The Achilles Heel (8 page)

Three other hands shot up, including myself. “Drinking sounds like the
only
way to spend the rest of the day,” I stated as I took my glass, tossed the liquid
fire down my throat, concentrating on keeping the whiskey inside my body; I didn’t
want to puke on Grady twice.

“Are we done here, because I’d really like to go home?” I asked Robert.

“Not quite, Mrs. Whitman, one more thing,” he said, as he took a small manila envelope
out of his top desk drawer. “This is also for you,” he added, dropping a peculiar
key into my hand. “I wish I had some information about this key, but I don’t, and
I’m hoping you know what to do with it. My only written instruction from the Will
was to give it to you in private, but I guess it’s okay if Officer Grady is here.
It’s clearly a key to a small lock; my guess would be a pad lock or a lock box,” he
said.

“I have no idea what this goes to, but what else is new,” I stated, putting the key
back into the envelope and put it in my pocket. “I’m done here; no more surprise Will
readings or surprise street brawls, I’m going home to continue drinking,” I said rather
matter-of-factly. “Do I need to call Jamie’s wife, Elizabeth, or has that already
been handled?”

“Don’t worry about that detail; I think you’re done for the day. Although, with the
way it’s going for you…” he trailed off. “I’m sorry, that was rude. I didn’t mean
to be insensitive, Mrs. Whitman,” he said, looking ashamed.

“Hell no, Grady, you couldn’t be more right!” I yelled, grabbing my purse off the
sofa.

I slid into Jamie’s car since he got a ride from the cops and drove home; it was the
first time in weeks my house was a welcoming sight. I shut the garage and locked all
the doors, went into my closet, put on some sweats, and then went back out into the
kitchen to make another drink.

I’ve always been partial to vodka and when my good friend Claire Kingsley told me
I should drink it with Crystal Light (no calories and all) I was smitten with the
first sip. It’s not fancy and can be somewhat redneck to drink in certain upscale
situations, but it’s refreshing, it reminds me of good times with my girlfriends,
and I never claimed to be fancy.

KESSLER

B
y the time my jet landed in St. Croix, I had a firm buzz and couldn’t stop smiling.
The driver was waiting for me, courtesy of Lloyd, my concierge, and the thirty minute
trip across the island to Cotton Valley Estates gave me time to knock off for a quick
nap.

The more exclusive homes in St. Croix have proper names according to their location.
Since I live in Cotton Valley, all the homes around me have the word Cotton in them;
mine is called Cotton Falls, because there is a water-fall on the back balcony that
runs into the ocean. However, the realtor neglected to tell me what a pain in the
ass it is to keep it functioning properly; a small over-site on her part, I’m sure.
When I first viewed the property, I was bowled over by the immediate connection between
the land and the ocean. There is no backyard, the exact opposite from my house in
Nashville, but the patio is an extension of the home and almost runs right into the
water. Even though the salt from the ocean clogs up the waterfall on a monthly basis,
it’s what sold me on the property and today it was working, so nothing was going to
spoil my mood.

The combination of jerked chicken and Pine Sol greeted me as I walked in through the
front door. This was another courtesy of Lloyd who obviously got in touch with Rosie,
my housekeeper, and let her know I was coming. Rosie is a class act. She’s lived on
the island her entire life and makes a respectable living cleaning homes and cooking
for families. She took me under her wing right away and gave me the low down on where
to shop for groceries and how to blend in with the locals without looking like a douche
bag. She cleans my house once a week when I’m in town, and twice a week she’ll cook
me some of her fine, local cuisine. You could say she’s my island Mama D, but I’d
never tell either one of them about the other. They might have a fit if one of them
thought someone else was feeding me better.

I laid my carry-on bag by the back door, grabbed the bag of Community coffee and shoved
a beer from the fridge into my favorite purple K & B Pharmacy koozy. I like to surround
myself with trinkets from my past; they help to remind me where I came from and where
I’ll eventually end up. I made a promise to myself that if I ever got rich or famous,
I’d never forget my dirty south Louisiana roots and the people from my parish that
helped shape me into a man.

