Gone by Randy Wayne White Page A

her, our last session?”
    I shook my head.
    “I told her forgiveness is for women who don’t have the balls for revenge. I haven’t shown any balls for a while, but that shit’s about to change.” Mrs. Whitney glanced at the photo, which she’d crumpled, then had tried to smooth out so I wouldn’t know. “You’re sure Mickey’s with this girl you mentioned. Somebody’s niece?”
    “The family thinks so.”
    The woman smoked, disappearing inside her thoughts for a while. Finally, a bitter smile appeared on her face. “I guess I don’t have to ask if you can keep a secret, do I? . . . Uhh—”
    “Hannah Smith,” I told her for the fourth time. Then, because it was the professional thing to do, I added, “We can sign a contract of confidentiality, if you want. I’ve got some forms on my boat. But first, eat some of that soup . . . Elka. Please. ”

SIX
     
    D ARREN, THE FAMOUS PHOTOGRAPHER, WAS HOLDING open an old Life magazine he’d taken from a stack and was saying to Nathan, “You don’t see the resemblance? Tell me you don’t see a resemblance.”
    Darren was smiling, having fun, eyes moving from the magazine to me, then to Nate, whose shaved head looked flushed like he’d worked out, gone for a swim, and maybe had a shower during the five hours I’d spent with Mrs. Whitney. We were in the photographer’s studio, floors of blond wood, high white walls that were silken with sunlight from windows spaced along a beamed ceiling. The room, furniture, pastel colors meshed so cleanly, it was hard not to be jealous of the man’s good taste. On the other hand, the thought that places such as Darren’s cost more than my mother, Loretta, made in her lifetime didn’t enter my head—but only because I’d reflected on that fact so many times while idling my boat along the back side of Captiva Island, or fishing with clients off the beach. On the west coast of Florida, it’s something you get used to.
    “Hannah . . . Hannah , at least have a look.” Darren was feeling talkative after a few whiskeys. Not drunk, not disrespectful—the man was always so sweet and caring, it was sometimes hard to believe he was who he was. I knew he was working hard to make Nathan’s friend his friend, too, so I let him see me smile and showed some interest in what he said next.
    “I’ve obsessed about shooting you ever since you refused to sit . . . two weeks ago? No, three, because I’d just gotten back from L.A. But that’s not the reason, dear. Ask Nate. Nate . . . tell her! I see you as a gawky American colt who’s turning into a swan but doesn’t realize it. You’re heart’s too . . . something. . . . Solid? Yes, too solid to know or even care. Said it from the start, didn’t I?” Smiling wider as Nathan nodded shyly, Darren held up the magazine as if it were a prize. “Then I find this!”
    Before I knew what I was saying, I replied, “A colt’s a male horse, Darren. And shooting swans has nothing to do with taking pictures, in my experience. But I am flattered you think I look like a woman in an old magazine.”
    Nate turned to me, his expression stricken, and said, “Hannah,” which I felt in my chest because I realized I’d been rude and I hadn’t intended to be rude. Truth was, I still felt numb from some of the things Mrs. Whitney had told me regarding Ricky Meeks. Most especially were the embarrassing acts Meeks had forced upon the woman and other bad things he’d manipulated her into doing. Never in my life had I heard such stories and I’m not a naïve person. Like everyone else, I spend more time on the Internet than I should, sometimes peeking at videos and reading about subjects I know I shouldn’t.
    There was something else bothering me, too, which is probably why I’d snapped at the man without thinking. It was something nasty that Mrs. Whitney had said about Darren an hour or so after I’d made the mistake of mentioning his name to Nathan. The woman had been in