She still hadn’t responded to him, though he’d sent the email well over a month ago. She read it again now, her eyes lingering over the phrases sell Safe Harbor Village . . . new ownership . . . The world is your oyster.
When her phone rang a few moments later, she shook her head to clear the fog before answering. “Safe Harbor Village, this is Rose.”
“Hi, Rose. How are you?”
It had been a long time since she’d heard Terry’s voice on the phone. In most cases, if they needed to discuss anything pertaining to the village, they’d email, as he’d done when he sent the news about the interested buyer. Though she’d made nearly all the decisions regarding the village since he’d left with Joan in the spring of 1982 (she could probably come up with the exact date if given a moment to pull it from the recesses of her mind), Terry remained a mostly silent co-owner. If forced to be honest, Rose would have to admit it’d been helpful to have him available over the years if a situation popped up that she couldn’t work out on her own. Terry owned several villages like this one across the country and therefore was knowledgeable about all matters regarding property ownership and management.
The occasions when speaking on the phone was necessary were few and far between, but when they did talk, she was always surprised by the rasp in his voice, that he sounded like the seventy-year-old man he was today, not the young, fresh-faced kid he was when they first met.
“I’m fine, Terry. And you?”
“Oh, you know. Good as gold.” He paused, and when she didn’t respond, he continued. “Anyway, I haven’t gotten a response from you, so I just wanted to make sure you received my email.”
“I did. I was actually just reading through it now.” No need to let on that it was at least the tenth time she’d read it.
“Good, good. I’ve already sold three of my properties, so only four to go. Two in California, one on the coast in Texas, and ours in Safe Harbor. So if you’re ready—”
“Actually, Terry, I’m still making up my mind.”
“What do you mean? This is what we talked about from the very beginning. Building the properties, then selling them off . . .”
“That was your plan. It hasn’t had a thing to do with me for . . . well, almost forty years.”
Terry exhaled deeply. “Be that as it may, it’s still my plan, but seeing as we’re both named owners, we need to be on the same page about this.”
“I understand that.”
“If you’re interested in buying me out, I’d definitely be willing to listen to your terms.”
“It’s not that, it’s . . .”
When Terry spoke again, his voice was softer. “You’ve been in that place for so long, Rose. Haven’t you ever wondered what else is out there for you? I know you were so insistent I buy that piece of land—”
“It’s not like I had to work that hard to convince you,” Rose spit out.
“Go easy, Rose. I didn’t call to argue with you.”
Her breathing was coming faster now. Why are you so mad? she asked herself. He’s giving you an out. It’s what you’ve wanted, right? But something felt different these days, though whether it had to do with her or the village itself, she wasn’t sure. Either way, she wasn’t sure it was the right time to let the place go.
And yet she couldn’t deny the number of times she’d considered leaving, letting the space behind her fill in like she’d never been there at all. Would it be foolish to turn down this chance to set down her responsibilities and move on? He’d said the offer was “a pretty penny,” and while her decision was in no way fueled by money, having some extra in her bank account would help pad her new future, wherever it may be.
Terry sighed. “The amount of money they’ve offered us tells me they’re eager to buy. I can probably convince them to wait a bit. But, Rose, I’ll need to give them an answer at least by the end of the summer, if not sooner.”
She nodded her head firmly, though he couldn’t see her. “I’ll let you know my decision then.”
Seventeen
Early Wednesday evening Hazel stood on her pink stool at Rose’s counter, gently pressing the bottom of a juice glass onto balls of snickerdoodle dough lined up on a cookie sheet. As this was the second night in a row that Hazel would be spending the night at Rose’s cottage, Rose had depleted her mental stockpile of child-appropriate activities—swimming, coloring, picking weeds, making paper dolls, folding clothes—and was now moving on to other, less-tested methods of keeping her grandniece entertained.
