stories and expose this man for what he is.
I press the start button and place the car in gear, attempt to spin out, but the car doesn’t move. The low battery light is blinking at me. I glance over at the glove box, which is hanging open, the dimmest of glows leaking from inside. Fuck me.
I look to the porch, but Ness has disappeared back into his house. I slap my steering wheel in frustration. I could’ve sworn I’d closed the glove box when I put my registration away.
9
The light on the porch is still on. I stare at my phone and consider calling the inn or a taxi or a tow, but I don’t know how to get any of those people past Ness’s double guard gates. With no other choice, I get out of the car again and approach the house. My shouted accusations hang in the air, are still ringing in my ears. Ness answers the door holding his glass of wine, has switched back from coffee. The barest of swallows is left in the bottom of his glass.
“I need to borrow some juice,” I tell him. “My battery’s flat.”
Ness studies me for a moment. A painful moment.
“I would like an apology,” he says.
Through clenched teeth, I say, “I’m sorry.” My anger has been cooled by my embarrassment at needing his help to get out of here.
“I have a battery booster in the garage. You can wait here if you like.”
I decide to follow him, and he doesn’t stop me. Ness heads around the low stucco wall studded with conchs and around toward the garage. Lights above the garage doors flick on automatically and the courtyard blooms bright. Bugs begin to gather around the floodlights. There are three bays. Ness punches a six-digit code into the pad on the wall, and the center bay slides open.
The light inside the garage comes on, and Ness squeezes between a covered car and a rack of shelves. I step inside and lift the cover on the bumper of the car, see the candy-apple red beneath. I also note the exhaust pipe. A gas burner.
“I don’t have a thing for reporters,” Ness tells me as he digs noisily through shelves of tools. “Half of what they’ve written about me over the years is complete fiction. Not that I care. You can write whatever you want. Tell people I came on to you.”
“Didn’t you?” I ask.
“Does it matter?” Ness lugs the orange battery pack my way. I drape the car cover back over the gas-guzzler and step out of the garage. “I asked my dad once how he and my mom met, and he made up a story. He’d make up a different story every time, depending on who was asking. My mom would do it too. I figured it out on my own. Thought you’d like to hear about it.”
“So you want credit for figuring that out?” I follow him back toward my car. The lights wink off behind us. “Well done. Great investigative reporting.”
“I confronted him about it,” Ness says. “This was after my mom died. I asked why he never told me the truth. And it was the first time I ever saw him cry. I mean, bawl like a child.”
Some distant and professional part of me cries out that this might be important, worth writing about, but the rest of me is too riled up to care or even make mental notes. I follow Ness around to my car and watch as he pops the hood and attaches the booster to the battery posts. He checks to make sure the pack is switched on. “Should give you an hour or so of juice. We’ll have to leave it plugged in for half an hour.”
“Convenient,” I tell him. “I’m trapped here.”
“Unless you want to stomp down the driveway in a huff, you are.” He smiles, seems to be joking.
I nearly ask Ness if he opened the glove box while I was reading the journal, but I realize how paranoid I’m being, how crazy that will sound. I’m already feeling the slightest twinge of guilt for blowing up on him.
“Why do you think he kept it a secret?” I ask. “Did he say?”
“He did. And I would have shared that with you, but now I’m not so sure.” He studies me in the dim glow from the porch light. “Maybe
I press the start button and place the car in gear, attempt to spin out, but the car doesn’t move. The low battery light is blinking at me. I glance over at the glove box, which is hanging open, the dimmest of glows leaking from inside. Fuck me.
I look to the porch, but Ness has disappeared back into his house. I slap my steering wheel in frustration. I could’ve sworn I’d closed the glove box when I put my registration away.
9
The light on the porch is still on. I stare at my phone and consider calling the inn or a taxi or a tow, but I don’t know how to get any of those people past Ness’s double guard gates. With no other choice, I get out of the car again and approach the house. My shouted accusations hang in the air, are still ringing in my ears. Ness answers the door holding his glass of wine, has switched back from coffee. The barest of swallows is left in the bottom of his glass.
“I need to borrow some juice,” I tell him. “My battery’s flat.”
Ness studies me for a moment. A painful moment.
“I would like an apology,” he says.
Through clenched teeth, I say, “I’m sorry.” My anger has been cooled by my embarrassment at needing his help to get out of here.
“I have a battery booster in the garage. You can wait here if you like.”
I decide to follow him, and he doesn’t stop me. Ness heads around the low stucco wall studded with conchs and around toward the garage. Lights above the garage doors flick on automatically and the courtyard blooms bright. Bugs begin to gather around the floodlights. There are three bays. Ness punches a six-digit code into the pad on the wall, and the center bay slides open.
The light inside the garage comes on, and Ness squeezes between a covered car and a rack of shelves. I step inside and lift the cover on the bumper of the car, see the candy-apple red beneath. I also note the exhaust pipe. A gas burner.
“I don’t have a thing for reporters,” Ness tells me as he digs noisily through shelves of tools. “Half of what they’ve written about me over the years is complete fiction. Not that I care. You can write whatever you want. Tell people I came on to you.”
“Didn’t you?” I ask.
“Does it matter?” Ness lugs the orange battery pack my way. I drape the car cover back over the gas-guzzler and step out of the garage. “I asked my dad once how he and my mom met, and he made up a story. He’d make up a different story every time, depending on who was asking. My mom would do it too. I figured it out on my own. Thought you’d like to hear about it.”
“So you want credit for figuring that out?” I follow him back toward my car. The lights wink off behind us. “Well done. Great investigative reporting.”
“I confronted him about it,” Ness says. “This was after my mom died. I asked why he never told me the truth. And it was the first time I ever saw him cry. I mean, bawl like a child.”
Some distant and professional part of me cries out that this might be important, worth writing about, but the rest of me is too riled up to care or even make mental notes. I follow Ness around to my car and watch as he pops the hood and attaches the booster to the battery posts. He checks to make sure the pack is switched on. “Should give you an hour or so of juice. We’ll have to leave it plugged in for half an hour.”
“Convenient,” I tell him. “I’m trapped here.”
“Unless you want to stomp down the driveway in a huff, you are.” He smiles, seems to be joking.
I nearly ask Ness if he opened the glove box while I was reading the journal, but I realize how paranoid I’m being, how crazy that will sound. I’m already feeling the slightest twinge of guilt for blowing up on him.
“Why do you think he kept it a secret?” I ask. “Did he say?”
“He did. And I would have shared that with you, but now I’m not so sure.” He studies me in the dim glow from the porch light. “Maybe
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