Chapter 1

Unlike most Floridians, Julie didn’t want to live by the sea. Her condo overlooked Lake Eola Park in Downtown Orlando, fifty miles inland and twenty miles northeast of Disney. It was an older building with only four floors, but Julie had the whole top-right corner with a clear view of the urban lake across the street, which was interesting and pretty…and small enough not to give her bad dreams.

It was just after eight in the morning and the French doors to the balcony in both her bedroom and her living room were flung wide to let in the balmy September air. Julie was in her tee shirt and shorts, lying in the sun on her chaise. She had closed her eyes and knit her hands together on her chest. Her legs were too long for the chair and her narrow, bare feet hung over the cushion.

She had towel-dried her shoulder-length hair, planning to let the sun finish the job while she read the Sunday paper, but she’d become so comfortable that she had let the bulky edition slide to the floor. She was lulled. Breathing deeply, she savored the rain-washed air that brushed her skin like a satin slip and rustled gently - swish, swish - through the ancient oaks. A Mockingbird sang one soft trill after another.

Julie was pleasantly drifting off when the unmistakable sound of smashing pottery snapped her back. Her eyes popped open.

“Shit, Sol! What did you do now?”

Quickly rising, she scooped up the newspaper, dropped it on the outdoor table and hurried inside. Her living room/library was arranged more for work than leisure, with a large cherry and glass desk sitting in front of a wall of books. Her big Bengal cat lay there, peering over the edge. He had knocked over an oversized coffee mug, which had shattered on the dark hardwood floor and dumped Julie’s cache of odd pens and pencils.

Sol was a year old when Julie adopted him directly from his overwhelmed owner. A genetic throwback, the exotic-looking spotted cat was twice the size of a typical housecat and couldn’t be let outdoors. Now, for her trouble, he was gleefully crouched on her desk like a leopard cub that had just whacked a rabbit.

“Damn it, Sol. How come I’m not the alpha cat here? How come that only works with dogs?”

Sol sat up to his full height on the desk, dwarfing the computer monitor. He cocked his head, curious at her reaction, as if she were a littermate with very odd priorities.

She was picking up the mess and scolding him when the phone rang. So much for the Sunday paper…

She decided that she wasn’t going to answer it, but out of curiosity, she checked the caller ID. To her surprise, the call was from Boston, but she didn’t recognize the number.

“Hello?”

“Julie? It’s Pete. Pete Soldano.”

“Pete! My God! It’s been years! Are you coming down to Orlando?”

“No, I’m not, Julie, but you might wanna come up here. I guess you didn’t see the paper yet?”

“My paper? The newspaper?”

“Julie, it’s about Marc Solomon. He’s dead. A drug overdose. It’s in the paper up here, I don’t know if it’s in yours.”

“That can’t be right! I just saw Marc and David, not more than a month ago!”

“I’m sorry, Julie. I’m afraid it’s true. Look, why don’t you go see if the story’s in your paper, then call me back. The funeral’s gonna be up here. If you wanna come up, you can stay with Joan and me. We can go together.”

Julie was stunned; it took her a full minute to reply. “Okay, Pete. Uh, okay. I’ll call you back.”

Shaking, she scribbled the number on a pad, and ran out on the balcony. She stood at the table, flipping frantically through the paper. If any birds were singing, she was no longer aware of it.

•

KEY WEST ARTIST DIES

The art world lost a rising star on September 18th, with the death of Marcus Solomon. The artist’s body was discovered early Saturday morning by his companion, David Harris.

Key West Chief of Police Jeffrey Sanders was cautious in responding to reporters’ questions about the possibility of a drug overdose. “It’s too early to speculate about Mr. Solomon’s death. We cannot confirm intentional or accidental death. We’ll leave that determination to the medical examiner.”

Mr. Solomon was 38 years old…

•

There was more, mostly biography.

Julie exhaled a cry, grabbed her stomach and fell into the nearest chair as if she’d just taken a punch to the gut.

We were celebrating… We danced at the Sunset Party! Yes, he had AIDS…but he was doing well…

Suicide? There’s no way…not Marc!

It had to be an accident!

Oh no, no…

After a time, she managed to compose herself. She called Pete back, and found out that the Solomons hadn’t scheduled the wake and funeral; the body hadn’t been released to them yet.

The body.

A wave of nausea gripped her, held her.

She managed to tell Pete she was definitely coming up and asked him to please call her as soon as he knew any more. And then she hung up and cried, and cried some more.

When the endless day grew dark, she slept…empty and shattered like the mug that had once held together her pens and pencils.

* * * * *