Burnt Island by A.J. Llewellyn

Author:A.J. Llewellyn [Llewellyn, A.J.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Totally Bound Publishing
Published: 2012-06-28T00:00:00+00:00

* * * *

We were walking down the mountain when my sat phone buzzed. Dad.

“I have to take this,” I told Thane. “It’s business. I’ll keep it brief.”

“No problem. I’m gonna help myself to some olives. I’ve been smelling them all day.” I watched him climb a small, shaky old fence outside somebody’s house. He ambled over to a huge tree, its boughs laden with small green olives.

“You there?” my father snapped.

“Yes. How’s Jezzie?”

“She’s already improving. She’s stopped walking in circles and she’s no longer tilting her head. She’s doing great.” He paused. “I had a bad night.”

“I thought you might.”

My gaze remained on Thane, who was carefully picking fruit from the tree only after a close inspection of each piece.

“Listen, son, Thane figured out who you are.”

“Yes, I know.” A lump formed in my throat. I wanted the boat ride with Thane. Just a little more time with him, then I’d gladly give up the investigation.

“He— Wait, you’ve spoken to him?”

“Yep. It’s a small island, Dad. I ran into him at a café.”

“He doesn’t know I had you following him, does he?”

“No—”

“And I don’t want him to know.” Dad sighed. “What a mess. Ricky’s on his way back and I frankly don’t care if he comes back or not. The rest of the staff hates him. Things have been running fine without him.”

I didn’t know what to say about that. He was the one who got all bent out of shape and demanded the guy’s return to New York.

“It’s gonna look weird if you leave in a hurry, son. Stay a few more days then come home. Okay?”

That wasn’t what I was expecting. At all.

“Sure,” I said.

“Keep an eye on him for me, will you? He’s telling me it’s over, that there’s no hope of a relationship. I keep hoping he’ll miss me.” Before I could respond, he said, “Any idea of what his address there is? I’d like to surprise him with a fruit basket.”

“No!” I almost shouted. Thane turned to stare at me. He headed back towards me. I dropped my voice.

“No more bloody baskets, Dad. You’ve driven the poor guy crazy. Back off and give him a chance to miss you.”

“You think he might?”

“Anything’s possible. Gotta go.”

I ended the call just as Thane reached me with an outstretched hand.

“Look.” His voice carried a tone of wonderment. I stared into his upturned palm and saw a handful of olives. He’d somehow managed to collect a mixture of the fruit in varying stages and, surprisingly, shades. There were perfectly formed, smooth-skin spheres, some with fine lines running along them. Some had nobbly patches and the colours ranged from pale green to a deep olive shade. He had a true artist’s eye.

“I’m going to paint them,” he said. “I’m in the middle of working on some island pieces. These will be wonderful inspiration.”

“What were you working on yesterday?” I asked.

“Yesterday?” he echoed.

“You had beige paint on your hands. I noticed it.”

He gave me a disarming smile. “I was painting New York as I was leaving.

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