Four Fathoms Deep

Chapter One

Grace Anderson Power fell in love for the first time at exactly 10 a.m. on August 13, 1987. She was forty-four years old. Grace pirouetted into the lobby of the Port Lee Beacon, struck a pose, and sang out, “I’m here!” as usual. The long line of customers waiting to place a classified ad turned their heads to stare at her, as usual. Then one of them stepped out of line, looked into her eyes, and said, “Of course you are.”

Grace burst through the front doors of the newspaper with a twirl every morning. There was a separate, private entrance for staff at the side of the building, but the Beacon’s crime reporter insisted on beginning each day with a grand entrance. The ad clerks were so used to her morning performance that they no longer even bothered to wave. Sometimes a customer smiled, but usually not.

The customer was tall and blonde in a vaguely Nordic way, had on an orange t-shirt, baggy blue shorts and a blue windbreaker. Sunglasses held her hair off her tanned face. Her eyes were brown. The lobby’s fluorescent lights sparkled along her collarbones. Grace realized she wanted to run her index finger along the ridges of those collarbones. The stranger took two more steps toward Grace, abandoning her spot in line. The customers behind her quickly moved up to ensure the woman didn’t try to reclaim her position. Grace dropped her arms and opened her mouth but nothing came out. She closed her lips and opened them again, and again, no words emerged. She felt weightless and panicky, as if she were caught in an elevator plunging toward the ground. And then Grace felt a prickling between her ribs, just below the breastbone, as if she had been pierced by an arrow of light.

“I’m Laura,” said the stranger. “Would you like to go to a movie?”

Grace had not only never been in love, she did not believe in its existence. She would have told anyone who asked that romantic love was an illusion cocked up of society’s need to keep the human race going, and keep humans in line. It was propaganda. It wasn’t real.

She was vaguely aware that she preferred the touch of women to that of men, but it wasn’t an important difference. She had dated off and on since she was seventeen, but it never really stuck. She was engaged for twenty-seven months to Clarence Tills, who had been one year ahead of her in high school, but she broke it off at age twenty-six when she realized that she would rather be lonely than bored, and life with Clarence was going to be boring. On Grace’s thirty-fifth birthday, she realized she hadn’t dated any men in more than five years. She thought then that she should fix her identity, somehow declare herself, at least to herself, but it seemed more trouble than it was worth. Then, at age thirty-eight, she began to date Danny Gonzalez, a professional comedian from Miami whose parents were born in Argentina. He was the funniest person she had ever met, and one of the smartest. She told herself then that she was in love — and told him too — but it didn’t really matter much to her when they broke up after eight months. She was working on a big story. He predicted she would barely notice his absence as long as the story kept going. He was right.

Grace never made it from the front lobby to the newsroom that Thursday in August. Laura took her to a matinee of Ferris Bueller’s Day Off. Grace liked to sit in the third row of the theater, but she didn’t object when Laura led her to the seats in back. When Matthew Broderick first slid behind the wheel of a stolen Ferrari, Laura reached over and took Grace’s hand. When he hijacked Chicago’s stuffy Von Steuben Day Parade with a full-crowd rendition of Twist and Shout, Laura pulled Grace close and kissed her. It was not an exploratory, questioning kiss. It was a deep, all-in embrace that Grace felt from her lips to the tips of her toes. Grace gave notice on her apartment ten days later.

“You know Laura is my partner, right?”

Grace caught June’s eye in the rearview mirror. They were driving to Port Lee’s only Filipino restaurant for lunch in a shiny Chrysler LeBaron, a loaner from June’s new love interest: Cal King, Southwest Florida’s most successful used car dealer.

“What?” June held Grace’s eye, completely forgetting the road.

“June! Traffic!” Tami grabbed the wheel as the car drifted across a solid yellow line. June broke Grace’s gaze and focused again on the snake of traffic shuddering down Emerald Avenue.

“Does your father know?” June blurted.

“Really? I tell you that Laura is my partner and that’s the first thing you want to know? If I told my father?”

