These are the first two chapters from Book One. It should be noted that Book One and Book Two follow this same structure of alternating back and forth between timelines, chapter by chapter. Book Three follows a single timeline through to the end of the story.

Chapter 1: Menorca. Winter, 2009

I had never before seen the island from the air. Approaching from the sea, as I had the last time, it rose up suddenly. From the cockpit of a sailboat, one might scan a blank horizon, then take a quick glance down at the compass or up at the sails, and in the space of a few seconds, an island popped up out of nowhere.

But from a window seat in a small jet, the island appeared slowly, like a great rock floating on the green water, dun colored with a fringe of palms.

Her email from a few days ago surprised me. She disappeared 14 years ago and we hadn’t seen each other or talked since except for a few moments on a London street.

”John, I’m on Menorca. Come see me. Right away. — Frannie.“ 

She had sometimes talked about the Balearics. We had even discussed going there one day, but we never went. I wondered what she was doing there now.

An address in Mahon. That was it. A command, not a request. That was like her.

When the flight attendant opened the aircraft door, I was struck by the scent of the warm air wafting in. Salt, of course, but also a gentle tang, not really sour or sweet, a bit acrid, iodine; the infinitely complex odor of the sea meeting the land. As I packed the book I was reading into my knapsack, I laughed a bit to myself. That scent. I knew it so well and yet it never failed to surprised me.

As I walked across the tarmac to the terminal, I felt the light. This is a desert island and the mid-morning sun felt close and warm and bright. But there was more than bright sun; the light had a blue-green feeling that meant there was open ocean nearby. This too was familiar. I laughed again.

And here I was, going to see Frannie again. Like the smell of the sea and the light near the water, Frannie was at once so familiar and now so far in the past. We first met in London over twenty years ago.

She stood waiting on the far curb. "Hey, sailor." She waved.

She looked stunning. Healthy. Beautiful. Thin but strong. Solid and grounded. Her hair was short again.

We embraced and she kissed me on each cheek. “Jesus, it’s good to see you, John. Really, really good. Thanks for coming." She put her hands gently on either side of my face, looking into my eyes. “Don’t you look fine,” she said, smiling.

“Hi, Frannie,” I said. She laughed — sort of a low chuckle that came from deep inside her. She took my hand, pulling me down the sidewalk.

An ancient Peugeot was parked under a no parking sign, a policeman standing next to it.

"Gracias, Estephan." She waved at the policeman. He opened the passenger door for me with a grave, "Buenos días, Señor."

She drove confidently, a little too fast.

"Cops are accommodating," I said.

“Friend of mine." She always had friends, everywhere.

"Lunch on the harbor," she announced. "The Miramar, it's called. You'll love it. Palm trees, fishing boats, that sort of thing. The fish is excellent."

"And wine?" I said.

"Definitely wine,” she said.

“Good,” I said. “You look wonderful. Are you healthy again?”

She glanced at me then back to the road.

“Thanks,” she said. “Pretty healthy. The cancer is gone along with even more organs apparently I never really needed in the first place. One begins to wonder how many I can lose and still keep body and soul together.”

A tattered paperback lay on the dashboard. I picked it up.

"You're reading Cervantes? In Spanish?" I said.

She shrugged.

"Where's Jack?" I asked.

"Gone,” she said.

She parked high above the harbor. "I can't drive on those tiny streets in the town. Always scared I'm going to run over somebody's children,” she said. “Anyway, you need to stretch your legs."

We walked down, down, down. The deep green water of the great harbor appeared between the white houses. The air took on even more of that ocean quality. Calls of “¡Buenas!” from balcónes. She waved.

"Gone?" I said.

"Back to England, the bastard. Said he'd had enough,” she said.

"Enough of what?" I said.

"Don't rightly know. Me, I suppose,” she said.

"Understandable,” I said.

Her laugh — full and ironic now — echoed down the cobbles. 

“Really gone? For good?" I said.

"For very good,” she said. “For the best. Fuck him."

