Page 105 of PSYCHOlogical

“You’re a veteran?” Vincent asked.

The old man hit the stake again before turning around. “3rd Battalion, 5th Marines,” he said proudly. “Cut my teeth at the Battle of Inchon. Korea, 1950. Was seventeen at the time.”

I rolled down the window and waved. The man smiled and waved in return. Beyond him, a tiny beachfront home with white siding, light blue trim, and a porch barely big enough to stand on was positioned in the center of a grossly oversized lot. The home’s lengthy driveway was made of brick and lined with palm trees.

I got out of the truck and gazed the length of the lawn. Beyond the home, the ocean glistened the afternoon sun’s reflection. Out of place in the neighborhood that was filled with more modern offerings twice its size, the modest home was perfect in my eyes.

“Let me give you a hand,” Vincent said. “I’m a bit too young for Inchon, but I served a day or two in the beloved Corps.”

The old man shot Vincent a look of disbelief.

A few feet shy of where the old man stood, Vincent paused and rolled up his sleeve. The old man’s eyes shot to the Eagle, Globe, and Anchor tattoo on Vincent’s bicep. After a quick inspection, he extended his hand, offering Vincent the hammer.

“Veteran of war?” the old man asked.

“Half a dozen tours in Iraq, and a few more than that in Afghanistan. War’s all I’ve ever known.” Vincent hammered the stake into the ground, checked it, and peered toward the house. “Just drove down from Quantico. We’re looking to move somewhere peaceful. I’d like to put that life behind me and begin a new one.”

The old man waved his weathered hand toward the home. “I built this when I got home. 1953.”

Vincent offered his hand. “Vincent Briggs.”

“Herb Kramer,” the old man said. “Friends call me Mickey.”

Vincent gestured to me. “This is Valerie. Her friends call her Val.”

Mickey shuffled to where I stood and offered his weathered hand. “Pleasure to make your acquaintance, Val.”

He was adorable. Three inches shorter than me, and weighing all of a hundred and thirty pounds, his sun-spotted scalp was visible through his thin white crewcut.

Mickey studied me for a moment, smiling the entire time. “Remind me of Marge. She did her hair like that. Was brown, too, when it wasn’t white. She passed year before last, in June.” He looked at Vincent. “If you’re looking to move somewhere peaceful, it don’t get any more peaceful than this.”

“Mind if we have a look?” Vincent asked.

Mickey looked at me and winked. “I’d be insulted if you didn’t.”

The home was little less than 1,000 square feet, with two bedrooms and one bathroom. It was much smaller than what we hoped for and in desperate need of being updated, despite its perfect condition. The one car garage was undersized, and far too small to park Vincent’s truck in.

The bedrooms were small, neither being large enough for our king size bed.

Everything about the home, kitchen included, was just like Mickey.

Small.

We stepped through the sliding doors and onto the back deck. Beyond the tall palms and tropical shrubs that bordered the property, the Gulf of Mexico went on for as far as the eye could see.

“Where are you going, Mickey?” Vincent asked, peering toward the ocean as he spoke. “When you sell this place?”

“Frank Farmer moved over off of 13th, to the retirement village,” Mickey said, as if we knew where he spoke of. “Said he loves it there. They’ve got cards on Friday. Said they let him play poker.”

Vincent grinned. “Sounds like a good time.”

“So says Frank,” Mickey said with a smile.

“What’s it going to take to buy this place?” Vincent asked.

Mickey tapped his fingertip against the edge of the whitewashed handrail. “This one?”

Vincent nodded.