Grace leaned forward and stuck her head in the gap between June Stuart and a woman wearing a rumpled lab coat, Tamara Green. Grace had known June all her life. They grew up in the same town and went to the same schools, though June’s family was rich and respectable and Grace’s was utterly unremarkable. Grace wasn’t surprised by her friend’s initial reaction. June’s father had ruled and almost ruined his daughter’s life. She got pregnant at eighteen just to get away from him. Being disowned was a relief. Grace and June both worked at the Port Lee Beacon, Grace as a crime reporter, June as executive secretary to the Rolodex of men who cycled through the paper as editor in chief. Grace and June had picked up Tamara Green — Tami to her friends — from the staff entrance of Calusa County Hospital on the way to lunch. Tami had arrived in Port Lee seven years before. Two years later, she met Grace at an AA meeting, where they discovered they shared a whacky sense of humor, a devotion to practical jokes, and an uncomfortable tendency to stumble headlong into the tragedy of others.

Tami was smiling. June was not; the tips of her ears had turned deep red. Laura had been nagging Grace to tell her friends for a while, but Grace didn’t really see the point. They had been together only seven months. What if they broke up? How embarrassing would that be, to tell June and Tami that Laura wasn’t the one Afterall? But she couldn’t explain that to Laura, tell her she didn’t want to come out to her friends because she was afraid Laura might dump her someday, so she reluctantly agreed to let June and Tami in on the big news. Her blurt appeared spontaneous, but it wasn’t. June didn’t like messiness or the unexpected. Grace wanted to tell June about Laura somewhere that the secretary couldn’t run away and somewhere that June didn’t have to look Grace in the eyes. The car was perfect. Except that Grace had forgotten June was a famously bad driver. Telling her in the car was a gentle way of coming out to her friend, but given the traffic on Emerald Avenue, it could have gotten them all killed. Grace reached through the seats and turned up the radio, then began to bounce in the back as she sang along to a familiar tune.

“Voulez-vous couchez avec mois, ce sois.” Grace giggled. “Voulez-vous couchez avec mois.”

June snapped off the radio and shot Grace a dirty look in the rearview mirror.

“Aw, June. Patti Labelle! She’s my gal!”

Grace kept bouncing in the back seat and humming softly as June drove in silence for three more blocks.

“What exactly does that mean Grace? Partner?” June’s voice was clipped. It was the tone she used to whip new reporters into line in the newsroom.

“It means we are lovers June.” Grace was still swaying to the Patti Labelle song playing in her head. “I love Laura, and she loves me.” When June didn’t respond, Grace continued. “We smooch June. You want details?”

Grace stopped rocking and sat back against the seat, both hands behind her head. Two years ago, Grace would not have delivered this news to June. For one thing, she hadn’t met Laura yet, but even if she had, she never would have trusted this bit of her private life to the newsroom secretary. But June had loosened up a lot since she dumped her long-time love interest: a married prosecutor who made the mistake of assuming June wasn’t smart enough to spot his lies. Three months after she left her lover stranded in the parking lot of Our Lady of Perpetual Peace Catholic Church, June accepted the long-standing offer of a date from Cal (King of the Cars!) King. He took her to dinner at the Carousel, Port Lee’s fanciest restaurant. June shocked herself by sleeping with him on that first date and told Grace she was glad she had. He was a very good bed partner: creative, responsive, fun. He was also a sleaze ball. Cal King sold crappy cars to people who didn’t know better: usually brand-new residents of Calusa County, for everyone else knew that on the sales lot, Cal King cheated and lied. But he also didn’t pretend he was anything other than what he was — a used car salesman, albeit a very successful used car salesman. June said she found that refreshing.

“No details Grace. That’s enough.”

June glared in her rear-view mirror at the tiny woman in pressed jeans and a black polo shirt. Grace’s short bob barely topped the edge of the back seat. Tami was chuckling quietly.

“Are you?” June turned to Tami, who was staring at the driver with a blank look of expectation.

“Are you, you know, that way?”

Tami laughed.

“June, you have met Steve.”

“Yes, I’ve met Steve, but I also met several boys Grace dated, including Clarence, who was her fiancée for more than two years.”

“Yes, June, but this is Steve.” Tami drew out the name for emphasis. Tami’s boyfriend looked like the model used for a Greek statue of ideal manhood: broad shoulders, tapered waist, two rivulets of flesh leading to his groin. He was perfectly proportioned: long fingers, a butt as hard and round as a mooring buoy, and a chin as square as the new cement pilings on the river pier. Steve crewed a shrimp boat out of Port Lee Beach He was also smart, kind, generous, and shy, but most people never discovered that because they were so gobsmacked by his beauty. He was slavishly loyal to Tami. Grace suspected that was because Tami was one of the only women — other than his mother and his sisters — who had ever treated Steve like a fully-fledged human being.

