CHAPTER 1

I found him.

I wasn't looking for him, but there he was, real as life. Itwas only a glimpse at first, but he stopped and turned, almostas if he felt my gaze upon him. The instant we locked eyes, hegrinned. And it was like the old man had never left.

But he did leave. He had disappeared several years ago withoutso much as a good-bye, and like the old man himself, thecircumstances of his departure had been odd. Leaving our tiny,coastal community without being seen by a single person wasstrange enough—small-town folks don't miss much—but tuckinga cryptic message inside a beaten-up suitcase and abandoningit in the middle of a parking lot ... well, the whole thing hadbeen perplexing. It had also been the number-one topic of conversationin our town for weeks.

In time, however, the residents of Orange Beach came tobelieve he was gone for good, and a mourning of sorts had settledover the whole community. It wasn't a tragedy. We had sufferedthrough hurricanes and oil spills—we knew what tragedy feltlike. It was more of an emptiness we couldn't quite define.

So in lieu of anything specific, we talked endlessly about whatwe did remember. We discussed his clothes and wondered why wehad never seen him in anything other than jeans and a T-shirt.Besides the leather sandals on his feet, that particular ensembletypified his entire wardrobe. We had seen him at a wedding on thelagoon, in restaurants, and even in church a time or two, but neverdressed in anything other than jeans and a T-shirt.

No one had ever known where he lived or even where heslept at night. To our knowledge, he had never so much as spenta rainy evening at anyone's house. He didn't own property inour county—we all have friends working at the courthouse, andthey checked.

Neither, we all agreed, could he possibly have had a tent inthe small brown suitcase that never left his side. And about thatsuitcase ... until the day of his disappearance, none of us hadever seen him without it. It was an early weekday morning whenTed Romano, the owner of Pack & Mail, found the old, scuffed-uppiece of luggage sitting by itself in the middle of an almostempty parking lot.

Yes, we all had stories about watching the old man strugglethrough a door with it or carry it with him as he filled a platefrom a local salad bar, but as far as we could tell, no one but theman himself had so much as touched that suitcase until the dayhe vanished.

There was also the age thing. We were almost obsessed withthe subject of how old the man might be. We had concededlong before that it was impossible to know his age for sure. Hisappearance yielded no real clues. "Old" was as close as we couldguess. His hair was longish—not long enough for a ponytail,but longish—and as white as polished ivory. Usually only finger-combed,his hair was casually worn and almost beautiful. But hishair was only the first thing about him anyone noticed.

It was the old man's eyes that stopped people in their tracks.Sparkling as the laughter of a child and imbued with a color Ican describe only as tranquil blue, his eyes verged on luminescence.Set against the brown skin of his face and framed by thatsnowy hair, his eyes would hold a person as long as he cared totalk. And he could really talk ...

None of us had ever had the opportunity to listen—trulylisten—to anyone like him before. It wasn't that he talked a lot.He didn't. It's just that when he did talk, the words that tumbledfrom his mouth were so precise and significant that folks drankin every one.

You may think I am exaggerating, but there are more than afew of us in Orange Beach who credit this old man with changingour lives. In fact, I might be at the top of that long list. Butthen, my relationship with Jones has spanned more years thananyone else's.

He found me at a particularly tough time in my life when I wastwenty-three years old. For several months he was a friend when Ididn't have one and told me the truth at a time when I didn't wantto hear it. Then he disappeared for close to thirty years.

The next time I saw him was a few years ago when he arrived,as he had the first time, seemingly out of the blue. One awfullycurious thing I became aware of during that time was that theold man had apparently been in and out of our town for years.Maybe for decades.

Remember how I said we didn't know how old he was? Well, Italked to some people who were pretty old themselves, and theysaid the old man had been around when they were kids. Andthey swore up and down that he had been an old man then. Ofcourse, that doesn't make sense to me even now. When I firstheard it—and I heard it a lot—I ignored all the talk. Still, I hadto admit that he didn't look much different from the first time Ihad seen him.

His age wasn't the only strange thing about the old man. Hisskin color was another. He was deeply tanned. Or dark brown.No one could agree on whether his pigmentation had been determinedby genetics or a lifelong aversion to sunscreen. As for me,I simply didn't care.

It was curious, however, that African Americans seemed totake it for granted that the old man was black, and Caucasiansassumed he was white. I saw it happen so often that I thought itwas funny. I even asked him about it once. His answer didn't havemuch to do with the question, though, and I was not surprised.

I loved the old man, and I was not the only one. And Ialready told you how much of a difference he made for many ofus. But I would be remiss if I did not submit this for considerationas well: there were people in our town who thought the oldman was crazy.

It was all very strange ... how he was mocked and ridiculedby some and the way he just grinned and took it. Some folks—rightto his face—even called him names.

Me? I just called him Jones. Not Mr. Jones. Just Jones.

CHAPTER 2

Gulf Shores, AlabamaNovember, thirty-two years ago

It was a cold night on the Gulf Coast, and I was wearingeverything I owned, including an insulated denim jacket Ihad found in someone's trash. It was almost midnight, and I wascoming from a marathon session of cleaning fish for Jeannie'sSeafood at the intersection of Highway 59 and the beach road. Iwas headed back to the Gulf State Park Pier, exhausted and cold,eager to climb under its shelter and sleep.

As was my habit, I got off the main road and walked behindthe homes and businesses on the beach. I did this in order toavoid attention from anyone who might wonder what a kid wasdoing walking the streets of a small beach town alone at night. Iwas trudging through the concrete pilings under the Pink PonyPub when Jones joined me.

It was not a surprise, really. I was becoming accustomed to theuncommon way he would commonly appear. This night he simplymatched my stride and walked with me. As usual, the old man wasin jeans and a T-shirt. "How do you keep from freezing?" I asked.

"I think warm thoughts," Jones replied, before noting,"Woowee! You smell like fish."

Continuing to trudge through the sand with my head downand my hands in my pockets, I said, "Yeah, well, spend a day upto your elbows in twenty-six hundred pounds of 'em, and we'llsee what you smell like."

Jones was quiet for a while. I suspected he had sensed mymood and was being careful. My current station in life had takenan emotional...