As Rawlins had predicted, his ex-wife, Tara, began working as many shifts as possible in her new job, and Rose for one was glad for the shift in care. She knew Rawlins was too. Rose could tell he was never entirely comfortable after Tara picked up Hazel for their days together.
So really, her job change was a blessing, though her timing couldn’t have been worse. The beginning of the shrimping season was always the busiest, and with Tara working almost all dinner shifts at the restaurant and many lunches as well, Hazel would be a more frequent presence around the village. And seeing how Rose was her de facto babysitter, Hazel would also be the newest—and youngest—neighbor.
“I love baking,” Hazel pronounced as she smashed the glass onto the last ball of dough. “These smell so good.”
“You think so?” Rose slid the sheet into the oven, holding an arm out to keep Hazel from coming too close to the heat. “Wait until they finish baking. They’ll smell even better. They can be our after-dinner treat.” Rose set the timer for sixteen minutes, then led Hazel out the back door. She needed a little breathing room after standing shoulder to shoulder—more like shoulder to elbow—with Hazel for the last half hour. She loved the girl, but Rose’s personal bubble was growing smaller and smaller.
Rose pushed open the door and inhaled as she walked out into the evening air. The sun was making its slow descent over the bay, casting the water in a sparkling glow. Clouds pushed in from the south, dark purple-blue over the horizon. Rose hoped Hazel was okay sleeping during thunderstorms.
Rose sat in one of the Adirondack chairs and set her timer on the table next to her, then stretched her legs out in front. Hazel ran ahead to the grass, hopping through it like a bunny. She investigated each of Rose’s three bird feeders hanging from the scrubby oak tree in the side yard. After a few minutes she plopped down in the chair next to Rose.
“Do alligators ever come out of that water?” she asked, one finger pointing to the bay.
“I’ve never seen one here,” she said. “But other places on the island, yes.”
“You mean like in the swamp?”
“There, yes. Also in the nature preserve.” A few years ago the National Wildlife Service had designated two miles of walking trail through the island’s scrubby forest as part of its nature preserve, an honor that ensured developers couldn’t sweep in and take land for nefarious purposes. “Have you ever seen an alligator?”
Hazel shook her head. “Papa told me about them, though. About how they live in the swamps.”
“Did he?”
She nodded and swiveled in her chair so she faced Rose. “He said you used to go looking for them, and one time he had to save you.”
“That’s right.” Rose nodded slowly. Jim had been talking about her? That she was on his mind at all caused a surprising flutter in her chest. “He did.”
She and Jim were born only eleven months apart, and as kids, with their similar white-blond hair and pale eyelashes, not to mention how much time they spent together when Jim wasn’t out on their father’s boat, many people who didn’t know otherwise assumed they were twins. And they might as well have been. Jim was Rose’s best friend—her only friend for a while—and she was pretty sure she was his as well.
As soon as school was over for the day, Rose and Jim would hop on their bikes and go exploring, even though they knew almost every inch of the island. Three miles long and populated mostly by fishermen and their families in scattered rural neighborhoods, not much was a
surprise on Safe Harbor Island.
But one day there was one. It was early October, a month before Rose turned eleven. Jim had been asked to help an employee untangle a net back in the warehouse after school. He told Rose he’d be done by five and for her to wait for him before setting out on her bike, but she got impatient and left without him. When she was on her own, she usually stuck to the road, winding her way around the island, maybe grabbing a frosty bottle of Coca-Cola from the deep icebox on old Mr. Cox’s front porch.
This particular afternoon, though, she felt brave. She was tired of dodging the near-constant resentment and disappointment that peeled off her father in sheets. Tired of the expectation that she’d do nothing more than help in the office or prepare meals with her mother. Tired of no one asking her to do any “real” work. On that afternoon, she was done with it all and determined to show them . . . something.