“What kind of a person would I be if I dated Steve and didn’t savor every single ounce of him? That would be more than greedy. That would be wrong. That would be a crime against humanity.”

Grace giggled.

“You got that right sister.”

“No, June,” continued Tami. “I am not a lesbian.”

June flinched at the word, then focused on getting into the through-lane for US 41. When she cleared the light, June met Grace’s eyes in the rearview mirror.

“I just thought Laura was your roommate.”

Tami barked, “Roommate?! June, haven’t you seen how Grace looks at that woman?”

“I guess not.”

They were all quiet as June navigated the turn across traffic and pulled her Le Baron into the dusty, unpaved parking lot of Mama’s Fine Filipino Kitchen. Next door to the restaurant, an orange banner — Believe in His Love! — hung askew over a panel of dirty windows that marked the site of a defunct storefront church once run by a pastor now serving three years in prison for stealing his parishioners’ check books and life savings. Grace had covered his trial.

June slipped her feet back into the blue pumps she had shucked while driving, gripped her purse and scurried to catch up to Tami and Grace, who had both bounded ahead of her toward the door.

“Grace!” June called. Grace stopped, waiting for June to catch up. Tami kept moving toward the door. June put her hand on Grace’s arm. She was panting a little from the effort of hustling across the uneven, rock-strewn parking lot in her heels. Grace looked up at June, towering six inches above her. She had no idea what her friend was going to say.

Chapter Two

Grace was chopping onions when the doorbell rang. Laura should have answered it, but she was still out, wrapping up her Spear Point development deal with some bigwigs at a business meeting way out on Captiva Island. Grace was hungry; Mama T’s luncheon special had been a skimpy portion of noodles. She was eager to tell Laura how June had reacted to the news that the women were not roommates.

“Congratulations.” That’s what the secretary had said, which was hilarious. It wasn’t like Grace had won a prize or finished a degree. It wasn’t like the time Grace broke the Jefferson Davis High School girls’ record for the 50-yard dash when she was fifteen. Still, June’s response was pretty close to the best-case scenario that she and Laura had imagined as they role-played the conversation the night before.

“Way to go Cindy-Lou.” That’s what Laura would say. Grace didn’t know why Laura had nicknamed her Cindy-Lou, but she liked it. Laura should have been back thirty minutes ago, but Calusa County traffic was getting worse and worse. Every day brought thousands of new people to Calusa County, and too many of them decided to stay. They were pouring footings and foundations in all the special places of her childhood, and she struggled not to hate them for it. Her daddy called them, “Damn Yankees.” She used to too, but a story about a dead boy had changed how Grace thought about Yankees. It had been easier to hate the newcomers before she discovered the rot in her own hometown; it had been much easier to hate them before she fell in love with one of them. Laura should have been home. Maybe she was stuck on the causeway. Maybe they had raised the bridge to let one of those huge yachts through. Grace didn’t know when Laura would get home, but she planned to have the ratatouille simmering, or at least the onions and peppers browned, when her lover walked through the door.

The bell rang again. Two shapes were silhouetted through the pebbled glass window of the foyer. Grace steeled herself, then tested out the answer Laura had had her practice over and over again: “Come in.”

It still seemed insane to her, to leave your front door unlocked, to tell strangers to just come on in. But Laura was teaching her to live her life without fear. Unlocked doors were part of it.

Laura Bablock was a real estate agent. She had started her career welcoming strangers through the unlocked doors of open houses. And what a career it was. Laura was well on her way to being a millionaire. She had a gift. She could see what people wanted. That was the thing. People thought selling was about getting people to buy what you had. Laura knew it was seeing what people wanted, then finding it for them. She had discovered her talent back home in Toronto. That’s where she had started in real estate. One day a woman wandered into an open house she was hosting just past Riverdale. Laura knew right away that the house was all wrong for her, but the woman had a vintage cloisonné hairpin that reminded Laura of a stained-glass window in another house her firm had on contract. She convinced the woman and her boyfriend right then and there to go with her to the other house. She closed down her own open house and walked the couple six blocks to a skinny brick row-house overlooking a tiny parkette near the neighborhood library. The house was half the size of the one she had been showing, and twenty percent more expensive, but Laura could see it instantly in the woman’s eyes: she would pay full price to call the little house her home. It was the small leaded pane on a stair landing overlooking the parkette that sold it.

