Page 143 of Rhodes

Sunday morning, Coop has his duffel packed before I finish coffee.

His new job starts tomorrow. Some marine operations position with a Charleston outfit that apparently liked his Spain work enough to offer him the job before he finished the program.

He comes into the kitchen dressed in jeans and a polo, keys already in his hand.

"Come visit me in Charleston."

"I will."

"You always say that."

"I'll come visit. Promise"

The rideshare pulls up in front of the house, and he's gone. I stand in the doorway until the car turns at the corner.

In Charleston on Monday, he starts a new job and a new life.

He asked me to come visit, and I told him I would. Maybe I will.

For now, I close the door on the quiet house and leave Tallulah's secret where she asked me to leave it.

THIRTY-TWO

Tilly

Curing: Lime mortar and lime plaster harden by taking carbon out of the air, and they go on doing it for months and then for years. There is no method for hurrying it. Every attempt ever made has produced a weaker wall.

The Boot is packed with people who are pretending finals are over because nobody wants to admit there is still one more day before break.

I tried to veto coming here when Jo dragged me along. Since she and Ford got serious, she’s somehow inherited all of his New Orleans friends while he lives and works in Biloxi. She also reminded me it’s a public bar, nobody gets to claim it, and, more importantly, Rhodes hasn’t been around in months.

That was enough to win the argument.

Jo wedges herself sideways between two guys at the bar and comes back balancing three beers and a sparkling water against her chest.

“You owe me ten dollars,” she says, setting a beer in front of Deuce, another in front of Nash, and my sparkling water with lime in front of me. “And you owe me twelve because apparently you drink something brewed by monks.”

Deuce looks at the label. “This is domestic.”

“It cost sixteen dollars. I don't care what it is, Venmo me.”

I pick up my cup and squeeze the lime latched onto the edge into it. “You're nicer than I am. I would have gotten the same as everyone else.”

“I'm a regular patron saint.”

Jo drops into the booth beside me and immediately starts digging through her purse. Her hair is pulled up in a messy knot that has been falling apart since dinner, and there is still a smear of blue ink down the side of her hand from the exam she took this morning.

“What are you excavating for?” I ask.

“My phone.”

“You had it five minutes ago.”

“I had a lot of things five minutes ago. I also had optimism.”

Deuce reaches over and plucks it out from under her napkin.

“You’re welcome.”