Summer at Hideaway Key

by Barbara Davis

  “I must say, I didn’t expect to have you all to myself. I seldom do these days.”

  He was scolding me, lazily swirling the glass of scotch dangling from his fingers, not his first by a long shot. I let the remark pass, choosing to say nothing. I don’t like it when he drinks too much, something he seems to be doing more and more lately.

  “So where is the illustrious Roland St. Claire this evening? Off buying or selling something, no doubt.” He sounded petulant, like a child pouting because the boy next door had more toys than he did.

  “Why do you dislike him so? He’s been good company for me, nothing but kind, a perfect gentlemen.”

  “And I haven’t been those things to you? All these weeks and months, I haven’t been good company?” His voice was slightly slurred, but his face was hard. “Have I ever been anything but a gentleman?”

  “Of course you’ve been a gentleman, Jasper. And kind, and thoughtful, and so very generous. You’ve been a good friend—the best friend I could ever have wished for.”

  “Then why? I’ve been right here all the time—waiting for you to see me, to look at me the way you look at him. It never occurred to me that you wouldn’t someday. But now, when I see you with him, I don’t know what to think. Is it his money?”

  I felt my cheeks go hot, but did my best to bite my tongue. “I don’t know anything about his money, Jasper. I don’t know how much he has, or a thing about how he made it, and I don’t care. Until a few days ago I didn’t even know his name. But I know it now, and I can’t help the way I feel when I’m with him. I won’t apologize for it, either.”

  He tossed back the last of his scotch, eyes glittering as he put down his glass. “And that’s it? You just turn your back . . . after everything?”

  “Everything?” I breathed the word out, like I’d just been punched. It was the scotch, I knew, but his words cut too deep to ignore them. “You’re saying I owe you? You think because of everything you’ve done for me, for Caroline, that I owe you . . . that?”

  Jasper closed his eyes, swaying a little. “I’m sorry, Lily-Mae. I didn’t mean it to sound like that. I guess I just thought friendship and gratitude would eventually . . .”

  The words dangled in the gardenia-scented air, an apology, a plea.

  “Jasper, I’ll always love you. You rescued me, then helped put me back together. You made sure I had a roof over my head, that I was safe and could afford to feed my sister. The day we met, you became my friend, my rock. And that’s what you’ll always be, but nothing more. There’s nothing either of us can do to change that.”

  “And St. Claire,” he asked thickly. “Is he more?”

  “I don’t know. After Zell, I didn’t think anyone could ever be. I didn’t think I could ever feel that way about a man—any man. But Roland is different. I don’t know how or why. I just know I trust him.”

  “Well, then”—Jasper made a stiff little bow, teetering as he straightened—“it appears you’ve made up your mind, and I’m the odd man out.”

  I watched as he turned on his heel and stalked back inside, hating that I had hurt him, but knowing I had done the right thing. I owe Jasper Mitchell everything—including honesty.

  July 8, 1957

  Palm Beach, Florida

  I’m afraid we’ve caused a bit of a scandal. And if I’ve learned anything over the past week, it’s that nothing delights Celia Gardiner and her elegant circle of ladies like having something—or someone—to chew on. I expect everyone in Palm Beach has already heard the news, perhaps even the papers, but somehow I don’t care.

  I wonder if Caroline will hear, and if she’ll believe it. It all happened so fast I can scarcely believe it myself. Last night in the drawing room, just after dinner ended, we were all standing about, having a tug-of-war about whether to play cards, or music, or both, when I felt Roland touch my arm.

  “We could leave,” he said close to my ear as he pressed a glass of something cool and fizzy into my hands and smoothly steered me away from the others. “Just walk out the front door.”

  I looked up at him, trying to read his face, though I really didn’t need to. I could tell by his voice that he meant what he was saying and was waiting for me to say something. Instead, I sipped my drink without tasting, my eyes straying to where I’d last seen Jasper nursing another scotch with Robert Gardiner. He caught my eye briefly before looking away.

