Tailwinds Past Florence Read online

  TAILWINDS PAST FLORENCE

  By Doug Walsh

  ALSO BY DOUG WALSH

  One Lousy Pirate

  Copyright (C) 2019 Doug Walsh

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  ISBN: 978-1-7327467-2-5

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2018911848

  The characters and events portrayed in this book, other than those clearly in the public domain, are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Cover design by Scarlett Rugers of TheBookDesignHouse.com

  Book design by Polgarus Studio

  Printed and bound in the United States of America

  Published by Snoke Valley Books

  P.O. Box 564

  Snoqualmie, WA, USA 98065

  Visit www.dougwalsh.com

  For Kristin, my world

  Table of Contents

  PART ONE Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  PART TWO Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  PART THREE Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Stay in Touch

  Acknowledgments

  PART ONE

  Chapter 1

  Wednesday, February 11 — Seattle, Washington, USA

  Edward Vaughan cursed the midday stillness as his wedding band tapped a jittery S.O.S. against the granite countertop.

  He stood in the same spot every morning at five, mug in hand, scanning his news feed, checking the pre-market indicators. Even at that early hour, the apartment would buzz with Kara’s presence. He’d kiss her forehead goodbye as she slept, anticipating another on her lips fifteen hours later to bookend his workday. She’d be in sweats and a tee, a cold, food-streaked plate beside her on the couch, wine glass within reach. His dinner would be waiting on the stove, the television chugging through a YouTube playlist on mute, a book unfurled on her lap.

  That was their routine.

  He’d never forget overhearing Kara on the phone, raving to a friend back east about the Space Needle views and luxury finishes when they moved in. Her excitement fueled him for months, but his tank needed a refill. Edward had hoped to surprise her tonight with a move to the junior penthouse. Now they couldn’t even afford what they had.

  Good thing the lease is up next month.

  He adjusted his suit cuff and checked the time. She’d be home soon. He needed an explanation.

  The words would come. Eventually. But he had to get moving. Fortune never favored anyone who stood around, going cross-eyed in an unlit kitchen.

  Edward knocked the counter twice, gaveling himself into action.

  He tugged the half-Windsor loose and undid the top button on his shirt. Custom or not, the damn collar had been strangling him since the drive home. He pulled off the jacket and kicked his shoes ahead down the hall. One took a bad bounce, scuffing the wall, ricocheting into Kara’s studio.

  The door was typically closed.

  With no kids on the horizon or in-laws willing to travel all that way, the second bedroom had become a land of forgotten hobbies. Dust-covered mountain bikes leaned where a dresser may have stood, a paint-splattered drop cloth took the place of a guest bed, an empty easel in lieu of a mirror.

  As he rose from picking up the shoe, an unexpected absence caught his eye. The map was gone. For months it had hung opposite the door, above a bookcase lined with old college texts and a copious collection of brushes and paint tubes. Now, in its stead, only thumbtack holes in the same not-quite-white (Kara called it Saffron Lace) that covered every wall in their Seattle apartment.

  She brought the map home last fall, a laminated Rand-McNally depicting every country on earth in shaded relief. Accompanying it was a proposal to bicycle around the world. She wanted him to take a sabbatical—a laughable notion in the world of venture capital—and spend a year or three traveling.

  Issues of Adventure Cyclist appeared in the bathroom soon after, borrowed travel guides rotated across her nightstand, and seemingly every conversation held an air of wanderlust, with Kara pining for small towns and country roads, campfire beers at sunset. Just the two of us, she’d say in a coquettish whisper. While we’re still young. Edward could only guess what spurred her restlessness and expected it to vanish as abruptly as it emerged.

  The map hadn’t gone far. A quick search found it crunched into a football of discarded fantasy, punted behind a pile of bags and boxes. By the looks of things, she’d cleaned out the closet.

  He unfurled the map, exposing a runaway squiggle of black ink. His eyes locked on the map’s northwest corner, where a star marked the departure point. Home. From there, the line dipped and danced across the northern United States and Canada before dashing south from London to Spain. Onward it went, around the Mediterranean to Greece, Turkey, and beyond. Edward followed the trail, past a who’s who of countries he knew nothing about, to China and Vietnam and a hand-drawn smiley face clear on the other edge of the poster, in Bali.

  She’d given up on it. No. She gave up on me.

  A car alarm echoed between the high-rises, drawing his attention. He carried the map to the living room window, trying to recall the last time she’d mentioned the trip. Several weeks, at least. Probably not since New Year’s.

  In no mood to deal with construction, he had parked the Audi on the avenue, lucking into a spot where he’d be able see it. The car looked fine from his seventh-floor perch, the alarm wasn’t his, but he could have done without his cardboard box reflecting in the storefront window across the street. Security had weaved the flaps shut, and only the top of a small bamboo plant jutted from a torn corner. But he knew the contents intimately. Framed photos of Kara, his MBA diploma, a couple of airport business books, and a half-empty bottle of Johnny Walker Blue kept on hand for toasting new deals.