Laura Bablock learned three things from that sale. The first was to trust her own insight about what customers wanted, because most of them didn’t know themselves. The woman with the pin in her hair had said she wanted a one-story house with a big yard, but the house she bought had three stories and no yard. She found her clients’ true desire by minding her instincts, not their words. The second thing she learned was not to hesitate. She could have asked for the woman’s number, followed up, turned the whole thing into a three-week odyssey of appointments and endless phone calls. Instead, her gamble of closing her own open house to lead the woman across Riverdale to her colleague’s listing was the right one. Seize the day. Seize the moment. The third lesson was harder and took longer. Her colleague had cheated her out of the listing fee for that showing. He kept all of it for himself. The lesson was to be very careful with your contracts.

The conflict over the sale was so bad that she abandoned the firm. She booked a week in the old, cheap wing of South Seas Plantation on Captiva Island to think over her options, but when she got there, the room had been flooded in a plumbing disaster. The company moved her to a two-bedroom condo at a sister property, Casa Azul Resort on Isabella Island, and that’s how Bablock first came to Southwest Florida. She extended the condo rental for a week, and then two. She had a fling with the red-headed bartender at MacElroy’s Shrimp House, a woman who called herself Gypsy, but who confided to Laura in a rare moment of intimacy that she was christened Susan Jane shortly after her birth in Tennessee. Somewhere in week three, shuffling her feet in the shallows of the Gulf of Mexico to make sure she didn’t step on a sting ray buried in the sand, Laura realized she didn’t want to leave. She extended her car rental and began to research options; what she found astonished her. There was no reason to return to Toronto. She could not only make a life in this sandy, sunny part of the world, she could make money — a lot of money. She could make far more money selling property in Southwest Florida than she would ever make back home in Toronto. With America aging, the new wealth of seniors, a new highway, and a new airport, Calusa County was about to explode. Calusa County real estate was going to be a gold mine, her gold mine.

She resettled in Florida and began selling retirement and vacation properties along the coast: mostly on Isabella Island and Port Lee Beach. After a few years, she began to look for an opportunity to buy and sell her own properties, not just act for others. She had finally found the right partners just before she met Grace: a small, new development group preparing a retail mall, marina and a series of condo towers in Spear Point. She still ran her brokerage, but she devoted her sales instincts to the imaginary, future customers of the Spear Point development. She was going to walk away with a million dollars of personal profit on this one. That’s what she told Grace when she started coming home late from work, and when Grace found her worrying in the den at three a.m.

They lived in a twenty-year-old cinder-block ranch house in Silver Waters. Laura had installed slatted teak shutters over the outside windows to shield the house from the most brutal invasions of the summer sun. She had blown out most of the walls in the middle of the house to create one great room of deep leather sofas and plush pillows that led to a covered lanai. The kitchen was separated from the great room only by a huge island and bar. When Grace moved in, she brought only one suitcase and a poster of Stevie Nicks. That was their first quarrel. Laura wouldn’t allow the Stevie Nicks poster anywhere in the house: not in the great room, not in the bedroom, not even in the little alcove beside the walk-in closet.

“It isn’t personal Gracie.”

“Yeah. I see that. There won’t be anything personal of mine here at all. Nothing. If this house isn’t personal to me, what is it? This house, is it our house or not?”

“No. It’s not. I explained this. This house doesn’t belong to us, not emotionally. We’re just getting it ready for its next owners. We’re just guests, guests who are tidying up.”

“And making a lot of money.”

“Yes, I hope so.”

“But you don’t know how long you’ll be here. It could be years! Can’t it just be a home till then?”

“It won’t be years. Next season. The house is almost done. We’ll be out of here in less than twelve months.”

“But why not put our own stuff up in the meantime, at least a couple of things?”

“No.”

“Like an ashtray?”

“God no. You want people to smoke in this house?”

“You know what I mean, that ugly one my cousin’s kid made me? Looks like a squashed elephant? It could go here?” She put her hand on the hall table.

Laura winced.

“But then we’ll get attached.”