Heading down the rock path, bag slung over my shoulder, beer in hand, towards the
dock, my newest toy awaited me. Last year after my third Grammy win, I bought myself
a fifty foot Sea Ray and named her Sue. My parents played Johnny Cash records throughout
my childhood, even when technology surpassed the record player. Anytime his voice
comes over the radio, I’m suddenly seven years old again; dancing in the living room
with my parents, green shag carpet between my toes. Mr. Cash was the beginning of
country music for me, and the reason I chose this career. I figured I owed him something
and naming my boat after one of his biggest hits was the best I came up with.

Sue idled in her dock slip as I stood back to admire her beauty. The shine off the
hull stung my eyes and immediately called for aviators; the glare from the sun was
a long-awaited and welcomed pain. After a long day on tour, I would lay in bed (if
you can actually call it a bed) and stare up at the darkness, thinking of my girl
Sue. Since I had no real connection to an actual woman, my thoughts usually lead me
back to her. Lloyd already had the boat gassed up, scuba ready and the fridge stocked
enough to last me at least a week. As I pulled out of the dock my engines revved,
due east.

My dive gear was already assembled and just back from the scuba shop. I once had a
drowning scare in the Cayman Islands while diving with my ex-wife. I lost all my oxygen
about thirty feet under the water. Panicked and suffocating, I grabbed the first person
I saw, ripping the respirator right out of her mouth. Luckily, it happened to be an
instructor, and she very calmly took me to the surface while I breathed out of her
second respirator installed on all dive vests. If narrowly escaping drowning doesn’t
help you appreciate the next sunrise, nothing will. After that day, I never dive without
having my equipment first checked at a certified scuba shop.

My plan was to dive the reef off Buck Island and then head out into open water. It’s
been months since I actually had an entire day free from circus life, and I couldn’t
wait to get back into the water to watch the other half live. Today was about enjoying
the moment and I planned on doing just that.

I was finally relaxed-in a wild and reckless sort of way.

ANNIE

O
ne at a time, my eyes slowly opened, and I was terrified to move. I ran through my
“morning after” mental check list: shitty taste in my mouth‌—‌check, pounding headache‌—‌check,
puke bucket beside my bed‌—‌check; yep, a severe hang-over. Half walking, half crawling,
hunched over like a caveman to the medicine cabinet, I chugged some aspirin, cavemaned
it back to bed and pulled the covers over my head.

Later on, must have been mid-afternoon, and finally feeling like I could move without
instantly hurling, I grabbed my phone and tablet and moved myself onto the couch in
the living room. Returning calls or emails was not a priority to me; they were untouched
since the day Jack died‌—‌
Jack’s dead, Jack’s dead,
and the voice mails were really piling up. Instead of listening to all those messages,
I pulled up my recent calls list and started to scroll through. Of course, the first
thirty were from one of my very best friends, Leslie Abbot. I could just see her sending
out a mass text to rally the troops. She had probably been sitting in her car just
waiting to get the green light on “Project Save Annie.”

I met my closest group of girlfriends in college. They were already friends, and I
was the last to join the group having transferred in the winter semester. The five
of us worked at The Fieldhouse; one of the busiest college bars in Columbia. Those
three years were the most fun I’ve ever had. We worked every Friday night; Leslie
and I behind the bar and Jenna, Claire and Tori waiting tables. In college, Friday
night was girls night, Saturday night was date night and Sunday’s were designated
as fun days, but I pretty much drank myself through the weekend. I always spent the
better half of Sunday morning making phone calls (this was before I had a cell phone)
trying to find out first, where my car was parked and second, who had my keys. Sunday
evenings were spent at the softball fields, watching the guys play ball and drinking
buckets of beer. Yes, they sold beer at the ballpark! It came in a plastic bucket,
much like the ones you get when you buy Super Bubble in bulk. It was usually warm
after one cup, but we didn’t care; it was cheap and there was a cooler iced down with
more in someone’s car. When the games were over, we’d sit on the tailgates or in lawn
chairs with The Stones playing in the background. After recapping the best plays on
the field, the only decision left to make was who’s hosting the after-party.

