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the beach they didn’t even exist. The whole world was Gabe and me.

24
    Donald Morrison
    The oldest brother, David, came down here to settle some business for his father. I asked him if he wanted to look at Gabe.
    He shook his head no. His hands were trembling.
    â€œI’ll go in there with you, if you want me to,” I said. His eyes are as big as Gabe’s, but dark.
    He glanced toward the parking lot, then back at the door to the room that holds Gabe’s body.
    â€œAll right,” he said. He stayed close by me. He smelled of booze and cigarettes.
    Five feet from the worktable, David stopped walking. “I can’t,” he said.
    â€œHe looks okay,” I said. “It just looks like he’s sleeping.”
    â€œBut he’s not.” David reached for a cigarette, then put the pack back in his pocket. He heaved a long, shuddery breath. “I feel like I can’t, but I have to,” he said. “He’s my brother.”
    We walked up to the table. David didn’t say a thing. Big tears like raindrops splashed on his hands and one fell on Gabriel’s cheek.
    â€œDad’s not done with him yet,” I said, to say something, to try to make him feel better. Luckily he didn’t hear me.
    David didn’t stay long. He came back into the office, rubbing his eyes with his sleeve. He said he didn’t know how they wanted the service, that things were still up in the air.
    â€œMy mother—,” he began, then left it there.
    â€œNo problem,” I said. “Take all the time you need.” I told him we’d be in touch.
    My father and Clyde Bridges came into the office shortly after David left.
    â€œMy God, what stinks?” My father opened a window.
    â€œDavid McCloud was just here. He said—”
    â€œNo sense talking to him. He’s a drunk.”
    My father sat down and offered Clyde a cigar from the silver box on his desk. Clyde’s in real estate. When an old person dies, Clyde’s usually the one who puts the house on the market. He hears about it first. He and my father are friends.
    â€œI’m going out for a while,” I said. “I want to help look for Jennie.”
    My father waved the words away. “There’s no sense in the whole town getting hysterical, just because some teenager wants attention.”
    â€œYou know how this town is,” Clyde said, chuckling.
    I said, “Mrs. Harding called. They’re afraid Jennie might kill herself, because she loved Gabe so much, and it turns out she’s pregnant.”
    My father almost smiled. He said, “That figures.”
    â€œI told her I’d help.”
    â€œI need you here.”
    â€œMom can answer the phone.”
    â€œYou heard what I said. Clyde and I have business.” He dismissed me.
    I figured I knew what they needed to discuss. I lingered out of sight, to listen. The Sea Horse Festival, a brainchild of Clyde’s, is scheduled to be held this weekend.
    â€œPeople are saying we should postpone it,” I heard Clyde say, “because Gabe’s dead and everybody’s sad.”
    â€œPeople die every day.”
    â€œLucky for you.” Clyde laughed.
    Mendocino gets most of the tourists to the coast. Willow Creek is a few miles inland. Clyde came up with the Sea Horse Festival as a promotion, combining our location near the coast with what he calls “the pioneer spirit bit.” He’s hoping it will catch on and become an annual event. Then people will buy gas at Clyde’s gas station and eat meals in Clyde’s restaurant and spend the night in Clyde’s motel, and we’ll all be so grateful, we’ll change the town’s name to Clydesdale—
    â€œWhy couldn’t Gabe have gotten killed next week?” he said. “We all knew this was going to happen. The only question was when. Count on the McClouds to screw things up.”
    My father said, “Gabe had a lot of