  He wasn’t so naive as to think he’d spend his whole career with one firm. After all, he was only twenty-nine. But he never thought the end would come like this. So soon. Over something so avoidable. He sat in his car for hours that afternoon, forehead on the steering wheel, wishing for a do-over, a chance to rewind time. Most of all, he yearned for an escape from having to tell his wife.

  As the day’s events played in his mind, Kara approached on the sidewalk below. She did a double-take, as if his early arrival home was so unfathomable she refused to recognize their own car.

  Even in Seattle there’s not that many RS 5s.

  Edward watched her stare at the telltale box, saw the slump in her posture, the reach for her phone. He backed away as she looked upward, forgetting the tinted glass was all but impossible to see through from outside, especially with the lights off. Down the hall, his phone vibrated inside his jacket pocket, the silk doing little to cushion it against the hardwood floor.

  Anxiety slipped the map from his grasp, spiriting it beneath the couch where all but Oceania fell claim to t
he dust-bunnies and darkness. The smiley face stared at him, his dismissal of her dream visible in the scars of its creased face.

  She didn’t deserve that.

  Edward snatched the map from the floor as the phone ceased vibrating behind him. She’ll be home any minute. His breathing quickened, jolted by the surge of an idea, a way out.

  Rolling the map as he went, he ran to the kitchen and yanked open the refrigerator. Shifting aside milk, jelly, and a palette of condiments, he unbarricaded a bottle of champagne from the back corner, silently thanking his father for instilling in him the value of being prepared for an unplanned celebration.

  He plucked champagne flutes from a cabinet and hurried to the door where he arranged them just so atop a cedar console. He studied the scene from all angles, even stooping low to imagine the effect from Kara’s height as she entered. Above the table hung a painting of an orca leaping through a field of stars—a Wyland original. His first bonus check. Edward adjusted the gallery lighting so it twinkled against the crystal stemware.

  Am I really doing this?

  What choice did he have? Tell her they’d have to move, that he couldn’t afford to keep them in Seattle anymore, that he got himself blacklisted throughout the city’s financial community? There was no reason to put her through that when she spent months trying to sell him on the perfect alternative.

  The elevator dinged, launching his stomach into a backflip.

  His grip on the bottle and map tightened as the key slid into the lock.

  How will I pay for it?

  The deadbolt turned.

  I’ll figure it out.

  Edward shuffled out of Kara’s view as the door opened inward. He counted down from three, giddy with the excitement of his surprise gift. “Butterflies, cover your eyes!”

  Kara clutched her chest as her breathing returned to normal. It was one thing not to know why he wasn’t at work, it was another for him to be hiding behind the door. What the hell, Edward. She bent to pick up her dropped keys. “You’re home.” It came out more statement than question.

  “Long story. Why didn’t you cover your eyes?”

  She raised her hands in answer. They held a gym bag, purse, keys, and an envelope she’d somehow forgotten about in the commotion. “You didn’t give me any time,” she said. Then, noticing the map—her map—and the champagne, asked, “What’s all this?”

  “This,” he said, grinning like a schoolboy about to receive his first kiss, “is a change of plans.”

  Her mouth fell open as she processed what she was hearing. Kara spent months asking him to take time off, hoping he’d see how important the trip was to her, practically begging. She tore the map down after the holidays, after diplomatic overtures had failed. She’d been holding a bomb ever since, delaying the inevitable. Now, with her self-imposed deadline having come and gone, he wanted to do it.

  Today? You’ve got to be kidding me, she thought, clutching the envelope, dumbstruck.

  “I thought you’d be excited.” His smile drooped.

  “I … I am,” she stammered. “I think. You have to admit, it’s a lot to swallow.”

  “You still want to go, right?”

  Did she? It’d be an incredible adventure, a badge she’d wear the rest of her life. But, to Kara, cycling around the world was a means to an end. Her gaze drifted to the map, the promise held within its Sharpie itinerary. The promise of change, of resurrecting the man she married, her best friend and lover. For three years, it’d be just the two of them, reforging their bond against the anvil of the open road. And if her plan didn’t succeed, if he returned to his workaholic ways when it was over, she’d at least know she tried.

  Kara felt a warmth spread through her, sensed her lips curling on a wave of hope.

  “That the mail?” Edward nodded at the envelope, a legal-sized manila job with a string clasp. He turned around to pry loose the cork, his enthusiasm returning.

  “Yeah, it’s nothing.” She seized the opportunity to place it face down on the floor and covered it with her gym bag. She unzipped her softshell jacket and draped it over the top for good measure. The cork exploded from the bottle like a starter’s pistol, sending a stampede of questions racing through her mind. She didn’t know where to begin. His reversal was as dizzying as it was unlikely.

  “I saw the box on the passenger seat.” She decided to probe. “What’s going on?”

