“I can’t imagine how disturbing it must have been to hear that news,” I said, squeezing her hand.
She pressed her palms to her cheeks. “I was grateful Frank Senior was not alive to have to endure the shock. James himself said the same thing. He was so ashamed, and he’s promised to pay back every penny. And I believe that he means it too. He’s not a bad person, just a little weak. And talking with Odom has helped me to understand him a little better, because he got into similar trouble. And he’s helped me figure out how to move on, keep loving him. Forgive him. And myself.”
I opened my mouth to protest, but she waved me off.
“Your children are always a part of you. And you will always feel some responsibility for how they turn out, no matter if they are babies or you are eighty-something.”
The oven timer dinged and I got up to remove our dinner, which had begun to perfume the houseboat with its cheesy, buttery scent and hints of the sea.
“Saved by the bell,” she said. “Enough of that. Let’s eat lobster and talk about your wedding.”
I dished out two plates of the steaming macaroni, and Miss Gloria added a heap of salad to each. “A nod to keeping our figures trim,” she said, laughing.
I took the first bite of creamy lobster and pasta, thinking a little midsection bulge would be a trade-off I could live with in order to eat this manna.
“Speaking of weddings and families, I had a lovely conversation with Nathan’s mother today,” Miss Gloria said.
My fork clattered to the plate and my mouth dropped open. “Nathan’s mother? You’re kidding! This has to be a joke.”
I had never spoken to her, and Nathan had warned me not to try to call. So with my mother’s editorial support, I’d written the warmest, most welcoming, most unthreatening note I could come up with and sent it off as soon as we set our wedding date. I’d queried him about his family dynamics, of course, because family and friends meant everything to me. And I’d hung around Eric enough to realize that who you become has a lot to do—like it or not—with your family of origin. I found it terribly curious—and a little worrisome—that Nathan seemed to have distant connections with his family, even though he’d let slip months ago that he had a mother, a father, and a grandmother.
“So you didn’t spring out of Zeus’s head like Athena,” I’d teased him. When he said nothing back in response, I’d dug a little deeper.
“I can’t imagine her son getting married and she hasn’t even sent one line of congratulations,” I’d said. “I guess I can’t quite wrap my brain around that.”
“Here’s the thing,” he said, looking sheepish and apologetic. “My mother adored wife number one. They hit it off the second they met. And she blamed me completely for the breakup. And I wouldn’t be surprised if they are still in close touch. My mother has never been the kind of woman who opens her heart easily. Once she does, she’s all in. You might notice that I inherited some of that trait.”
He waited for me to acknowledge that truth, and then continued. “After her heart was broken by the divorce, I think it was too hard for her to consider getting to know you. Too risky. Too much potential for disappointment.”
I hadn’t known what to do with this new information. I had so many questions. Why would anyone choose to take sides with an in-law over her own flesh and blood? An ousted in-law at that. What was so fabulous about Nathan’s first wife that this chilly woman had fallen for her? How hard had Nathan tried to get her to come to the wedding, to open her heart to his new relationship? How had he described me? After he’d explained the situation, I’d felt a tiny bit angry and disappointed and sad. But he seemed to have closed the door on the subject so definitely that I didn’t have the heart to bring it up again.
And now she’d called? Less than a week before the wedding?
“Yikes,” I said. “What in the world did she say?”
Miss Gloria had just forked in a big bite of lobster and cheese, so she finished chewing and said, “She welcomes you to the family. She apologized for not contacting us sooner. And she wishes you and Nathan a very happy life.”
I slumped against the back of the banquette. “I hardly know what to say. Is she coming to the wedding?”
“She sends her regrets, but looks forward to meeting you soon. You know what? I got the feeling that she’s a tad agoraphobic. I think we may need to go visit her. And then she asked if you had registered for china or silver.”
I shook my head and rolled my eyes. “She’s obviously never set foot on a houseboat.”
Miss Gloria giggled. “I explained all that to her, and I said she was getting the most amazing person as a daughter-in-law and that you were performing a miracle, loosening her son up so she might not even recognize him.”