She stopped to look at shoes in a store window. 

"What are you going to do?" I said.

"Have lunch with an old friend,” she said, “get a little drunk and then buy a pair of shoes on the way home. You pay for lunch and I'll pay for the shoes." She walked on.

I stopped short in the street.

"No. I mean about Jack...about everything,” I said.

"Fucked if I know," she called over her shoulder.

The street ended at the restaurant. The harbor lay beyond. "Here under the awning, Señora?" said the waiter, pointing to a table. 

She replied in Spanish. "No. In the sun. A bottle of the house red and some anchovies. Bread. Cheese. Olives. Will that do?" She looked at me. I nodded.

We watched the traffic in the harbor. Fishing boats creaked at their moorings. 

"We can go for a hike over there," she said, pointing across the harbor. "Around the old fort. We could go by boat. I'll see if Phillip can take us tomorrow."

"Phillip?" I said.

"French guy,” she said. “A bit over the top. But he has a boat." 

"They think they still own the place," she added. 

 I had lost her train of thought. "Who?" I said.

"The French,” she said. “They think they still own the place."

"I thought Americans were the ones that acted that way,” I said.

"Everybody acts that way,” she said.

Lunch arrived, the anchovies sizzling on an iron plate.

"God, I love these,” she said. “They're too hot to eat. Let them sit a minute."

"You don't like fish,” I said.

"I didn't once. Now I do. I'm fickle,” she said. “But, God, these are the best. Caught this morning, most likely just outside the harbor mouth. There are grottos where the anchovies hide."

She loved to know the provenance of what she was eating.

"The wine is good,” I said.

"Local stuff,” she said. “Not as good as the Riojas and Navarres you're used to. Too much of this stuff will fry your brain."

She squeezed some lemon over the anchovies and began to eat.

“You can stay with me,” she said, her mouth full. She was always a champion eater. “I mean…I have an extra room." Her voice trailed off.

“You have a house?“ I said.

“Sure. It’s nice. You’ll like it,” she said.

“How do you know?“ I said.

“Because I know what you like,” she said with a crooked smile.

“¿El Quixote? ¿En Español? Really?" I said.

She laughed again. We drank red wine in the sun and ate fish and bread and cheese. 

She bought shoes on the way home.

                                                   ***

We had breakfast on her balcón.

"I hope the coffee is drinkable," she said. It was, barely. "I just grabbed whatever was on the shelf." 

She was the only person I knew in this coffee obsessed culture that didn't touch the stuff. Tea was her thing.

I stood at the railing, looking down over the harbor.

"You look tired. Didn't sleep well?" she asked.

"I slept very well. But, yes, I'm tired,” I said.

"Exercise. That's the ticket,” she said. “You've put on some weight."

"Kind of you to notice,” I said. “You, on the other hand, look as fit as ever.”

"Walking. Even more than I used to,” she said. “Sometimes it feels like that's the only thing holding me together. Weird, no?"

"Not so weird,” I said. “You should get a dog. Make it a little less weird."

She snorted. "What do I need a dog for? I've got you to walk with me."

She was a strategic liar but not a casual one and then very rarely. Actually, she too often blurted out inconvenient truths. She was holding something in, something back from me. She had done this before. I waited.

“You are always looking for reasonable, logical explanations,” she went on. “I don’t have one at hand. I wanted you to come to me and you came.”

"I'm beginning to sound like that dog..." I said.

"No, no. Of course not,” she said angrily. “Jesus, man, we were together for six years…”

“Eight,” I said.

"Really? I thought it was six. Eight?”

“’87 till ’95,“ I said. “Depends on how you count them. You were in Chicago, married to Jake for a couple of those years.”

"OK,” she said, “we were together — on and off — for eight years..." 

"And we've been apart for almost fifteen more…” I interrupted.

"Shut up. I know. I know,” she said. “I just wanted someone comfortable, someone who wouldn't ask for a lot of explanations. And now you've got me fucking explaining things."

