbon-cutting picture, but I acted like I didn’t realize. “So I guess, do you mind if I record our interview?”

“Are you writing the story?”

“No, sir. This is for the reporter who will.”

He took a drink and walked back to sit behind his desk. “Well, what do you want to know?”

I inhaled and read from my notebook. “What gave you the idea for all these developments? I mean, what made you and Mr. Brennan think you could do something like this?”

“I like how you put it,” he said. “I thought the same thing several times when we were getting started. I guess it was youth? We were pretty bold, considering. But it all fell into place for us. We were lucky.”

His expression changed as he talked about his work. He became more focused and a little excited. It reminded me of how Julian would get when he told me about one of his new art projects, and my anxiety eased.

I looked down at my notes again. “How would you say the Phoenician developments changed this area?”

“They completely changed the area,” he said. “There was nothing down here before Bryant and I got started. Nothing like the year-round residences and ancillary businesses we have now. And what was here had been badly damaged by Frederick.”

“Nancy’s doing a piece on Ms. LaSalle and her art. She wanted me to ask how she got involved in the developments.”

“Alex first helped us when we were seniors…”

“In high school?” I couldn’t believe it.

“We were just planning it then. Reading everything we could get our hands on. Bryant’s father was in the business, and he gave us some pointers. We had it all mapped out by graduation.”

“You’re kidding.”

“No, we were really focused.”

“I can’t imagine coming up with something like this at my age,” I said. “How’d you do it? Where’d you find the motivation?”

“Farm work in 98 degree heat and 100 percent humidity is very motivating. It forces you to weigh your options.”

Again I thought of Julian. “So Ms. LaSalle helped you when you were planning it out?” I asked.

“She drew up our first elevations and sketched out what we were describing. It was amazing to see. She was a really good artist.”

“Did you two date?”

He exhaled a quiet laugh. “No. We weren’t even friends really.”

“But I thought… Why not?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” he looked away, out the window. “She didn’t agree with what we were doing. Thought it would destroy the natural beauty of the area or some hippie nonsense like that.”

“But I thought you said you were friends.”

“She and Meg were best friends.”

“Your wife that died?” He leaned back and for the first time I noticed small lines around his eyes. He seemed tired, and I had completely forgotten to be afraid of him.

“I have this other picture for you,” I said. I pulled out the photograph of the group in front of Scoops. He looked at it for several seconds.

“We were seniors when this was taken.”

“Lucy looks a lot like her mom,” I said, leaning forward.

“Yes. She does.”

“It must’ve been hard losing her like that. Was it a car crash?”

“Right at Christmas,” he said. “She lost control of her car. Hit a light pole.”

“Oh! I can’t even imagine.”

He put the picture aside and became serious again. “It was a long time ago. So do you have enough information?”

I nodded. “I think so. Nancy might have someone call and do follow-up. But I think she mainly wanted me to see if you were interested and if there was a connection with the piece she’s doing.”

“Did you need these?” He picked up the pictures.

“You can have them. I scanned them into the computer at the office,” I stood and collected my things. “Thanks for talking to me.”

“Thanks for the photos.” He rose. “Oh, and thank you for what you said to Lucy. She seems happier than she’s been in a while.”

“I’m not sure you should thank me,” I said. “I couldn’t say anything right that day.”

He glanced at me, and I saw it. It had been there all along, but I only just saw it now. I felt my eyes widen, and I tried to look down quickly, but he’d seen my expression change.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

“Yes, sir!” I said quickly.

“What’s wrong, Anna?”

“Nothing! I was just… thinking about something else.”

He didn’t seem convinced, but he let it pass. “Hey, about the story.”

“What?” I was flustered, but I had to get it together.

“You said this was going to run with a piece on Alex. You’re not planning to put us together or anything like that?”

“I don’t know what Nancy’s planning.” I tried to find calm; be a professional. Professionals did not wig out in front of subjects.

“I’d rather avoid that.” It sounded like an order.

My eyes flew to his. “I know Nancy wants to do something about her art career with an emphasis on her work here, and I know she’s planning to ask her why she stopped painting so abruptly.”