“Good gravy, what did she say to that?”
“She laughed, that’s all. Like she understood exactly what I was saying. And then I told her that on top of all that good news, you were the most amazing cook. And I told her that the one thing you craved for a wedding gift was the Breville food processor. I said you hadn’t even told anyone about it because you felt embarrassed about the price tag.”
“You didn’t.”
“I did. And she said, ‘Done!’ She’s going to buy it through the Restaurant Store and also give you a gift certificate to Martha’s place. So two of your favorite local shops get a little piece of the action. I told her you were very big on shopping local. And then I told her we couldn’t wait to meet her because we were all dying to see the woman who had produced the magnificent Nathan.”
I covered my eyes and began to laugh helplessly. “Thank goodness we’re only moving ten feet away from you. Would you mind coming over and answering our phone? You’re the best personal assistant anyone’s ever had.”
Chapter Eleven
Another week, another chef down.
—Pete Wells, “Harassment Issues Need an Answer,” The New York Times, January 3, 2018
I was up the next morning before dawn, determined to work off the calories I had consumed over the last few days. My best bet would be to jog to my appointment at the gym and then walk home. I planned to sprint from our houseboat over the Palm Avenue bridge to take advantage of the one hill in town, then jog along Frances Street, past the cemetery, down Truman to Bayview Park, and from there to WeBeFit. The return trip would be shorter, just enough time to cool down and limp home.
Beginning to pant as I crossed the bridge, I realized I had more ambition than stamina. I slowed down earlier than I’d planned, determined to avoid the humiliation of having to call someone for a ride. The morning felt hot and humid, even before seven, and I was sweating through my T-shirt by the time I passed the cemetery. I switched over to a trudge to catch my breath and cool off a little. My mind was circling around Miss Gloria’s news about her son James. She was such a lovely, generous, warm person, and those traits shined through in everything she did and said. I pictured her as an amazing mother. So it seemed incongruous that one of her sons would have gotten into the kind of trouble that landed him in prison.
I cut across the final block of Frances Street to Truman and did a double take. I swore Nathan’s rental car was sandwiched between two scooters and a battered Kia. Not his official Key West Police Department SUV—he’d told me that was in the shop for a week for a major rebuild of his spongy brakes. I retraced my steps to be sure—and yes, in the back seat of the little silver SUV, I spotted the pink plaid seat cover that his dog Ziggy favored. And a giant fleece bone that I’d given him as a gag gift. Ziggy had taken to it instantly.
What in the world was he doing here?
For the most part, the buildings on this street were small single-family homes, probably some rentals, but mostly year-round residents who appreciated somewhat reasonable rents in exchange for the not-so-desirable proximity to busy Truman Avenue and the gentleman’s bar called the Buoys’ Club. And yes, although I’d never set foot inside myself, that establishment was exactly what it sounded like: inebr
iated men watching mostly naked girls on impossibly high heels pole dancing. Some of the men were probably hoping for more than the view. Surely Nathan wasn’t there for the so-called entertainment. My breathing quickened at the thought. I knew him too well as a decent, devoted man, soon to be my husband—he would not patronize such a place. So why was his car here? It had to be police business of some kind.
I wound through the residential streets around the Horace O’Bryant School, past the low-income housing, to WeBeFit on First Street. This gym where Leigh worked was high-tech and hosted the best personal trainers on the island, though the quarters were tight. The space would not work for the claustrophobic client or those who were certain they’d be too fat or out of shape to make a public appearance. Leigh was waiting inside the door with her iPad. I was six minutes late to a half-hour appointment.
“I’m totally serious. I need to lose five to seven pounds before Friday,” I said, grabbing a stainless-steel water bottle out of the cooler. “It’s not my fault, really. Miss Gloria insisted on the lobster mac and cheese last night, and then I had to sample the pecan pie squares because I wanted to be sure the recipe turned out well. We’re hosting a madhouse of guests for Thanksgiving.”
A couple of the other patrons who regularly worked out at the same time I did began to hoot with laughter. “Maybe you could drape something gauzy over your wedding dress,” suggested Cathy as she completed a set of impressively hard pull-ups.
“Or switch over to a burlap sack,” said Roger, another regular customer who entered triathlons and had probably never experienced an extra ounce of fat in his life. I stuck out my tongue and followed Leigh to the back of the gym.
“You know it’s too late for any of this work to show up for the wedding, but it might cut some of your anxiety, which appears to be in overdrive. And your sore muscles might remind you not to sample so many treats.” She leaned forward with a grin and whispered: “Did you bring me something?”
I grinned back and passed her the pecan bars that I’d wrapped in foil and tucked into my pull-string backpack. “Watch your molars,” I said.
We started the day’s workout, focusing on my abs, my biceps, and my shoulders.
“You’re quiet today,” Leigh said. “Is something bothering you?”
“What do you know about the Buoys’ Club, the bar on Truman?”
She cocked her head to one side and squinted a little. “I used to know some of the women who worked there, when I was doing writing workshops out at the jail. You know it’s a strip club, right?”
I stopped midcrunch. “Yes. But surely they weren’t in jail for stripping?”
“Mostly alcohol and drugs, which is what it probably takes to tolerate working in a place like that.” She looked disgusted. “Do you know that those women don’t go by their names, they go by channel-marker numbers? Makes my blood boil to think about it.”
I couldn’t help asking, “Have you been inside?”
“Only by accident. And I’ll never go back again. Why do you ask?”
“I noticed it as I was jogging by. Usually I’m on my scooter and it doesn’t register.” I didn’t have the heart to tell her about Nathan’s car. What if he really was there for his last hurrah before we got married? I didn’t believe that, but the thought was too humiliating to even bring up with a friend.
At the end of the half hour, we threaded back through the small gym to the front desk to make my next appointment. As Leigh brought their computer up to my account’s page, a text buzzed through on my phone. It was from Martha Hubbard.
CAN YOU STOP BY THIS MORNING BY ANY CHANCE? WOULDN’T ASK BUT THERE’S BEEN ANOTHER INCIDENT.
WILL DO. ABOUT AN HOUR, I texted back.
Leigh knew most everyone on our island, and those she didn’t know, she knew something about. So I asked her opinion about Martha’s mental stability.
“She’s a good friend,” Leigh said, her expression thoughtful. “And as long as I’ve known her, she’s always been a rock. She went through some wild times a number of years back, but nothing recent that I’m aware of.”
“Do you know of any kind of rotten boyfriend or boss who might be out to get her? Who might have held a grudge against her, waiting for the right time to strike back?”
Leigh handed me a card with my appointments scratched out on it. “Since coming to Key West, she’s worked as a chef at both Nine One Five and Louie’s Backyard—the upstairs part.”
I nodded, having seen her there and tasted her food several times. She’d even sent a few extra dishes over to my table that we hadn’t ordered—the mark of a chef who recognizes a valued customer.
“As far as I know, people loved her at both those restaurants. She was super-reliable and her food was good. And that is a very good combination for a chef. And I’ve never heard a word about anyone being out to get her.” She finished tapping my next appointments into the computerized schedule and gave me a hug. “I hope you have a wonderful week. Don’t get too knotted up—in anything. OK? We’ll see you at the beach.”
Ulp. That meant at my wedding. I trotted home to Houseboat Row to shower and change, every muscle in my body screaming for mercy. My heart insisted that I really wanted a glazed doughnut for breakfast, but my head steered me to a bowl of homemade granola with sliced bananas and almond milk. Feeling fortified and more than a little tired, I hopped on the scooter and headed south to the cooking store.
* * *
The door to Isle Cook Key West was locked, but I could see Martha working at the counter of the open kitchen. I rapped on the glass and she startled, glancing about like a trapped rabbit. But then she recognized me, smiled, and came over to let me in. She gave me a hug, but not before locking the door again behind us. She looked more frazzled than she had at my last visit, pale and tense, as if poised to run at any moment. And maybe she was.
“Thanks a million for coming,” she said. “I know you have a lot to do and I appreciate it. And I wouldn’t have called you if I wasn’t—” Her voice broke, and I could see her struggling not to lose her composure. “Anyway, let me show you what happened.” She led me into the back storeroom that I’d seen briefly on my other visit. “You know I make my key lime pie with Ol’ Sour.”
This was the foundation for her special recipe—lime juice and salt. “Yes. Analise told us all about it on the tour.”
“If you’re making a lot of it, you have to keep the ‘mother’ going,” she said. “It’s kind of like making sourdough bread—you need a starter, and you carry that over to the next batch and the next. So this is where I store the mixture.” She pointed to the middle of a tall rack of shelves in the center of the room. Among the other supplies—including folded dish towels, a box of wine glasses, large cans of sweetened condensed milk, and boxes of Cuban crackers—were four bottles of cloudy, brownish liquid. The mixture had been made up in recycled wine bottles, decorated with white line drawings of flowers.
Martha saw me studying the labels.
“It’s French wine from the Languedoc region. A very popular varietal, and the empty bottles are so pretty. So we wash them well and reuse for the sour mixture.”
“Got it,” I said.
“It takes about two weeks to get the solution ready, so I always have some brewing. These bottles sit back here, and every time I go by, I pick up each of them and shake them enough to stir things up.”
“OK, got it,” I said. “But sounds like something went wrong this time?”
“Yesterday, I came in to make a batch of the mini pies in mason jars for an event we’re having later tonight. The bottles seemed a little out of place, but I didn’t think anything of it. Eden’s a neatnik and sometimes comes in and straightens things up behind me. So I shrugged it off.” She wiped her forehead with the red-checked towel she had draped over one shoulder.
“I made the pies and left them sitting on the counter to cool. Bill was starving, and he loves my recipe and I saw him eyeing them. So I said he should go ahead and try one�
�I’d made a few extra. He took one bite and spit it out.” She choked a little on the next words. “He didn’t even have a napkin; he spit the stuff right into his hand.”
Not much worse, I guessed, than having a diner so dislike a dish that he actually spat it out. In front of the chef.
“Naturally, I asked him what was the matter. I told him not to worry about hurting my feelings. We can’t afford serving something crappy to our guests.” She swiped at an imaginary smudge on one of the bottles, using her checkered dish towel again.
“He said it tasted really, really salty—like something you might gargle with if you had a sore throat.”
“I was actually surprised when I heard how much salt goes into Ol’ Sour,” I said, “because the pie didn’t taste the least bit salty to me.”
She nodded. “That’s exactly the point. The salt is supposed to intensify the lime flavor, not grandstand itself. So anyway, I got a spoon to check it, and he was right. Salty as hell. Someone had tampered with my food.”
“Did you save it?” I asked. Wouldn’t she have set it aside to have someone else check it out if she was that worried?
“I was so horrified, I threw the entire batch out. And then I checked every single other ingredient I am using in the lesson tonight to make sure everything was OK.”
“And?”
“Nothing else tasted off.” She led me back out of the storage area. “I can’t imagine how you’re going to figure this out, but I really need to know who has it in for me.”
I stopped, my hands on my hips. I’d agreed to ask a few questions as I visited merchants, not to take on the case like a real detective. “Maybe it’s time to bring in the police,” I said gently.
“No,” she said, taking off her apron and slapping it onto the counter. “After you’ve talked with everyone, and if you can’t find any real facts, I promise I’ll do that.” She glanced at the clock on the wall, the minute and hour hands made out of a fork and spoon. “I have to run out to Fausto’s. I’ve used up my last stick of butter. Who could do Thanksgiving dinner without butter? But text me the minute you know anything.” She ducked into the back room, leaving me standing behind the counter, bewildered as when I came in, if not more.
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