up to the davits at the Larsens’ dock and cranked her back out of the water. The sun was quickly turning last night’s rain to steam. Henri and the three other members of his lawn service crew were working with weed whackers, gas blowers, and hedge clippers. When he saw me, Henri hurried over and waited while I cranked up the dinghy.
“Hi, Henri,” I said as I bent down and scratched Abaco’s ears. “What’s up?”
He looked distressed. Henri was a tall, handsome Haitian in his mid-forties. He was a successful entrepreneur with a thriving lawn service, a good husband, and the father of five beautiful kids. Distress didn’t look right on his face.
“A man came. He said he wanted to see you. I told him you were not here, but he insisted and left his things in front of your house.”
“What?” I stood and started down the brick path to my cottage. I could see the stuff piled in front of my place: a backpack with dozens of patches sewn on it, an army surplus duffel bag, an old footlocker, and a torpedo-shaped blue Dacron bag.
“This man,” Henri continued, “he did not look very clean even though he was very polite. I thought perhaps he was a homeless man. But he claimed he was your brother.”
I whooped and grabbed Henri by the arm. “This is great!” It was the windsurfer bag that had left no doubt: My brother Pit had come for a visit. “Henri, it was my brother, and don’t you worry what he looks like. He’s a great guy.” Sensing my excitement, Abaco came loping over and started to bark. I knelt down and ruffled her ears. “Pit’s come to visit, girl.” Abaco sensed the excitement in my voice and began turning circles. I stood and turned back to Henri. “Did Pit say where he was going? When he would be back?”
“He left a note.” Henri smiled tentatively. “So it is good your brother comes?”
“Oh yes, very good.”
“Then I am happy I did not let Jean-Phillipe chase him off with his machete.”
“Yeah, Henri.” I laughed. “That is good.”
I shoved Pit’s things into a corner of my little living room. Surely he didn’t travel all over the world on the World Cup Windsurfing circuit with all this baggage. The last thing I dragged in was an old footlocker, which I recognized as one that used to belong to Red. When we were kids, we used to get into old clothes and U.S. Navy uniforms he stored in the locker. I remembered it being in the garage when we had cleaned out the house after Red’s death. I didn’t realize that Pit had saved it.
I finally sat down on the couch and read Pit’s note.
Seychelle,
In town for 3 days. Thought I could bunk at Tina's but she threw me out—along with my gear that Id left at her place. Hope I can borrow your couch for a couple of nights. Gone down to Hobie Beach.
See ya. Pit
My brother Pit was the laid-back middle child, the free spirit. Possessions, timetables, careers—they all made little sense to him. Hobie Beach was the windsurfers’ hangout down on Miami’s Biscayne Bay. Pit was a professional windsurfing teacher and competitor, and while you’d think he’d get sick of it sometimes and want to do something else, it didn’t surprise me that windsurfing was the first thing he wanted to do on his first trip home in years.
After a quick shower, I threw on some old jeans and a T-shirt and dialed Jeannie’s number.
“Hey, it’s me.”
“Hey, you. I was just getting ready to go over to visit our little friend.”
“I was hoping you’d say that. There’s someplace I need to go first, but I’d feel better knowing there will be somebody there with her for the next few hours. Somebody to run interference with cops and reporters, give the kid a chance to rest. At least till I get there.”
“You know me,” Jeannie said. “I’m damn good at interference.”
Ignoring Abaco’s forlorn looks, I locked up my cottage and headed out the gate. Henri and his crew had wrapped up their work and headed out, leaving
“Hi, Henri,” I said as I bent down and scratched Abaco’s ears. “What’s up?”
He looked distressed. Henri was a tall, handsome Haitian in his mid-forties. He was a successful entrepreneur with a thriving lawn service, a good husband, and the father of five beautiful kids. Distress didn’t look right on his face.
“A man came. He said he wanted to see you. I told him you were not here, but he insisted and left his things in front of your house.”
“What?” I stood and started down the brick path to my cottage. I could see the stuff piled in front of my place: a backpack with dozens of patches sewn on it, an army surplus duffel bag, an old footlocker, and a torpedo-shaped blue Dacron bag.
“This man,” Henri continued, “he did not look very clean even though he was very polite. I thought perhaps he was a homeless man. But he claimed he was your brother.”
I whooped and grabbed Henri by the arm. “This is great!” It was the windsurfer bag that had left no doubt: My brother Pit had come for a visit. “Henri, it was my brother, and don’t you worry what he looks like. He’s a great guy.” Sensing my excitement, Abaco came loping over and started to bark. I knelt down and ruffled her ears. “Pit’s come to visit, girl.” Abaco sensed the excitement in my voice and began turning circles. I stood and turned back to Henri. “Did Pit say where he was going? When he would be back?”
“He left a note.” Henri smiled tentatively. “So it is good your brother comes?”
“Oh yes, very good.”
“Then I am happy I did not let Jean-Phillipe chase him off with his machete.”
“Yeah, Henri.” I laughed. “That is good.”
I shoved Pit’s things into a corner of my little living room. Surely he didn’t travel all over the world on the World Cup Windsurfing circuit with all this baggage. The last thing I dragged in was an old footlocker, which I recognized as one that used to belong to Red. When we were kids, we used to get into old clothes and U.S. Navy uniforms he stored in the locker. I remembered it being in the garage when we had cleaned out the house after Red’s death. I didn’t realize that Pit had saved it.
I finally sat down on the couch and read Pit’s note.
Seychelle,
In town for 3 days. Thought I could bunk at Tina's but she threw me out—along with my gear that Id left at her place. Hope I can borrow your couch for a couple of nights. Gone down to Hobie Beach.
See ya. Pit
My brother Pit was the laid-back middle child, the free spirit. Possessions, timetables, careers—they all made little sense to him. Hobie Beach was the windsurfers’ hangout down on Miami’s Biscayne Bay. Pit was a professional windsurfing teacher and competitor, and while you’d think he’d get sick of it sometimes and want to do something else, it didn’t surprise me that windsurfing was the first thing he wanted to do on his first trip home in years.
After a quick shower, I threw on some old jeans and a T-shirt and dialed Jeannie’s number.
“Hey, it’s me.”
“Hey, you. I was just getting ready to go over to visit our little friend.”
“I was hoping you’d say that. There’s someplace I need to go first, but I’d feel better knowing there will be somebody there with her for the next few hours. Somebody to run interference with cops and reporters, give the kid a chance to rest. At least till I get there.”
“You know me,” Jeannie said. “I’m damn good at interference.”
Ignoring Abaco’s forlorn looks, I locked up my cottage and headed out the gate. Henri and his crew had wrapped up their work and headed out, leaving
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