“Bullshit, Frannie. You dump your latest husband and then just call on me to…what?…rescue you? Again?” I said. “Has it occurred to you that I might not want to play this time?”

"Well…” she began.

"And Quixote?” I said. “I am not interested in being Sancho Panza on your mad quest."

"I was thinking more of Rocinante,” she said, smiling.

"Very funny,” I said.

"But here you are,” she said.

“Here I am,“ I said.

She sipped her tea. Morning traffic began to hum in the streets behind the house. She had found the perfect place, of course. High above the din of the town, right above the huge harbor with a view to the open sea beyond. From the balcón one could look straight down to the water below. A tiny footpath wound across the cliff face to a small floating dock at the bottom.

"Did I wrest you away from some pretty chica in Madrid?" she asked.

"No."

"Chico?"

"Fuck you."

She chuckled.

“I can’t help but recall that things ended very badly between us, back in the 90’s,” I said. “Is this really a good idea?”

She sipped her tea, looking out over the harbor.

“Things were different back then. I was different. I was ill,” she said after a long pause.

“You’re not going to use that as an excuse,” I said.

A visible shudder went through her though the morning was already warm.

“No,” she said, looking at me steadily. “I would never…” Tears were starting in her eyes. She looked away.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “That was cruel.”

“Forget it,” she said. “Anyway, London was a long time ago. We’re older now. Smarter, maybe?”

“Older, at least,” I said. “Love? Is that what you want?”

"We've been in love for over twenty years. Yes. I want that. I want love.”

“But I don’t need you anymore,” I said. “It took me years and years to not need you any more. I have a life, a good life. And now you want it to be like the old days? In Madrid? Or London? Have you forgotten what happened?” 

“No,” she said. “I remember everything…every day.”

I said nothing.

“You never married?” she said, rather out of the blue.

“No. I never felt the need,” I said.

“We used to have so much fun together,” she said.

“What about sex?” I said.

She looked at me with that old crooked smile. “That was always fun. I don’t know,” she said. “What do you think?”

“I think not,” I said.

“Fine,” she said. “Love will do for the moment.”

She stood up. “Finish your wretched coffee. We'll go for a walk and pick up some decent stuff on the way home." 

She kissed me on the head and went inside. 

I looked off over the cliffs to the sea.

What was I doing here?

Chapter 2: Excerpts from Henry’s Journal: November, 2009

Friday, November 2, 2009

Mrs. Higgins wants us all to write in a journal. Every day, she says, but it’s OK to miss a day or two if we’re too busy. She handed out new notebooks to everyone in class.

We talked about people that wrote in their journals. Someone named Boswell, I think, and Samuel Peeps (sp?) — I think I’ve heard of him. She talked about a Frenchman named Montaigne (I looked that name up).

We are supposed to just think about ourselves and write whatever we think about. I’m not sure what this means. Mrs. Higgins says no one should read our journal, so I’m going to hide mine in the rafters in me room.

Tuesday, November 10, 2009

I have missed a bunch of days writing. It’s harder to find the time than I thought and I still don’t know what to write, really.

It’s really late but I can’t sleep. The welt on my back and side is hurting a lot.

Da beat me with his belt tonight. I don’t know why. I think he was just mad. He got me good across the back. He tried to slap me but I ducked and he hit the wall. He says one of his fingers is broke. I reckon that will be my fault too. It probably ain’t broke anyway. He’s just drunk.

I wish I could get away from here but where would I go? Maybe I should ask the parson or Mrs. Higgins about da, about the beatings. But how could they not know already?

And nobody knows about me being a girl. Nobody knows. Not even Glenda. I want to tell her but she’s my only friend and she might not like me anymore if I tell her the truth. I wish I could tell somebody.

I wonder sometimes what me ma would think if she were here. I bet I could tell her. She would understand. But she’s gone. Everyone is gone and I am alone.

• Update #2 - 6 days left! Dec. 22, 2018

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