Lost & Found - 1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1

When Danny and the other missing passenger Emile had noticed what was going on, they had tried to escape with the help of a life raft. They pushed it into the water, Emile jumped after it, and waited for Danny to follow. Only he never made it. They were discovered, and Danny was shot in the head while he was trying to climb over the railing. Then they killed Emile in the water. Days later, Danny’s body was found entangled in some rope hanging down the yacht. Emile was gone; but the bloodstains on the raft told the police everything they needed to know.

In his will, Danny appointed me the executor of his estate and I had to decide what to do with his remains. How should I bury the love of my life? Then I remembered Danny’s words when we had scattered the ashes of a dear friend where she had died: ‘This is so perfect, Morgan. The body meets the soul one last time to say goodbye.’

Three years on from the day Danny died, I stood at another boat’s railing, holding Danny’s urn, reciting W. H. Auden with a broken voice. I had to borrow the poet’s words because I had none left.

For the first anniversary of his death, I had chosen a red rose, for the second, a white rose. This year I bought every color they had in the flower shop, because it was time to celebrate Danny’s life rather than mourning his death.

At least that was the theory. I could try, couldn’t I?

Closing my fingers repeatedly over the damp paper towel wrapped around the fragile stems, I leaned against the railing of the ‘No Regrets’.

My friend Elise wordlessly wrapped her arms around me, kissed my cheeks with cool lips, and then readied the boat so we could head out until the coast would only be blurred lines, as we had done the past two years.

I had first met Elise when I was coming to the harbor every day, week after week, desperately watching the horizon, wanting to be close to Danny. She saw me and one day invited me onto her boat. We started talking, and I wound up telling her everything. She was a very good listener, and over the years had become a dear friend.

I stared at the fine blue line where the infinite sky met endless water. The harsh winds dried the tears that were running down my face. It wasn’t the sea where Danny had died, but all water on this planet is connected somehow. I thought I could feel his presence.

I’m so sorry. I should have been with you. I should have died with you. Can you forgive me for abandoning you? You were my home, my anchor. Without you, I’m drifting.

I squandered the time I had with him. There were so many things I should have told him, should have had him tell me.

Too late now.

I finally stretched my arm out and let go. I watched the flowers hitting the water’s surface, dipping up and down the waves for a while, before finally dissolving into single colorful dots.

God, how I miss you.

Suddenly, Danny was standing beside me in his frayed khaki shorts. The tails of his white shirt were flapping in the wind, and he was grinning like a lunatic, trying to prevent one of his silly hats from getting blown away. He always hid the red curls because as much as I loved them, he hated them. For a short moment I could even smell licorice, and like that, the grief was back, hitting me full force. All-consuming, it constricted my throat and threatened to suffocate me if I didn’t swallow it down. Only I couldn’t.

It was the floral scent of Joy by Jean Patou surrounding me, and a much-too-small hand in mine that brought me back. “As your friend, I promise we can do this every year as long as you need it, darling, you know that, but as your therapist, I must tell you that you have to let go eventually, Morgan. He is dead. Gone. You are not.”

***

Eying the white, deckle-edged card sitting on the side table — ‘Fundraising Concert and Dinner for Small Charities’— I knew that attending this was the right thing to do. Much better than sitting by the fire with the phones switched off, and staring at my favorite photograph of Danny, while demolishing a bottle of single malt whiskey. That was what I had been doing the last two years.

It had been Elise’s idea to pool small, local charities and organize a big fundraising event to increase their visibility. I knew the venue; in the past I’d been there often. I knew what music I would listen to; I had been to Tim Bell’s concerts when I could make the time. He was my all-time favorite jazz trumpet player. I knew what I would eat; the attached menu card had been quite thorough.

I even knew what I could expect from the other guests. Some would recognize me. They would remember, and they would talk behind my back, which didn’t concern me. Those who’d come to me with their false, pretended sympathy, did.

Of course, Elise had said I should have a more positive attitude. Something I rarely allowed these days, I admit. I tried it. I pictured faces of people who might be happy to see me, who I even might be happy to see, and suddenly a small part of me was actually looking forward to this. The much bigger part though, still wanted to stay home.