“To the elephant?”

“No.”

“To each other? We’re already attached.”

Grace put her hand on Laura’s hip.

“Yes, we are.” Laura kissed Grace lightly on the lips, then turned away from her into the living room and threw up her hands.

“But this. We aren’t attached to this. And we don’t want to be. Not to the property. No photos. No mementos. No art that you care about. This house should only look like a home. We need to be able to walk away without looking back. The next owners should not be able to feel us here. We are nomads.”

It wasn’t that Grace objected to the thought of moving. She had changed apartments every two years for more than twenty years. She rented cheap new apartments and left them as they began to be haunted by the memories of crimes she covered in her job as reporter for the Port Lee Beacon. She was already a nomad. She was an expert nomad, but she had been hoping for something more, or something different. She had been hoping that sharing a house with a woman she loved would be a kind of inoculation against the gathering of ghosts. She had dreamed of being able to create a home.

Laura had talked about building a house together someday, about creating a real home for the two of them, but that was a fantasy. Laura had the soul of a nomad. Grace knew it. That wasn’t ever going to change.

“I think you’re just jealous of Stevie, of how much I love her.” Laura smiled as Grace gave up the argument. “I mean, she was the only constant woman in my life until you took me to the movies.”

“You know, I think I am a little jealous of your affection for Stevie Nicks, but that isn’t why I don’t want her on my wall. Our wall.”

In the end, they compromised. Grace hung her Stevie Nicks poster next to a weight set and treadmill Laura had setup in the garage.

Their second quarrel was over locking the front door. Laura said Grace was locking her luck out, that the front door was a portal to the future and you had to make sure it could always swing open when fate was ready.

Grace snorted and rolled her eyes.

“Oh, Jiminy Cricket. Don’t tell me you’re going to go all California on me. Bad enough you’re Canadian, but what’s next, tarot cards?”

Finally, Grace realized it was more about Laura feeling safe in all those unlocked open houses. She had to think it was safe, or she couldn’t do it, couldn’t ask her associates to do it. And it was about respecting what Laura did for a living, that risk that her associates took every time they put out the sandwich board inviting any stranger to walk through the door. Grace knew it was stupid to leave your door unlocked. She’d been writing about crime for half her life. She knew that sometimes you really, really, really did not want fate to walk through that front door. Again, they compromised. Laura agreed to let Grace lock up the house up before they went to sleep, and while they were both out, but when either one of them was home, they had to leave it unlocked. Lately, she’d been coaching Grace on how to call out “Come in” when she didn’t even know who was standing on the other side of the door.

The doorbell rang a third time. Grace thought about walking over and looking through the peephole before she opened the unlocked door but made herself stay behind the kitchen island. Laura would be so proud of her when she told her about this later. When she served Laura her favorite weird food — ratatouille — and a glass of Chablis. How proud she would be that that Grace had called out “Come in,” not once but twice, and louder the second time, making sure she was heard.

“Come in! The door’s open!”

Chapter Three

June Stuart cracked open the door and slipped through sideways clutching a black purse and a frown. Calusa County Acting Sheriff Sam Brown stepped in behind her and pushed the door all the way open until it knocked gently against the wall.

Grace paused and stared at the unlikely guests, taking in Brown’s extra straight posture, and June’s grimace. Her friend was wearing her most expensive garment — a blue cloth coat she had bought in Tampa. The coat made no sense in Port Lee. It was built for neither heat nor rain, and Grace teased her about it on the rare occasions June wore it to the newsroom. She had teased her about it just that afternoon, offering to hock the useless garment and give the proceeds to charity. Yet here June was, in the stupid blue coat, just standing in the foyer, not moving, staring at her friend across the living room expanse.

Grace jumped into the silence before June could speak.

“Look at me, chopping onions!”

Grace waved a heavy knife toward June and the acting sheriff.

“Never would have thought anyone could get me to cook. Not just cook, but like it! Me, queen of the TV dinners, Swanson’s finest connoisseur. And not just cooking, but from scratch, and healthy!

