The Stranger in the Lifeboat

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“The damn sea,” he said.
That night, after dropping Dobby at the guesthouse, LeFleur parked across
the street and killed his engine. Part of him did not want to take his eyes off
of this man.
His phone buzzed. A text. Patrice.
We need coffee. Pick some up.
LeFleur bit his lip. He texted her back.
Having a drink with Dobby. Home in a bit.
He pressed send and sighed. He hated lying to Patrice. He hated the chasm
that was now between them. The latest chasm. Deep down, he’d also resented
that his wife had seemingly made peace with Lilly’s death while he was still
at war with it. She believed it was God’s will. Part of his plan. She kept a
Bible in the kitchen and read from it often. When she did, LeFleur felt as if a
door had been locked that he couldn’t get past. He had been a believer earlier
in his life, and the day Lilly was born, he did feel blessed by something larger
than all of them.
But after her death, he viewed things differently. God? Why turn to God
now? Where was God when his mother-in-law fell asleep in her beach chair?
Where was God when his daughter got swept into the sea? Why didn’t God
just make her little feet run the other way, back to safety, back to the house,
back to her mother and her father? What kind of God lets a child die that
way?
There was no comfort in invisible forces, not for LeFleur. There was only
what got put in front of you and how you dealt with it. Which is why this
notebook had so engrossed him—and at times frustrated him. A group of
shipwrecked people think they have God in the boat? Why not pin Him
down? Hold Him accountable for all the horrors He allowed in this world?
LeFleur would have.
He clicked open the glove compartment and took a long swig from the
whisky flask. Then he reached over the seat for his briefcase, found the
notebook, flipped on the courtesy lights, and returned to the story. He didn’t
notice, in the guesthouse’s second-story window, the small round lenses of