  “Did you mean what you said last night—out on the patio? That you trust me?”

  I blushed furiously. “I didn’t know—”

  “I wasn’t spying. I came after you when I saw you leave the table, but Mitchell had beaten me to the punch. Did you mean what you said?”

  I nodded, mortified that he had overheard my confession.

  “I know a place, Lily-Mae. An out-of-the-way place on the other side of the state. No dinners, no parties, no smiling until your cheeks ache. Just the sun and the sea, and us. If we leave now we could be there by morning.”

  Jasper was inching closer, watching us sullenly. At that moment I couldn’t think of anything I wanted more in the world than to run away.

  “What will they think when they find us gone?” I asked, but only for something to say. I didn’t really care what they said. I had already made up my mind.

  Roland threw back his head and laughed. “What will they think? Why, the worst, of course. And then, when all the meat’s been gnawed off that bone, I suspect our hostess will take credit for bringing us together. She ought to be able to milk that for the rest of the summer.”

  The thought of being the center of more gossip brought a pang of uneasiness, a tiny voice whispering in my ear that I must be mad to even be considering such a thing. Then I looked into Roland’s eyes, and the voice went quiet.

  No one saw us leave the house. It took less than twenty minutes to throw my things into my suitcase and meet Roland out on the driveway. I smiled nervously as I climbed in beside him. It was the second time in my life that I had bolted a place at night, but this time I wasn’t afraid.

  July 12, 1957

  Hideaway Key, Florida

  I could feel something let go as we drove across the bridge and left Palm Beach behind. It was as if, for the first time in more than a week, I could finally breathe. We rode with the windows down, the warm night air tearing through the car. I had no idea where we were going, and I didn’t care.

  Still, I couldn’t help thinking about Jasper, wondering what he would think when he learned I was gone—that we were gone. I didn’t feel guilty, or only a little. From the day Mama left Caroline and me standing on the steps of Mt. Zion, I have lived my life always worrying about someone else. Mama. Caroline. But Jasper wasn’t my responsibility. Just this once, I wanted to do something, to have something, that was just for me.

  I was sticky and windblown by the time we crossed the narrow iron bridge onto Hideaway Key. There were no neat rows of palms to greet us, no manicured hedges or stately Spanish homes, just a painted wooden sign welcoming us to Florida’s best-kept secret. I smiled as we passed by the sign. Hideaway Key. Even the name was perfect.

  Dawn was still hours away when we turned down a narrow lane, then pulled to the end of a crushed shell drive. My belly clenched when Roland turned off the engine. For a moment we sat perfectly still, steeped in the buzz and chirp of night things. Finally, he touched my hand.

  “If you’ve changed your mind we can turn around, and I’ll take you home.”

  “To New York?”

  “Yes, if that’s what you want. I have no expectations, Lily-Mae. None. I don’t know who or when, but I overheard enough the other night to know someone hurt you, which is why I’ll never ask you to do anything—to give anything—that you don’t want to. If you want to leave at any point, all you have to do is say so.”

  The thought of changing my mind had never occurred to me, but Roland’s offer br
ought tears to my eyes. “I want to stay. With you.”

  Roland got our bags from the trunk. I followed him up onto a small porch, waiting nervously while he fished a key from under the mat. “It’s not much,” he told me as he unlocked the door. “Certainly nothing like the Gardiners’, but it suits my needs when I want to get away. It belongs to a friend of mine who never uses it anymore. I’ll call him in the morning and let him know I’m here.”

  There was a faint whiff of mustiness as we stepped inside, and the heavy quiet of a place long shut up. I was too anxious to notice much as I trailed Roland from room to room. I was still trying to grasp what I had done, waiting for the reality of it to register—a beach cottage in the middle of the night with a man I barely knew—but nothing in me regretted the choice. I had no idea what would happen next, and for the first time in my life I didn’t care, so long as it was with Roland St. Claire.

