I called Revel Bar + Restaurant, but the hostess said that Luna Hernandez no longer worked there. How long had it been? I asked.
“Oh, two months?” she said. “Maybe three.” She didn’t know how to reach Luna, and no, she could not give out any personal numbers. “I need to go now, ma’am,” the woman said. “It’s a Saturday night.”
Caroline’s theory was that Luna’s inadvertent role in Joe’s death had provoked in her an inconsolable sadness. “She’s hiding,” Caroline said. “We have to go find her. Remember the Pause?”
In my apartment I was broiling a tuna melt in the toaster oven. In Caroline’s house in Hamden, she was picking the woody needles off a rosemary stalk for the chicken she would roast that night. Both of us with phones pinched between shoulder and ear.
“If someone had wanted to find Noni,” I said.
“They’d go to the gray house,” Caroline finished.
“Okay.” I straightened up. “I’ll go back.”
* * *
And so, three months after that first trip to Miami, I returned alone to search for Luna. I took a cab straight from the airport to the address that Detective Henry had given me. A short, squat apartment building, three stories high, each floor with a small, crowded balcony and windows lit from within. On the second floor, Luna’s floor, I saw slow movement behind a gauzy curtain.
I climbed the stairs and rang the bell. I carried my suitcase in one hand; the coat I had needed in New York was tied around my waist. It was early evening, overcast, the light low and colored the dull pink that in Miami seemed to infuse everything, all the time. Again I rang the bell, and this time a woman answered.
“May I help you?” she said. The door opened directly into a small white kitchen. Behind her I glimpsed a man and a boy seated at a table laid for dinner. Tortillas, a plate of beans, one glass of milk.
Luna Hernandez? No, they had never heard of her.
“When we moved in, the place was empty,” the woman said. “Very clean. The landlord lives in Ohio. We’ve never met him. Just send the checks.” And then she held up a finger. “Oh—but there were some plants on the balcony. Some tomatoes. Beautiful. Just delicious.”
I only nodded; I couldn’t speak. I had been so sure I would find Luna here. I didn’t move from the doorway. I couldn’t even remember the name of the hotel where I was staying. This would be the first of many such moments, a hint of Luna, a near miss, a sense that she was close but never found.
The woman, sensing my distress, said, “Wait here,” and then she was gone, darting from my vision. From his seat in the kitchen, the little boy watched me with wide, gold-colored eyes. The woman returned and handed me a fat red tomato. “See?” she said. “You can eat it, just like an apple. Enjoy.” And then she closed the door.
Back on the ground floor, I stood on the grass outside Luna’s old apartment building. The tomato felt heavy in my hand, overripe. Just below the window was a large shrub awash with pink flowers that shook and twittered as small dark birds flew urgently in and out, in and out, as though some great trouble were erupting deep within the interior. I ate the tomato as the woman had suggested, holding it in my right hand, biting directly into the flesh as juice dripped down my chin. I didn’t taste a thing.
The next day I returned to the restaurant where Luna had worked. The manager, Rodrigo, told me that after the scene with Renee, Luna missed her regular shift. He hadn’t seen her since.
“There was no one to cover for her,” Rodrigo said. “Dima called in sick again. So I fired his ass. I had no bartender for three hours. Three. You know how much money I lost?”
I asked to speak to any staff who had known Luna. Rodrigo shrugged and looked at me steadily. “What’s it worth?” he said. I realized with a start that he was asking me to pay him, and so I pulled forty dollars from my wallet, then another forty, and he led me into the kitchen. There was the smell of steam and onions and a sense of manic but ordered activity. And then, person by person, I was noticed. A stillness descended, and, person by person, the staff moved away.
Only one of the chefs waved me over. He remained behind a long stainless-steel table, attending to various pots on three different stoves, and spoke to me without once making eye contact. He told me about Luna’s mother, the sister who had disappeared, and that Luna deserved a fresh start. “I know it’s not what you want to hear, but you should leave that girl alone. Maybe she went home to Nicaragua?” He shrugged. “She talked a lot about home.”
For the next week, I stayed at a hotel on South Beach not far from Joe’s old apartment. I met again with the detectives; again I went to Luna’s apartment building and wandered the surrounding streets. At sunset I watched the sky shift through a kaleidoscope of color before darkening into night. At dawn I watched as fiery reds and pinks painted the sand and the white sides of buildings and laid a golden path across the top of the sea. I walked the nearby beaches. I visited the Betsy Hotel, where Luna and Joe had stayed. With me I carried the Polaroid.
“Have you seen this woman?” I asked at every location, to every person who would meet my gaze.
But everywhere people shook their heads. No, they said. I’m sorry, but no.
* * *
After my return from Miami, Caroline began arguing in favor of a private investigator. We needed someone certain, trustworthy, systematic, and skilled.
“I think we should try someone . . . alternative,” I said. “Someone unusual.”
We were in the Hamden house, the kids at school. I had taken another day off work, the ever-tolerant Homer once again permitting me endless sick days, answering only with a sigh and his wish that I get better soon. Since moving to Hamden two and a half years ago, Caroline had overseen a kitchen remodel, refinished the wood floors, and replaced the downstairs shower stall with a full bath. The front picture window was framed with curtains that Caroline had sewn herself from a colorful print of hummingbirds and fat red dahlias. The couch was low and long, covered in turquoise velvet, bought for a song at an estate sale. The Skinner-Duffys were not rich, but Caroline knew how to spend their money well.
“Alternative?” Caroline asked.
I told my sister that I’d been visiting palm readers, clairvoyants, mediums, anyone I could find who would look into my eyes and tell me something new. Women waiting behind beaded curtains and flimsy sliding doors, jewels on their foreheads, henna tattoos, diaphanous scarves, and always the musky, dusty smell of incense. I remembered Joe and his sightings of our dead father. You’ll see him, too, we all will, Joe had told me that day in the deli. I’d been so dismissive, but Joe’s words struck me now as a clue. A promise. I wanted to believe what Joe had believed. If Joe had seen our father, then perhaps I would see Joe. The search for Luna was one messy part of this. We had to give her the ring. It was the fulfillment of Joe’s last wish, the symbol of their love. It was irrational, illogical, obsessive, unhealthy, and absolutely necessary.
“Oh, Fiona,” Caroline sighed. “This sounds crazy. I don’t like it.”
I had expected this response. Nathan was a man of science, cause and effect, hypotheses and evidence, and Caroline was, too, in her crafty, practical way. Canned peaches for winter, homemade pumpkin costumes for the twins, beetles kept by Louis in a glass terrarium and released back onto the grass after a night’s observation. She did not teach magic to her children. She did not even take them to church.