Instead, I carefully chose what to wear that would fit my mood and suit the occasion. Pulling out the black cuffs from under the sleeves of my equally black dinner jacket, I watched blue stones catching the light of the lamps alongside the mirror.

‘These cuff links have the exact color of your eyes. I bought them so I will think of you while I am at boring dinner parties and meetings without you.’

‘Ah. They’re going to be your favorite items then.’

I exchanged the cuff links for a pair of black opals set in platinum, pocketed my keys and left the bedroom. It was a start. And the bottle of Dalmore was still sitting on the small chest of drawers beside my favorite wingback chair, waiting for me. Just in case.

Standing in the shadow of the living room, I watched the driveway, waiting for the car to pull up to the house and the driver to get out and ring the bell. There was still enough time to cancel. Headlights were approaching the house.

Too late.

It took us almost an hour to reach the hotel, and the driver stopped in front of its bright-lit entrance. It was still too soon. A liveried porter opened the door before I could put my game face on and revert to the aloof but charming businessperson of old times. Hopefully no one had noticed my lapse.

Without looking around, I hurried up the curved stairs to escape the occasional photographer and made my way through the lavish foyer to the largest of the hotel’s ballrooms. There I had to stand briefly in line before I could show my invitation to the beautiful girl with the too-short dress. She checked me off the list on her tablet computer and handed me the program, together with a paper bag filled with things I didn’t need. “I hope you enjoy the evening, Mr. St. John. I hear Tim is in an exceptionally good mood tonight.”

I squinted, so I could read her nametag. “Thank you, Tabitha. I’m sure I will.” A blatant lie, but she wouldn’t know that. The jazz trumpeter I had been looking forward to listening to suddenly didn’t interest me in the least. All the people milling about annoyed me. Their mixed colognes suffocated me. They stood much too close.

This has been a mistake!

When I felt someone touching me, it took all my restrain not to shrug them off violently. “Morgan! I’m so glad you came.” Elise stood beside me, ignoring everyone who tried to catch her attention and took me by my arm. “I can tell you now; I had a bet going with Hanako. She said you would come. I wasn’t so sure.” She smiled at me, but there was no mistake, she knew I had been ready to bolt. Her grip around my biceps got firmer. “Come on, I’ll show you to your table. You’ll be sitting with some very nice people, dear. I made sure of that.” Then she winked. “And with me of course — after I make my speech, that is.” She scrunched her nose. Very un-ladylike. “I promise it will be nice and short.”

It turned out she was true to her word. After a warm welcome, she simply told us to enjoy the food and the concert, part from as much money as we could, and not to forget to look at the art show in the sunroom as the revenue would be split between the charities.

The concert was everything I had been hoping for when I first read the name Tim Bell. The food was delicious, the company pleasant, and I found myself in a far better mood than I had thought I would be when I arrived. I even decided to mingle, letting Elise introduce me to people I once knew. “Do you remember Malcom? Laura and Oliver? Frank and Kristi?” and so she proved her point. Some were indeed happy to see me, and I was happy to see some.

Wandering along the hallway leading to the sunroom, my gaze was immediately captured by a large photograph hanging on the wall behind one of the booths: A tall, lean man sitting on cracked stone steps in front of a dented metal door.

A warehouse?

Light eyes surrounded by crinkles — somehow I knew they had to be pale blue — caught me and made me come closer. With its creases and lines, his face was a document of hardship and joy. The generous mouth showed an easy smile, the rickety straw-hat shoved off the forehead, tamed a mop of full white hair. This man was happy and full of life. Something I needed to relearn.

Who is he?

My first thought was he must be hiking, because of the worn rucksack standing behind him, but the photo clearly was taken somewhere in a city, even maybe in an industrial zone.

So, homeless maybe?

His clothes were worn but clean, and he didn’t have the look of defeat on his face homeless people often had. One of his hands lay on the back of a huge, shaggy dog by his feet. The words on the poster, printed in bold purple, said: Support Elijah’s Way.

Animal rescue?

In search of an answer, my gaze fell on the man standing behind the table. He looked interesting for someone who worked for a charity. His dinner jacket was definitely tailor made, the delicate hand holding the flyers perfectly manicured, and the watch he was wearing was a rare Patek Philippe Chronograph. I knew because I had a similar one at home. His nametag read Walter Montgomery for Elijah’s Way.