It was comforting now to think about my college years. Carefree and brimming with
time, I never gave much thought to what my life would be like fifteen years into the
future. I’m glad, because if my twenty-year old self could see me now, I’d punch myself
in my thirty-five year old face.

Because Leslie lives in Kansas City, I get to see her more than any of the other girls.
Once a year we all take a girl’s trip somewhere to catch up on each other’s lives,
but mostly to talk. Jack used to make fun of us when we got together because we could
talk for five days straight and never once come up for air. I have found (I think
it’s the same for a lot of women) that as the years go on, your group of friends might
fluctuate, but the core stays the same. The difference between your twenties and thirties
is quality over quantity, and time weeds out the friends that don’t share the same
philosophy.

I knew I needed to call her. “Hi, love, it’s me. Call me back when you get a chance,
and don’t worry, I’m all right,” I said on her voice mail.

The house is so quiet.

The Jackson’s had made a permanent move to Jamie and Liz’s house, and the kids were
thrilled; it was the right decision, but I missed those wieners. After mulling over
the events of the last week and the way they had unnaturally unfolded made my stomach
sick; tied in a thousand knots. I’m sure Liz had a fit about Jamie’s arrest, and I
felt bad about not calling to check on her, but still didn’t make a move towards the
phone.

Why would Jamie freak out like that? Is he in financial trouble? Does he think Jack
committed suicide too? What does that key unlock?
I asked myself these questions, but hundreds began to fill my head, and I was suddenly
drowning in insecurity and doubt. I wasn’t ready to put forth any kind of intellectual
thinking yet, so I made myself a drink instead.

As the Crystal Light dissolved into my vodka, the chimes of my doorbell rang.

Now what?
I thought as my spoon banged down on the counter.

I walked to the door and saw Leslie peering back at me through the side window. At
five foot three in heels, she has always been the shortest one of the group, but certainly
the toughest, and there she was on my front porch with her arms full of groceries.
I couldn’t help but smile.

“Hi, love!” I said, taking the bags from her hands.

“Oh, Annie, you look terrible!” she exclaimed.

“Yeah, I know, but thanks for mentioning it,” I said, as we both giggled through our
tears.

Leslie has the most infectious laugh of anyone I have ever met; it can transform your
mood in an instant, and it’s physically impossible not to laugh with her once she
gets on a roll. She’s also wildly inappropriate, and honestly, I couldn’t think of
a better quality in a best friend.

When we took the groceries into the kitchen, she saw the mini bar and my tall drink
starting to sweat on the counter.

“Are you drunk?” she asked, wide eyed.

“Not yet. Why, you want a drink?” I asked, as I held up my glass and choked down the
first sip.

“I’ll pass, thanks, but I did want to bring you some food in case you didn’t feel
like getting out. I made you a pan of lasagna for dinner and monkey bread for a snack.
Now, how are you holding up? You look like you haven’t eaten this week,” she said,
sounding like a mother would.

“Well, I made it through the funeral, but started smoking again; I almost forgot how
much I loved it!” I confessed.

“Really? Damn, you were doing so good. Okay,” she said, drumming her fingernails on
the table. “Give me one; no one should smoke alone.”

Leslie and I were always smoking-or quitting smoking-on any given day.

“Come sit, and let’s talk,” I said, as we walked over and sat on the built-in bench
surrounding my kitchen table. I filled her in on everything so far; the funeral, Gail’s
accusation, Jamie’s arrest, and the inheritance I was going to receive.

“Well, that sounds like a lot for anyone to absorb. My professional advice is to not
do anything irrational, but I realize we
are
talking about you, so that’s probably out the window. I see you’re having a hard time,
which is completely normal; I just don’t want to see you go off the deep end. Please
keep the drinking in check, and don’t lose yourself in what seems to be more and more
of a mess. My advice as your friend is to take care of yourself because you have so
much to offer this world, and selfishly, my life wouldn’t be the same without you,”
she said, as she reached over the table and took hold of my hand.

“Well, you’re the doctor, so I’ll consider it all, thank you. Now, tell me about one
of your patients‌—‌a real nut-job therapy session‌—‌and don’t leave any crazy out!”
I begged her.