I can do hard things, Rose thought as she pedaled faster toward the entrance to the swamp. Her heartbeat quickened as she approached the space between the trees where kids’ bikes had beaten down the tall grass and weeds covering the ground. The flattened brush only went so far, though—most kids turned back after venturing only a few yards into the swampy areas. It was a well-known fact around the island that alligators prowled the swamp, looking for small animals to drag back into the water. Parents always told their kids that to an alligator a small child was no different from a dog or a possum.
Rose hopped off her bike and walked beside it, her eyes scanning the ground for anything that might be moving around, but the only movement was her own. She kept pushing, even when fear told her to turn around and go back to the road. Before she knew it, she was back where she started, having walked her bike clear around the entire swamp. She looked around, half expecting to see someone else there—someone who would have seen her daring feat, someone who would see her pump her fists in the air—but she was alone. She pumped her fists anyway, then resumed pushing her bike toward the space between the trees.
She’d only gone a few feet farther when everything seemed to happen at once. A strange noise came from the swamp behind her—something like leaves rustling, but also like a disturbance in the water. Just as she turned, from somewhere far away she heard the plink-plink-plink of playing cards flicking against bicycle spokes—the tires spinning fast—and she knew it was Jim.
Behind her, an enormous alligator had emerged from the water and had three of its four feet on the boggy shore. She watched in awe as it pulled its back foot out of the muddy water with a slurp and stepped forward, its body moving toward her in slow but sure increments.
“Rose!” Jim’s voice pitched higher than usual. “Move!”
Terror filled her arms and legs with concrete. She tried to jump on her bike but fell. With a leg finally half-swung over the center bar of her bike, she hopped along the ground on one foot as fast as she could, too scared to look back. If the alligator was approaching with its mouth wide open, she didn’t want to know, though the continued commotion behind her told her the gator was definitely not retreating to the water.
After an eternity Jim burst through the trees. He jumped off his bike and threw it to the ground in one fluid movement. Before she knew what was happening, Jim hurled himself forward and grabbed something off the ground. When he straightened back up, he was holding a rock the size of his head. He reared his arm back and flung the rock with a strength and fury she didn’t know her brother possessed.
The rock landed with a wet thud several feet in front of the alligator. It shouldn’t have made a difference to the animal—even if Jim had landed a bull’s-eye hit, it probably would’ve felt like nothing more than a gentle bump on its thick hide—but for some reason the alligator slowed its forward motion. It paused, and as Rose again tried to set her clumsy foot on the pedal, the gator began to retreat, not taking its eyes off her but backtracking until its long reptilian body was once more under the water.
Both kids were silent on the way home, the only sound the wind in their ears and the rhythmic ticking of Jim’s playing cards threaded between his spokes. It wasn’t until they propped their bikes up against a tree in the front yard that Jim turned on her.
“What were you thinking, going into the swamp by yourself? Or at all!”
Rose was shocked to see his eyes fill with angry tears.
“I . . . I don’t know,” she stammered. “I just wanted to do something big. Something boys can do.”
“Boys don’t go into the swamp! It could have gotten you killed.”
“I didn’t die, though. You saved me.”
He scoffed. “I did not. I threw a rock. You got lucky. We got lucky.”
Tears of shame burned hot on her cheeks. “You looked like an angel.” Rose’s words were quiet. “If you hadn’t been there . . .” She shook her head to erase the image in her mind of an alligator swallowing a deer in one gulp, something she’d seen in her set of encyclopedias.
He shrugged. “You’re my sister.” The way he said it—like it was a foregone conclusion that he’d protect her, that there was no question about it—made her heart surge with a flood of love. She reached for Jim and hugged him, hard and quick. He squeezed her back, then pushed her away.
“Come on,” he said gruffly, wiping at his eyes with the back of his wrist. “Mama’s frying hushpuppies.”
On the table next to Rose, the timer dinged, startling her so badly, she jerked her arm and caught her funny bone on the edge of the armrest. She groaned and rubbed her elbow, then grabbed the timer.