  He let me choose between the two bedrooms, then carried his bags to the other. He was moving so carefully, watching me so closely, as if I were a deer who might spook and skitter off into the woods. I touched his hand, a question in my eyes.

  “The sun will be up in a few hours.” His voice sounded thick, unsteady. “We should both get some sleep.”

  “I’m glad I came,” I whispered.

  “I’m glad, too. I don’t know how I found the nerve to ask. I just knew I had to get away. I hate house parties, especially Celia’s. I usually make some excuse to leave early. That’s what I planned to do this time, too. Then I met you. All of a sudden I couldn’t make myself go.”

  His eyes met mine, a long, lingering gaze that made me go warm and soft inside. My heart battered my ribs as the moment stretched. He felt it, too, the invisible current that had thrummed between us almost from the moment we met.

  “What I said in the car, Lily-Mae, about trusting me—I meant it. You can. But if you ever feel like you can’t, I want you to say so.”

  Before I could reach for him, he cleared his throat and stepped away to open the windows, letting in a breath of salt air and the distant rush of the sea. Then he placed a kiss on my forehead and was gone.

  I lay down fully dressed, knowing I wouldn’t sleep, and listened to the waves sighing softly beyond my window. The sound was no longer strange to me; I had grown used to it at the Gardiners’. But it sounded different here, somehow, like music. The next time I opened my eyes the room was full of sunshine.

  I held my breath as I crept out of my room, as if I were somewhere I didn’t belong. The tiny living room was splashed with light, the doors to the deck thrown open. Roland was there, standing at the railing, the breeze ruffling through his sandy hair. As if sensing me, he turned.

  I smiled shyly, not sure what to say, then moved to his side. His arm slid around me, drawing me close. We stood there for what felt like a long time, savoring the closeness and the glorious quiet of the empty beach below.

  “Thank you for last night,” I said, finally breaking the silence. “For your . . . chivalry. Other than Jasper, I haven’t known many chivalrous men. And even he . . .”

  Roland stepped in to finish my thought. “Even he wanted something from you?”

  “Jasper’s a good man, Roland. And a true friend. What you heard the other night on the patio—he didn’t mean it the way it sounded. He was hurt.”

  “He was also half in the bag. The man drinks too much for his own good—and yours.”

  “Yes, he does, but he was there for me when no one else was. Please don’t think badly of him.”

  Roland nodded, but the crease between his brows made me wonder if I’d really convinced him. “I’m afraid there’s no fancy breakfast this morning,” he said, changing the subject abruptly. “We’ll have to fend for ourselves. I know a place in town with good coffee. Then, if you like, I’ll show you around the island.”

  I can’t remember ever enjoying a day more. It was all so easy, so relaxed and unrushed, as if Roland had planned every moment for my enjoyment. And perhaps he had. He seemed to take great pleasure in my happiness, lighting up each time I laughed or expressed delight in something he had taken pains to show me. After breakfast we poked around downtown, visited a few shops and local landmarks, stocked up on sundries, then bought shrimp from a tiny seafood market and a bag of oranges from a roadside stand.

  It’s still hard to believe how comfortable we felt together, as if we’d known each other all our lives. And yet there was a delicious newness to it all, moments when our eyes would meet or our hands would touch, when we might have been a pair of newlyweds. I felt almost giddy, but tentative, too, as if someone had suddenly granted me the right to be happy but might snatch it away at any moment.

  Later on, back at the cottage, we listened to the radio while we fixed dinner—ice-cold shrimp and a salad we threw together—then ate outside on the deck. We had oranges for dessert, giggling like children as the sticky-sweet juice ran down our chins and arms. Roland joked about our modest meal, but for me it was like heaven.

  I felt almost sad as the day began to wind down, like the last pages of a fairy tale where you dread the story’s end because you want it to go on forever. I kept waiting to be pinched, to wake up with a start and realize that none of it was real. But then he would take my hand, or smile at me, and I knew I wasn’t dreaming at all, that somehow this perfect day, this perfect man, was very, very real.