“You know that Laura will only let me use cast iron once a week? Once a week! I spend all week planning my single dose of fried food — catfish was last week. Have to say I bungled it pretty badly though. Maybe I’ll leave catfish to Clem over at the Market. But chicken, I’m getting pretty good at fried chicken. And I can tell Laura likes it. She pretends she doesn’t like anything fried — but it’s just pretend — a little bit of leftover Canadian hoity-toitiness. She’d die before she’d admit it out loud, that she likes fried food, I mean, not that she treasures her Canadian superiority complex. But I can tell. Always licks her fingers after fried chicken. Doesn’t even know she’s doing it. Of course she likes fried food. How could you not?”

The words rushed out of her mouth without pause.

June Stuart and the tall Black man in uniform standing behind her hadn’t said a word and neither moved to close the door. A late afternoon beam of orange light fell across the red clay tiles beneath their feet.

“But I’m a little sneaky you know, I sneak some Cracker food in here and there. Tonight, tonight I’m making ratatouille. Laura’s favorite.” Grace was not looking at her visitors. “God what a mess I made of it the first few times. I didn’t even know how to cut the vegetables. When I met Laura, I only owned one knife, a bread knife. Cut everything with that blade: carrots, celery, chocolate cake, apples. Didn’t even know it was a bread knife. Laura got me these for St. Patrick’s Day.” Grace nodded at the wooden block with five handles sticking out of it. “I mean who gives gifts on St. Patrick’s Day? I didn’t for her, I mean, who does? But she likes giving gifts. They call this one a butcher’s knife. It’s a bad name. Maybe ‘cause they use it to whack through a joint in a piece of meat? A shoulder or something? But that’s mostly in the movies, isn’t it? I use it for vegetables. It’s the best. Watch this.”

Grace lined up half an onion, put the tip of the cleaver on her board and diced the onion so quickly that her blade was a blur. Then she pulled a large purple eggplant onto the board. Her patter was getting faster and faster, the words more and more out of control. She was talking so quickly that neither June nor the lawman could break through.

“Eggplant. Ugh. Even the name is ugly. The first time, I burned up the ratatouille good, there was a crust where there was supposed to be stew. The next time it was just a bunch of raw vegetables. I was so scared of burning it. I couldn’t understand what the heck people wanted to eat that slop for, a bunch of boiled vegetables. Ugh.”

“Grace.”

June stepped forward, but Grace waved the cleaver back and forth as if to ward her away.

“Anyway, Laura got me some ratatouille that time we went to Toronto. And it wasn’t bad, you know, I kind of got why someone would want to eat it. I finally got the idea of it. And gol-darn, can’t believe I’m about to say this, but healthy food can be kind of tasty, you know, sometimes, if you do it right. But don’t tell Laura I said that!

“Laura loves this, loves the way I cook ratatouille. It’s a little different. Said I was sneaky, right? Always serve it with corn bread, my dad’s corn bread recipe. They didn’t have that in Toronto. But of course, she doesn’t know the corn bread comes out of my cast iron, doesn’t know about the bacon fat in that bread, doesn’t recognize the cracklings that I dust over the stew. Have to do all that cooking before she gets home.” Grace nodded to a wheel of cornbread cooling on a rack by the stove.

“Yep, my cornbread is all about the bacon fat. But wait. Promise you won’t tell her, June. You promise.”

“Grace.” June put her purse on a small hall table and took one step toward the reporter chopping vegetable at the kitchen island.

“No!” Grace grabbed the eggplant and slipped her blade under its green cap, then cut it into thick slices as June walked slowly toward her. Sam Brown stayed at the door, watching the two women. “No! Whatever you came here to tell me, whatever you and the Major have to say to me, whatever your bad news is, it can wait. It can wait until Laura gets home.”

Grace started to chop faster. Three small cubes of eggplant fell off the cutting board on to the kitchen floor. The reporter stared down at the vegetable disappearing under her hands as if it were an oracle that would tell her what she should do.

“Grace, put down the knife.”

Grace finished rendering the eggplant, smashed and diced four cloves of garlic and then looked for something else to slice, but all the cutting was done: onions, eggplant, zucchini, red peppers and garlic lined up in little mounds around a deep red Dutch oven. Grace lay the heavy knife on the cutting board, put both hands on the counter and dropped her head between her shoulders.

“Please, just wait until Laura gets home.”

“Laura isn’t coming home Grace.”

A shudder ran through the reporter.

“She is. She’ll be home, home soon.” "No Grace." June reached out and touched her friend's shoulder lightly. "Laura isn't ever coming home."

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