Page 62 of Summers at the Saint
“That’s me,” the disembodied voice said. “Who are you?”
“Hi. Sorry to bother you. My name is Whelan, and I’m looking for the Michael Sullivan who spent time at the Saint resort in the summer of 2002.”
The door opened and a man peered out at him. He was very tanned, and bare-chested, with a mane of swept-back dark brown hair, wearing loose-fitting white linen pants. A fine gold chain hung around his neck.
“I was there that summer, but I was, like, nine. What’s this about?”
“It’s kind of a long story, and it’s hot as shit out here,” Whelan said, feeling the perspiration dripping down his back. “Would it be possible for me to come inside and talk?”
“Are you some kind of cop or something?”
“Not anymore. I can assure you, I’m legit.”
Sullivan held out his hand. “Okay. Give me your driver’s license.”
Whelan handed it over. Sullivan closed the door. A moment later, he opened the door again, snapped a photo of the visitor with his phone, and then handed Whelan’s license back. Again he closed the front door. A minute passed. Whelan heard a door opening on the side of the house. He watched while Michael Sullivan sprinted, barefoot, across his sculpted green lawn, paused in back of Whelan’s Tahoe, and snapped a photo of his license tag.
A moment later, Sullivan opened the door again. “Okay, cool. Come on in.”
“Smart,” Whelan commented, as he returned the license to his billfold. “Good for you, being so security conscious when a stranger shows up at your door.”
The interior of Michael Sullivan’s house seemed to consist of one large, airy room. The ceilings were vaulted, the back of the house consisted of a series of French doors, and everywhere there was a living jungle of vivid green plants. “Nice house, by the way.”
“You can sit there,” Sullivan said, pointing toward a low-slung kidney-shaped loveseat. “When you’ve been on as many gruesome Grindr dates as I have, you start to be careful. I mean, you could, theoretically, still kill me and eat my kidneys with some fava beans and a nice chianti, but if you do, my best friend Jill has those photos of your driver’s license and your car tag, so at least there’s that.”
The dog sat on the terrazzo floor directly in front of Whelan, who wondered if he’d encountered the only mean golden retriever in existence.
Sullivan sat down on a sofa that matched the loveseat, and tucked his legs beneath himself. He was wearing a shirt now. The dog jumped up beside him and put her head in his lap. “So. Spill the beans. Why do you want to know about my traumatic summer at the Saint, way back then?”
“What was traumatic about it?”
Sullivan waggled a finger at him. “Nuh-uh. I asked first.”
“Fair enough. That summer, my half brother and my mom and her husband rented a cottage at the Saint. And… that was the last summer of his life. I want to know why.”
“Oh. My. God!” Sullivan clutched his chest with both hands. “Are you telling me your brother was Hudson? Oh my God!”
“Half brother,” Whelan said.
“But you’re so much older. I mean, you’re, what? In your fifties?”
“Almost. My mother had me in her mid-twenties. Her first marriage.”
“You don’t look anything like Hudson. He was blond and spindly and you’re not that.”
“I’m told I look like my father’s side of the family.”
“Mmm-hmm.” Michael stared intently at his visitor. “So. Your mom. Wasn’t her name Kasey? And, Lord, what was Hudson’s dad’s name? Even at nine, I knew he was a real tight-ass.”
“Brad. His name was Brad Moorehead.”
Sullivan snapped his fingers. “Right. I remember now.”
“What else do you remember about that time? Especially the week Hudson drowned.”
The younger man squeezed his eyes shut as he tried to summon the past. “Well… I hate to speak ill of the dead, but Hudson was such an annoying little shit.” He opened his eyes and gave Whelan a rueful shrug. “Sorry, but that’s the truth. There were only a few kids around our age that summer, so we basically hung out together because there wasn’t anyone else.”
“No kids whose names you remember?” Whelan asked.