  After dinner, he led me down onto the beach and we walked, savoring the first blush of sunset as the sky was slowly set aflame. We stood, arms locked, watching the sun slide away, a ball of red fire melting into the sea. Then he turned and kissed me.

  He tasted of oranges and the wine we’d drunk with dinner. The combination was heady. A desire I never realized I could feel leapt to life in my belly as my mouth opened to his, my limbs suddenly liquid as the kiss drew me closer and closer to something I should have been afraid of, but somehow wasn’t. Finally, I surrendered, melting into Roland until I could no longer tell where I ended and he began.

  I don’t know how long he held me like that, how many times he kissed me or I kissed him. After a while it all became a sweet, warm blur. I only know our hands remained twined as we turned and walked back to the cottage, and that there were no more questions between us as we stepped inside, just a bone-deep need where there had once been only fear.

  August 30, 1957

  Hideaway Key, Florida

  There’s no use pretending it isn’t true. I have lost my heart to Roland St. Claire. There, I’ve said it—or at least written it. Perhaps I should have been more careful, more guarded with my emotions, but in a million years I couldn’t have guessed such feelings would ever take root in me. I thought myself immune, too scarred to ever let anyone get close enough to love. And yet, Roland has found his way in.

  I have fallen in love with Hideaway, too, with its wide white beaches and smooth blue sea, its unhurried days and dreamy nights, all blurring together like something from a dream, had I been able to dream such happiness was possible. What was meant to be a week has somehow stretched into seven, waking each morning with Roland beside me, up with the sun to comb the beach for shells, basking away long lazy afternoons, drunk on salt air and sunshine, taking evening swims beneath a ghost-white moon, in a sea that seems to belong to only us. Nowhere to be. No eyes to pry. No link at all to the outside world.

  I’ve thought several times about calling Caroline in the mountains, to tell her where I am and what I’ve done, but somehow I can’t make myself dial the number. How can I explain running off in the middle of the night to a place I’ve never heard of, with a man I barely know?

  And what of Jasper? I should have at least phoned him to let him know I was safe, and to apologize for leaving the Gardiners’ so abruptly. I should have, but I didn’t. After our conversation on the patio I’m not sure I could bear another sullen conversation about what I do and do not owe him. Even now, all these week
s later, I can’t help wondering if that night has forever tainted our friendship. I suppose I’ll know soon enough.

  Tonight will be our last night at the cottage.

  As I write this, most of my things are already packed, only a few stray items still waiting to be stowed for the long ride home. But as I sit here on the edge of the bed, I find I haven’t the heart to finish it off. Instead, I linger with my jar of shells, lifting them out one at a time, holding each one in my palm, summoning behind my closed eyes, the exact color of the sunlight and precise hue of the sea on the day it was discovered. I’ve been using them to mark the days, adding a new one to the jar after each of our long morning walks along the shore. If Roland thought me silly he never said so. There are forty-nine shells now, each one whole and perfect and precious—forty-nine perfect shells for forty-nine perfect days.

  I can hear Roland now, moving about the cottage, locking doors and checking windows, the sound of the cottage being shut up as our last precious moments together slowly tick away. I’m sure he’s anxious to get back to his work. I haven’t had the heart to ask what happens when we return to New York. Probably because I already know the answer. I have no claim to him, no right to feel as though I’m losing something that belongs to me. There have been no promises between us, no declarations made or asked for—nor will there be.

  At thirty-six, Roland is already both wealthy and powerful, a man who moves in influential circles and must choose his companions wisely. His friends are important people, pedigreed and polished. I’m not fool enough to think a girl like me, a girl from Mims, Tennessee, without education or family name, could ever fit into his world. His future is too big, too promising, to include someone like me. We have had our time—our mad, reckless, blissful time—but that time is winding down now, as I always knew it would. He will return to his life, and I will return to mine.