  “I’m done. I’m not going back.”

  “You got your sabbatical? What about the promotion?”

  “It’s not important,” he said, handing her a glass, avoiding eye contact.

  The job meant everything to him, and she could tell there was something he wasn’t telling her, but wasn’t this what she wanted? Absolutely. She brought the glass even with her chin. The bubbles erupted like fireworks, tickling her lips and nose while she thought it over.

  Can we afford it?

  Probably. Even if it was unpaid leave, they had to have enough saved up.

  I’ll need to quit my job.

  She bounced from contract to contract every year, a glorified, monogamous freelancer. She could leave anytime.

  Do I still love him?

  She looked up at Edward, pondering the secrets behind his creased brow, recalling the passion they’d shared, convincing herself it could be that way again. Yes. She loved him. Ever since college.

  Kara began to nod as she tilted the glass to her lips.

  “Not yet. We have to toast.”

  “Kara Vaughan,” he said, taking her hand as he dropped to a knee. “Will you bicycle around the world with me?” She looked past him. Embarrassed, cold feet, nervous? He didn’t know. Say yes. Say yes, dammit.

  “Are you sure it’s what you want?”

  He rose and stepped toward her, barely restraining his sigh. “I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t,” he said. “We’ll leave next month, take advantage of the low snowfall, and spend the rent deposit on new bikes.”

  She bit her lower lip and stared at the floor.

  “Wasn’t this your dream?”

  She nodded. “It was.”

  “So, let’s do it.”

  “Are you sure we can afford it?”

  “It’ll work out,” he said, knowing she relied on him to mind their finances. In truth, they spent as much as he earned. The rent, his car, the furniture. He had no idea how much he owed, only what his credit limits were. He figured there was enough for a year or two on the road if they were frugal.

  He was tired of waiting. He cupped his hand under her chin and raised it, locking eyes with hers. “Say yes.”

  Her hesitation faded into a fit of nervous laughter. “Yes,” she shouted, clinking her glass with his. “One-hundred percent, yes!”

  Edward downed his champagne in a heavy gulp and wrapped his arms around his wife, squeezing her tight, knowing he’d dodged a bullet.

  And as Kara squeezed him back, spasming with joy against his chest, a blinding flash of light flooded the apartment. Bathing him from all sides, it washed over him like a wave, immersing him in an otherworldly glow. It was fleeting, silent, and when he realized that Kara hadn’t sensed it, he began to doubt its occurrence. But what he couldn’t deny was the brilliance of the shade. He’d only seen it once before, in Kara’s paintings. Cerulean Blue, she called it. Latin for the heavens.

  Chapter 2

  Thursday, February 12 — Florence, Italy

  Alessio woke gasping for breath as an ethereal blue flash gave way to darkness. His naked skin crackled with static, shocking him as he huddled in confusion. The fading echoes of a swooshing sound rippled outward across the room, barely audible over his panting. The noise reminded him of a gas lamp catching flame, yet he felt as if he had splashed into existence, like a coin flipped into a fountain.

  He had fallen, he was sure of it, and was confident this was no dream, but a quick check of his limbs and head revealed no bruises or scrapes. Alessio shivered in the unexpected cold and groped for his quilt, only to fe
el the vacant softness of a bare, unfamiliar mattress beneath him. The bed felt of neither horsehair nor straw.

  He puzzled over this detail as his pulse beat the drums of his temples in the pitch-black surroundings. He noticed the air was scented with the tang of grapefruit and bergamot, far sweeter than the baser odors of his humble home. Dove sono?, he thought, wondering where he was.

  Spinning his feet to the cold brick floor, Alessio dropped his head into his hands, puzzled and scared. He pressed his fists against his face, causing black and yellow spots to dance before his eyes like drops of watercolor on a fresh canvas. Pensa, Alessio, pensa.

  A reddish glow caught his attention as his vision adjusted. Light in the shape of numerals. Alessio recoiled, instinctively making the sign of the cross as he withdrew.

  When the strange light refused to be blinked away, he reached for the object. He marveled as the faintest vibration hummed within, a wisp of mechanical life. But it was the mysterious red light that gripped his attention. The four digits, split by a colon, appeared to report the time. When the fourth digit flashed, he began counting. He nearly reached sixty and smiled at his own cleverness when the digit jumped again: 03:25.

  That it was the middle of the night was no surprise, but the timepiece was unlike any he’d seen. He turned it around, looking for hands and a dial, only to realize it also appeared to report the month and day.

  “Febbraio dodicesimo?” he said in disbelief, so distracted by the suggestion of it being winter that he unintentionally slipped into Italian. “Ma come?” he said, wondering how it could be February 12 when it was only August yesterday? He returned the odd clock to the table and slumped on the bed, feeling unmoored.

  But there was more. Beneath the fright and mystery lay a palpable sense of loss, of heartache. His chest hitched as if something—someone—he loved was gone and never coming back.