“Are the cookies ready?” Out in the yard, Hazel popped up from where she’d been sitting in the grass. Rose had been so lost in her memories, she hadn’t even noticed Hazel get out of her chair.
Rose took a deep breath—warm end-of-day air tinged with salt and grass—and stood, smoothing her hands down the sides of her shorts. Memories were such funny things. They could seem so far away, lost forever in the years, and then someone said one little thing and everything flooded back. She felt unsteady, as if the alligator memory—something she hadn’t thought about in who knew how long—had unhinged something inside her. Or turned something on.
I miss Jim. The thought came unbidden. Not unwelcome, but unexpected. I miss my brother.
She knew she could pick up the phone and call him anytime. But then again, so could he. Communication went two ways, and she hadn’t heard hide nor hair from him in a very long time. Not that she expected to. It was foolish to think—to hope—he’d call and offer forgiveness, unprompted and out of the blue.
But he’d talked about her. Rose let that surprising bit of information roll around in her head, but she still wasn’t altogether sure what to do with it. He’d talked about her to both Hazel and Rawlins. Did he ever plan to talk to her or just about her?
Other than Rawlins and Hazel, Jim was Rose’s only living family, but it was remarkable how often Rose felt alone in a swamp. Like a little girl with a bike, looking around for her brother, worried he might never show up.
* * *
After rescuing the snickerdoodles mere seconds before they transitioned from toasty brown to burned, Rose decided to usher Hazel down the street to the Sunrise for a quick dinner. She gave in and let Hazel take a cookie to go, even though it’d ruin her appetite, and Hazel munched on it slowly as they walked the short distance down Port Place.
As they approached the café—smiling faces in the windows and Roberta’s form filling up the bulk of the space behind the counter—the door opened and Coach walked out.
“Good evening, ladies,” he said, his smile lengthening the corners of his eyes. He lingered on Rose a beat too long, heating her cheeks. Then he looked away, stooping to talk to Hazel.
“What’s that you’re munching on, little one? I smell cinnamon.”
As Hazel gave Coach a rundown of their baking afternoon, Rose did a mental sweep of her appearance. Her white shorts bore a stain on the front from a blob of dough that had fallen off Hazel’s spoon, and she wa
s wearing her awful plastic flip-flops, the pair she kept by the front door for the sole purpose of wearing to get The Village Vine from her mailbox on Wednesday mornings. Hazel had been trying on Rose’s shoes earlier before the baking started, and when it was time to get ready to walk to the café, she couldn’t locate a single pair of shoes except these—yellow, rubber, squeaky.
She ran her hands quickly over her hair, noting the flyaway strands all around her face. She tucked what she could behind her ears and tightened a few bobby pins at the back of her head. Coach had straightened up by then and was watching her, a loose grin on his face, but it quickly fell away. He took a step closer to her. “Everything okay, Rose?”
“Of course,” she said, hitching up her purse strap on her shoulder. “Why do you ask?”
“You just . . .” He shrugged. “I don’t know. I was watching you walk up, and you just seem a little . . . out of sorts.”
She took a quick breath, then blew it out of her nose. “You were watching us?”
“Now, don’t get all huffy on me. I was just waiting to pay my bill, and I saw the two of you heading over here. Figured if I dragged my feet a little, I’d get a chance to say hello. To you.”
“Well. Hello.”
“Hello.” He smiled, and this time he didn’t look goofy as he did it. “You look nice tonight. Relaxed.”
She reached up to tuck another stray lock of hair behind her ear but stopped when he shook his head. “What is it?”
“I like it when you’re not all put together. Makes it seem like you’re almost human.”
Hazel tugged on Rose’s hand then. “Aunt Rosie, can we eat now?”
Rose narrowed her eyes as she watched Coach for another second before breaking away. “Yes, ma’am. Let’s get you some dinner.”
Coach opened the door for them, and as Rose walked past him into the café, she heard him murmur, “Good to see you, Rosie.”
* * *
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