When he saw me looking at him, he came closer and asked, “What was your first thought when you saw Elijah and Bob?”

“Elijah and Bob?”

He nodded in the direction of the photograph. “Elijah’s the one with the hat, and Bob is the one with the tail.”

I could hear the surprise in my own voice when I said, “They look happy. Content.”

Walter smiled, nodding enthusiastically. “That’s because they were.”

Somehow his question had annoyed me. “What does ‘Elijah’s Way’ stand for anyway? Homeless people? Stray animals? It isn’t very clear from where I stand; you should work on your marketing strategy. People don’t like guessing, they get confused and feel negative emotions about your cause, which is never good.”

What am I talking about? Marketing strategy? Negative emotions?

Walter didn’t look upset about my outburst, though. On the contrary, he seemed amused about my lecture. “It brought you over here. Right? You even stopped, and we’re talking.”

I shook my head and had to smile. “Touché.”

Walter gave me a flyer. “To answer your first question: Neither homeless people nor stray animals. Elijah was a drifter, someone who had a home once, but didn’t want it anymore. We support people like him.”

I looked at the photograph again, this time trying to detect something in Elijah’s face that told me why he chose a life like this. I could see nothing. I had to ask. “But why would he do this?”

Walter shrugged. “He never told me. One day he just sold everything he had and simply vanished. Sometimes I would hear from him, got postcards from places all over the country or a very rare phone call.”

“So you know him personally?”

“I did. He was my best friend.”

“Was?”

“Yes, he died three years ago, not far from here, down by the river actually. The hospital called me after they had found him. I was very surprised, because I didn’t know I was still his emergency contact. He had had a massive heart attack; there was nothing they could do for him. I arrived just in time to say goodbye.” Walter had a faraway look on his face. “I often asked myself if he had waited for me, to see me one last time.” He found my gaze. “He died a happy man.” He chuckled. “And a wealthy man too. I took the money and founded Elijah’s Way, because it was what he wanted me to do through his will.” He huffed. “Well, not the name. If he knew that, he’d probably kill me.”

His eyes glistened with unshed tears. I needed to change the topic. “What happened to the dog, Bob?”

Not a smart choice.

“I buried him in my garden. After they took Elijah to the hospital, animal control had brought Bob to the shelter. I found him there and took him home with me. I then learned that dogs could die of a broken heart. He barely ate, didn’t get up from his blanket much and finally died three months later.”

My gaze was drawn back to the photograph. “I still can’t imagine what made Elijah abandon his old life and become a drifter.”

But that wasn’t entirely true. After Danny’s death, I too drifted, only not in a good way. I hadn’t been happy. Standing there with Walter Montgomery, staring at Elijah’s face, it hit me hard when I realized how much Danny had grounded me. He had been the anchor in my vagrant life. Without him, our place wasn’t home anymore. It reminded me too much of what I had lost. I sold the condo, put everything in storage, and for almost two years, I lived in hotel rooms, worked relentlessly, slept only a few hours at a time, if at all. I blended out the pain, the loneliness, and my remorse until I woke up in a hospital bed. The doctors told me I had exhausted my body until I had almost killed myself.

Elise thought I probably had to reach that point, rock bottom, only then would I be able to move on and get back on my feet.

After weeks in rehab, I was ready to live again. I made one final deal. Because I needed a goal, I bought a small company, only twenty-three highly qualified employees that manufactured high-tech, specialized tools. Mismanagement had brought them to the brink of bankruptcy, but I saw their potential. It was exactly what I needed.

Someone jostled my shoulder and brought me back from my memory. Walter looked at me knowingly, and pressed a flyer in my hand. “You might want to visit our local house. Talk to Beckett Miller, he will be happy to show you around and give you more information. Of course you can always call me if you have more questions.” He took one of the pens lying around on the table and scribbled something on a card. “Here is my number.”

The gala was still in full swing when I left the hotel. I was glad I had listened to Elise, but there was still this bottle of Dalmore waiting for me. I wouldn’t get drunk this year. I would savor my favorite whiskey while I looked at another black and white photograph: Danny wearing his reading glasses, glancing up at me over the rim of his laptop, smiling, even though I interrupted his work.

W. H. Auden: Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone