Summer at Hideaway Key

by Barbara Davis

  “Mail. Right. Give me a minute.”

  He disappeared down the hall, returning moments later wearing jeans and a long-sleeved T-shirt with UNIVERSITY OF FLORIDA COLLEGE OF DESIGN, CONSTRUCTION & PLANNING printed across the front. His alma mater, presumably. He tossed her a similar shirt on his way to the kitchen.

  “I figured you were freezing. I like it cold, and you’re not wearing much.”

  She was about to say she wouldn’t be staying long enough to need the shirt when the sky suddenly let loose, hurling a noisy sheet of rain against the sliding glass doors. Lily let the beach bag slide to the floor with a little huff of defeat. Unless she wanted to make a run for it—which she didn’t—she was stuck until the rain let up.

  Lily dragged the shirt on over hear head, then folded back the too-long sleeves. The thing swallowed her almost to the knees, but she was glad for the cover.

  “It’s here somewhere,” Dean called from the kitchen, where he was sorting through a stack of papers. “There’s a dozen pieces or so.”

  Lily went to stand beside him, the rough slate tiles cold on her bare feet. It was an amazing kitchen—dark, sleek granite and lots of stainless steel, a rack of shiny pots and pans suspended over the cooking island. There was a bowl of fruit on the counter, another of onions and garlic beside the stove, along with a block of good knives, and a mortar and pestle. Did he actually cook, or was it just for show? Judging from the living room’s blank walls and barren furniture, she decided it must be the former. This man didn’t do anything for show.

  “Ah, here it is. I was wrong—eleven pieces.”

  Lily took the stack from him, shuffling through the envelopes almost greedily. Most were white, the generic sort with cellophane windows. Several had been stamped across the front with red ink: PAST DUE. Electric, gas, newspaper subscription. Others were addressed to RESIDENT or OCCUPANT. She thumbed past these, disappointment mounting until she came to the postcard at the bottom of the stack—an oblique shot of the Eiffel Tower on a rain-drenched day. It was stamped Postes Française, Paris, 26 septembre 1994—less than a month before Lily-Mae died.

  There was a single line scribbled across the back, badly blotched, as if it might have gotten wet somewhere along its travels. She had to squint to make it out—We’ll always have Paris.

  A postcard from Paris. Lily considered the possibilities. An old lover, almost certainly, and one with a fondness for old movies. She hadn’t realized people still sent postcards. It made her sad to think this one had traveled all the way across the Atlantic, only to be delivered too late.

  Dean peered over her shoulder. “Something important?”

  “Something . . . interesting,” Lily corrected. “A postcard to my aunt. From Paris.” She passed him the card, waiting a moment while he looked it over. “It’s not signed.”

  “With a line like that, the sender wouldn’t need to sign it, would he? She would have known who it was from.”

  “She never got it.”

  “Obviously. It’s been sitting in that drawer since—” He broke off, scanning for a postmark. “Wow, since last September. Sorry. I meant to drop all of it off at the post office, but it fell through the cracks.” He handed it back. “Any idea who might have sent it?”

  Lily shook her head. “None. But I like thinking that she had a lover, that at the end of her life someone cared for her.”

  “You got all that from a line on a postcard?”

  Lily’s eyes widened. “That line is from Casablanca—only the most romantic movie of all time. What else could it mean?”

  Dean made a face, a blend of irony and annoyance. “I know where it’s from. As I recall, the guy doesn’t get the girl at the end of that one. How is that romantic?”

  “You’re kidding, right? The whole movie is about the sacrifices people make for love, how love transcends time, endures all things.”

  Dean snorted. “You actually believe all that hoo-ha?”

  Lily blinked at him, miffed, though she wasn’t sure why. “Are you always so . . .”

  “What?”

  “Blunt, I guess, was the word I was looking for. You just blurt out whatever you’re thinking, whether it’s appropriate or not. It’s like you have no filter.”

  He shrugged unapologetically. “It’s a valid question. Why not ask it? Besides, I’m curious. Do you?”

  “Do I what?”

  “Believe what you just said—about love transcending all things?”

  Lily set down the postcard and turned to stare out the window. Beyond the window, the beach was a warped and watery blur, the steady thrum of rain against the glass strangely melancholy. She thought of Lily-Mae, of Catherine Earnshaw, wandering through storms, bereft.

  “I don’t know,” she said at last. “For some, maybe. I’ve never seen it myself, but someone must have, or people wouldn’t make such a big deal out of it. Or maybe it’s like the unicorn—a beautiful idea that’s purely mythical.”

  Dean opened the fridge, pulled out two beers, twisted off both caps, and handed her one. “I vote for the myth. We believe it when we’re young, because we want to. And then we grow up. Some of us sooner than others.”

  Lily took a slow sip of her beer as she processed Dean’s last statement. “You grew up sooner, I take it?”

  “You might say that. My mother left the week I turned thirteen. Took off with some guy she met at the garage after she banged up our car.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  Dean waved off the sentiment as he tipped back his bottle. “I was fine, but my dad fell apart.”

  The blithe response took Lily by surprise. “It must have been hard on you both,” she said quietly, studying his face for some sign of a chink in his armor. If there was one, he hid it well.

  When he spoke again his voice was strangely flat, as if he were talking about a stranger. “He never got over it. For a while I think he actually believed she was coming back. Then, when he finally figured it out, he started dragging out the vacation slides and the wedding photos. I’d come home and there’d he’d be, sitting in the dark, smoking and crying. After a while, he stopped caring about anything. To this day I’m not sure he knows I’ve moved out.”

  Lily took another sip of beer, mostly because she didn’t know what to say. Something in his manner had changed, as if he’d flipped a switch and turned something off. It wasn’t the first time she’d sensed it, but she was beginning to understand now. He’d been abandoned as a child, physically by his mother and emotionally by his father, and he was most certainly not fine about it, no matter what he liked to pretend.

  “Is he alive?” she asked gently.

  “He lives in Delray Beach, on the other side of the state.”

  “And your mother? Is she alive, too?”

  Dean’s shoulders bunched briefly. “No idea. We never heard from her again. My father couldn’t have divorced her if he wanted to. Which he didn’t, of course.”

  “So they’re still married?”

  “Maybe. I really don’t know. She may be dead.”

  “You’re not . . . curious?”

  “Curious?” He repeated the word with something like surprise. “No, I don’t think curious is the right word for what I am.”

  “Angry, then?”

  “I’m numb,” he said simply. “I quit giving a damn a long time ago.”

  “You’re sure about that?”

  “The rain’s letting up,” he noted, with a nod toward the window.

  “Right. You don’t want to talk about it.”

  “Only because there’s nothing left to say. How about I whip us up a late lunch instead? You can tell me about Milan.”

  Lily set her beer in the sink, then crossed the room to retrieve her beach bag. “Thanks, but I really can’t. I’ve got three weeks and a cottage full of boxes, remember?”

  “
We could grab dinner later on, then? Boxes or no boxes, you have to eat.”

  Dinner? Like a date?

  Lily groped for an excuse. She didn’t have time for a date. Lily-Mae’s notebooks were waiting. And the postcard from France. Just the thought had her sifting through the possibilities. It might have been sent by someone she met on holiday, a dashing Frenchman who had instantly fallen victim to Lily-Mae’s beauty. The message was in English, but that didn’t necessarily exclude a Frenchman . . .

  “Dinner, then?”

  Lily blinked at him. “What?”

  “I asked if you wanted to grab dinner.” Dean ducked his head, looking sheepish suddenly. “One of the reasons—okay, the real reason—I asked you to come over this afternoon was to invite you to dinner.”

  “And the mail?”

  “Was just an excuse.”

  “I see.”

  “Don’t be mad. You should come, get a feel for where you are, meet some of the locals, listen to some music. Besides, I just spilled my life story, so you sort of owe me.”

  He had switched on the charm again, flashing that dangerous smile. She hated to admit it, but it was actually working. Or maybe she just didn’t feel like eating alone.

  “Are we talking casual?”

  “Very. I’ll take you to the Sundowner. It’s just a beach bar, but the food’s great, and there’s usually a pretty good band on the deck.”

  “What time?”

  “How does seven work? I need to run a set of plans over to a client for approval.”

  Lily checked her watch. Her mother ought to be home by now. “Seven’s fine. It’ll give me a chance to wash off all this sunscreen, and then make a few phone calls.”

  Dean flashed another smile. “It’s a date, then.”

  “It’s dinner,” she corrected as she slid the door open and stepped out onto the rain-soaked deck. “Not a date. Just dinner.”

  NINE

  It was Friday night, and the Sundowner was jammed. It wasn’t hard to see why. Situated right on Beach Street, the restaurant offered a sweeping view of the coastline, and out back, a wide wraparound deck sprawled out over the sand, dotted with large yellow umbrellas and a canvas-covered bandstand.

  Inside, the place was exactly what it should be, from the resin-coated tables studded with suspect bits of sunken treasure, to the net-draped walls and piped-in strains of Jimmy Buffett’s “Son of a Son of a Sailor.” An array of framed photos and newspaper clippings offered glimpses of the Sundowner’s long and storied history, including several taken after the hurricane of 1920, when it seemed the bar had nearly been swept off the beach.

  Dean paused to speak to the twentysomething brunette tidying a stack of laminated menus at the hostess stand. “We’re just going to the deck, Haley.”

  Haley looked up with an air of distraction, then grinned when she saw Dean. “Sure thing. But just so you know, Salty’s in one of his creative moods.”

  Dean groaned. “God help us all. The last time he was in one of his creative moods I ended up with a headache that lasted two days.”

  Lily felt the light pressure of Dean’s hand on the small of her back as he steered her through the crowd and out onto the deck. She squinted as they stepped out into the breezy sunshine, feeling a little jolt of pleasure. It was livelier here, the air awash in music and the mouthwatering aroma of fried seafood. They waited a moment for a high-top at the end of patio to clear, then quickly snagged it.

  Dean raised his voice to compete with the oozy strains of “Tupelo Honey” coming from the bandstand. “I thought we’d start with a table. We can join the gang at the bar later, if you’re up for it. Are you hungry?”

  “I am, as a matter of fact. What’s good?”

  “Two questions: Do you do spicy? And are you allergic to shellfish?”

  “The spicier, the better. And no, I’m not.”

  “Perfect. What are you drinking?”

  “Tanqueray and tonic, extra lime.”

  “No, no. Try again. You’re not in Manhattan now. You’re in paradise. That calls for an appropriate drink.”

  “What do you suggest? Wait, let me guess—something with an umbrella in it, served in a hollowed-out coconut?”

  Dean gave her a withering look. “Don’t be snarky. It doesn’t suit you. Okay, maybe it does, but remember, you’re on vacation. I was thinking about one of Salty’s specialties. How about a Drunken Sailor?”

  “Is that the drink that gave you the two-day headache?”

  “Come to think of it, yeah. Okay, maybe what we need is some expert advice.” He paused, waiting until he caught the bartender’s eye, then waved him over to the table. “This is Salty. He’s our local libations expert. He also owns the place.”

  Salty looked to be in his early sixties, with a disheveled mane of salt-and-pepper hair, and a goatee to match. His face was tanned to the color of leather, his ice blue eyes fanned on each side with well-worn creases. He was also missing most of the ring finger on his right hand.

  He nodded at Dean before turning his attention to Lily. “And who’s this?”

  “My neighbor, Lily St. Claire.”

  “Neighbor? Since when?”

  “Since the day before yesterday.”

  Salty extended a hand. “How do you do, Lily St. Claire?”

  Lily took the proffered hand, liking him instantly. “I’m great. So is your place.”

  Salty scanned the crowded patio, pride of ownership written all over his face. “Yeah, well, it keeps me off the streets. What’s your pleasure?”

  Dean stepped in before Lily could answer. “That’s why I called you over. We’re having a discussion about the proper drink to order at a beach bar. Lily here was about to order a gin and tonic, but I explained that she can’t come to a place like this and order something boring. I thought maybe you could suggest something.”

  “I don’t do girlie drinks,” she told Salty, shooting a scowl in Dean’s direction.

  “Would you try one for me—on the house?”

  Lily feigned an eye roll but nodded. “All right, for you. But no umbrella.”

  “Throw in a Corona for me,” Dean added. “And an order of shrimp.”

  Lily lifted a brow as Salty moved away. “What, no fruity drink for you after all your lecturing?”

  Dean grinned. “It comes with a lime.”

  There they were again: the charming smile, the amusing quip. Quite the package if a girl was looking—which she most certainly wasn’t. Still, it was turning out to be a pleasant evening, so pleasant she actually found herself relaxing, forgetting the mess and the mystery that awaited her back at the cottage. The view of the sea, the brine-scented air, the music and the crowd, eclipsed everything else. If she wasn’t careful she’d forget she wasn’t on vacation.

  They didn’t have to wait long for Salty to reappear, a beer in one hand, a martini glass of something pink and slightly frothy in the other. He set the beer down in front of Dean, then handed Lily the glass with a bow and a flourish.

  “There we are, one Pink Flip-Flop for the lady.”

  “A pink what?”

  “Flip-Flop. It’s the specialty of the house. My own concoction.”

  Lily eyed the sugared rim; a girlie drink if ever she’d seen one. “What’s in it?”

  Salty shook his head. “Not until you taste.”

  Lily did as she was told, and was pleasantly surprised as she licked sugar from her lips. “Wow, that is good. Now tell me what’s in it.”

  “Parrot Bay rum, three kinds of fruit juice, and one more secret ingredient. Now drink up. I shook you a double.”

  “Why? You didn’t even know if I’d like it.”

  “Because, Lily St. Claire, Pink Flip-Flops only come in pairs.”

  Grinning, Lily lifted her glass again. “I guess I’d better get sipping,
then.”

  The band had broken into “Kokomo,” and the entire crowd seemed to be singing along, heads bobbing as they sipped their beers and soaked up the last of the day’s sunshine. Lily settled back in her chair, reveling in the rightness of it all, in the slowed-down pace and the mellow feel of the waning day, content to simply sip her drink and do as the natives did. She didn’t want to think about postcards right now, or journals, or unsent letters. Right now, she wanted to be right where she was.

  The food Dean ordered finally arrived. “Sunset Shrimp,” Salty said, setting the basket in front of her, along with a stack of napkins and Lily’s second Pink Flip-Flop. “Another specialty of the house—fresh from the gulf, lightly battered, then tossed in a mango-chili jam.” He paused to fire a quick wink at Dean. “Let me know if you lovebirds need anything else.”

  Lily leaned in as Salty moved away. “He’s a bit of a character, but I like him.”

  “Used to be a Miami cop. Now he owns this place and writes crime novels.”

  Lily paused, a shrimp hovering on the end of her fork. “Crime novels?”

  “Yup. Whodunits, set right here on Hideaway Key. Pretty successful, too, from what I’m told. He likes to joke about being the island’s number one cliché, but we’ve got a lot of clichés here, so the title’s actually still up for grabs.”

  “Really. Like who?”

  “Oh, I expect you’ll meet a few tonight. We’re all clichés in one way or another, but we seem to get more than our fair share here.”

  Lily’s eyebrows shot up. “You think you’re a cliché?”

  “I’m a thirty-eight-year-old bachelor with commitment issues, so yeah, a little.”

  “And what about me?”

  Dean chuckled as he speared a shrimp and neatly dispatched it. “A trust fund princess? What do you think?”

  There’d been no malice in his answer, but it stung just the same. “I’m sorry I asked.”

  “Don’t be. Like I said, we all have our thing.”

  “And yours is commitment issues?”

  He tipped his Corona back for a sip, then gave her one of his shrugs. “They’re not as much of an issue for me as for other people.”