It was Myron Zeroni’s third vacation to Belize. His first visit was in the mid-nineties with the whole family—his wife and two daughters. That trip had two meanings: the first was to celebrate the opening of Myron’s private practice. He’d spent the majority of the eighties and early nineties working miserable shifts in the ER. At least now he could set his own hours. The trip was also a late gift to himself. A kind of consolation prize for turning forty. Myron was always miserable, but back then still had a full head of curly, black hair. He returned from Belize tan and looking more thirty-five than he did when he was actually thirty-five.
Myron’s second trip to Belize was a little over ten years later. Both of his daughters were off in medical school and Myron took his wife as a “we can do things together now” kind of statement. They spent more time in the resort than on the beach, making love and planning all the things they would do when they returned to Orange County. Their plans were ridiculous. At one point in their fantasy, Mrs. Zeroni was running a vineyard and Myron had left his profession to pursue his first love of appraising and selling antiques. Truthfully, the Zeronis had been unhappy for years. Belize was one of a few moments in time that they could remember smiling in tandem.
Today, Myron was in his mid-fifties, alone, and forced into early retirement thanks to the threat of a malpractice lawsuit. Despite his struggles, Myron remained decently wealthy thanks to the savvy investment choices of his financial professional. Chad, one of Myron’s few friends in the world. Myron returned to Belize every night in his bed, though as time passed his family faded away from the fantasy until it was just him on that beach alone. He thought returning might recapture some of his youth in the way it had when he was forty. But stepping back onto that beach today had the opposite effect. His thinning hair, still curly, weighed heavy on his head as the beating sun pooled fresh drops of sweat atop his brow. His pink button-up shirt hung lazily unbuttoned at the top exposing a thick layer of sweaty white chest hair. And as he looked up into the clear, crystal blue sky he knew that his skin would be leather in the morning. Myron despised himself. But all he had left in the world was this damn beach and his metal detector.
Myron lit a cigarette and scanned the beach. He did this for several hours a day, picking up the odd earrings or charm bracelets. He wasn’t expecting real buried treasure, but Myron had always found a fascination in the complex stories hidden in simple
things. A little past noon, Myron’s detector pinged, and he plunged his shovel into the sand. Whatever it was, it was buried pretty deep. By the time Myron was finished digging, his hand stuck to his forehead as he wiped the sweat away. But, with a strange enthusiasm he lifted the object from the sand. It was a cardboard box, the kind he’d used to empty out his office back in Orange County. The box had been in the sand for some time, and as he lifted, it collapsed in on itself, dumping dozens of small notepads from the bottom back into the hole. Myron bent down and studied the notepads closer. They were all labelled,
Frank. He reached down into the hole to retrieve one of the tablets.
Myron opened to a random page and squinted to read the faded ink.
3 January 2001
The Walkers are a curious family. Some are kind simpletons, while others are among Hogwarts’ most cunning students. Iola Walker is an especially concerning foe. The only one not related by blood. How could they take in someone from another family? How could they know what secrets her lineage holds? Must beware: she has the criminal’s brow.
Theo had developed a kind of “yes, ma’am” affectation with Anya over the early years of their marriage. It was born from his original name for her—simply “Miss Quinn,” as was proper. But as Miss Quinn became Anya and Anya became
his Anya, Miss Quinn became something more of a pet name that he used for her. It was his way of saying that he belonged to her, indebted in a way. When he said, “Yes, Miss Quinn,” it meant that there was no one else in the world that he loved more, and was powerless to disobey anything she asked of him. Naturally, after their marriage, “Yes, Miss Quinn” became “Yes, Mrs. Platt,” a phrase that Theo first used jokingly on that beach in Belize.
I say all of this because I want to explain just how hard it was for Theo to keep a secret from his wife. As her sworn protector and lover, he wasn’t in the business of keeping secrets from her. Theodore had always been alarmingly open to Anya, whether it was telling her every feeling he had in every moment or asking her permission to use the bathroom in his own home. So when Anya asked him in the elevator, “How about a clue?” He resisted the urge to blurt out,
“The hotel where I kept you hostage for months!”Instead Theodore simply said, “Just a couple more floors, Mrs. Platt.”
When Anya embraced him, he knew that he’d done good. The thought that returning to this place could rile up such positive memories would have certainly been odd in the immediate aftermath of Anya’s acquittal, but they had been through so much in the years following. Theodore held Anya and closed his eyes wistfully as she pressed her lips to his neck. “Is this…when did you have time to do all of this?”
“It is,” Theodore smiled, only letting go of Anya with one hand, the other remaining firmly around her waist. His smile dipped a little, not into sadness but more so into Theodore’s humble sort of grin. “It was a bit of work. I had to dig up some info on the superintendent. But I found time between your practice sessions here and there.”
Theodore released Anya now and pulled out a seat for her at the table. Once she was seated, he moved quickly to his side of the table and reached for the champagne, popping its cork and pouring a glass for Anya. As he did this, he spoke. “I’ve planned it for months, almost told you about eight different times. But I needed it to be perfect.”
Once the glasses were full, he sat back in his own chair and reached into his pocket. “And I have more,” he said. From his pocket Theodore pulled out a couple small sheets of paper. “When I was younger I kept notes on everyone. It was an old habit that I picked up when I returned to Hogwarts, after the war. I had volumes of these notebooks, all of them labeled ‘Frank,’” He laughed like this was a silly detail, but still thought it was secretly genius. “I took these notes so that no one could catch me off guard, but they were useful too when I started at the Quibbler. Anyway, I got rid of those notebooks years ago, but I saved a couple of pages.”
Theodore held the pages to the candlelight and began to read: “Miss Quinn, a graduate of Piemonte, loyalties unknown. Upon first impression she appears reckless, foul-mouthed, a danger to herself though my cautious reading is that she poses no threat to me. Admittedly gorgeous, though unsurprising given the lineage.”
Theodore looked up into her eyes with a kind of grave seriousness. “I never wrote anything in those notebooks that wasn’t necessary, but I just couldn’t stop writing about you. Five pages I wrote about you. I never thought I’d be sitting here with anyone but the truth is I was in love with you from the moment I set eyes on you.”