Summer at Hideaway Key

by Barbara Davis

  His smile widened, clearly relishing my terror. “I’ve been looking for you, Lily-Mae.” His voice was almost obscenely soft, his eyes glittering with something like amusement. “You left in such a rush that we didn’t have time for a proper good-bye.”

  I felt the room wobble. “Why are you in New York?”

  “Why, I’ve come to toast the bride, of course. Mrs. Roland St. Claire—an impressive title, I’d say, for a girl from Mims, Tennessee. Who would have guessed you’d do so well for herself? Thank goodness for the papers, or I never would have known to look for you here tonight. That would have been a shame, wouldn’t it?”

  “Leave me alone.” My voice sounded thin and thready, the voice of the fifteen-year-old me, terrified and once again at his mercy. “Please. Please, just go away.”

  “Now, Lily-Mae, you know I can’t do that. We have unfinished business, you and I. Private business, if you’re a good girl, but not so private if you choose to be naughty.”

  I felt the blood drain from my face. “What do you want?”

  “Merely to share in your good fortune. And to conduct a bit of business with an old friend, a friend who just happens to be married to a man on his way to being one of the richest men in the country. Or if you’d like, I could just step into the ballroom and have a word with him myself. In fact, he might actually be interested in meeting me.”

  I squared my shoulders, forcing my eyes to meet his. “There’s nothing you can tell my husband that he doesn’t already know.”

  “Is that so? Well, then, what about his friends—his very rich and powerful friends—do they know everything? Or would your past come as something of a shock to them?”

  There was no mistaking the threat. If I didn’t do what he wanted he would make sure Roland’s friends learned just enough about his new wife to tarnish both his name and his social standing. “What is it you want?”

  “Only what belongs to me.” His smile slipped back into place, a hideous blend of greed and triumph. “As I recall, you left Mt. Zion with some money of mine. I came to get it back—with interest. I’ve been waiting a long time for my ship to come in, as they say, and finally, the SS Lily-Mae is back in port with a shiny new last name.”

  I stood there like stone. “How much?”

  He patted my arm, his thick fingers sickeningly moist against my flesh. “Don’t be silly. I wouldn’t dream of talking about anything so vulgar as money when you’re all dressed up. Besides, if you stay away much longer your husband is going to come looking for you, and that wouldn’t do at all. We’ll talk again tomorrow.”

  The thought of having to see him again, of having to look at his face one more time, made me physically ill. “I can’t see you tomorrow. I won’t.”

  Zell was unfazed, his face bland. “If you’d rather, I can just step inside and have a word with Roland.” He pulled back the door a crack, and peered inside. “Ah yes, there he is, now, speaking with Senator Clayton and his charming wife, I believe. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind if I joined him for a moment.”

  I was near tears. There was nothing I could do, nothing I could say that would sway him. “Tell me where, and then please go.”

  “There’s a little place just past the corner of Forty-first and Eighth, called the Terminal Bar. Not exactly a fitting part of town for the wife of Roland St. Claire, but you’re not likely to run into any of your country club friends, either. Be there at noon.”

  I nodded, unable to look at him another moment. Then I squared my shoulders, pasted on a smile, and went back to the party. I didn’t know what else to do. I couldn’t risk Roland coming to look for me and finding me with Zell. He can’t know about this, ever. No matter what I have to do or pay, I will never let Roland be hurt because he married me.

  October 18, 1958

  New York, New York

  My stomach was in knots as I approached the entrance to the bar where Zell was waiting, my handbag clutched in front of me like a shield. Men huddled in small groups on the street, drinking from small bottles wrapped in rumpled paper bags. I felt their eyes follow me as I walked past, a curiosity in my good coat and expensive heels.

  A wave of dizziness hit me as I stepped through the open door of the Terminal Bar. It was cramped and gritty, little better than a cave carved out between a pawnshop and another, equally seedy bar. Heads turned as I hovered in the doorway, squinting through a haze of grease and cigarette smoke.

  Eventually, for better or worse, I was able to make out my surroundings. A battered pool table stood at the center of the room, a burned-out light dangling crookedly overhead. The walls were studded with pictures, boxers and baseball players grinning behind grimy squares of glass. Clumps of last year’s silver Christmas garland glittered miserably from the corners of the windows.

  My stomach clenched the instant I spotted him, hunched over a small table in the corner, sucking on a cigarette and sipping something amber from a short heavy glass. For someone who professed to be a man of God, he looked surprisingly at home. The bartender looked up from the glass he was drying as I stepped from the doorway and moved toward the table.

  Zell smiled lazily over the rim of his glass, then motioned for me to sit. I took the chair across from him and knotted my hands in my lap, waiting. The less I said, the sooner he’d tell me what he wanted.

  “Relax, Mrs. St. Claire. Not much chance of running into any of your husband’s friends here, unless they like greasy hamburgers and watered-down booze. They don’t, do they?”

  He was amusing himself—like a bully holding a magnifying glass over an anthill. I just wanted it over. “It’s noon,” I hissed at him across the table. “What do you want?”

  Zell leaned back in his chair, looking me up and down like he used to through a haze of smoke. “My, my. Marriage has changed you, Lily-Mae. What happened to the sweet little girl who used to file my papers and take down my sermons?”

  “She grew up,” I snapped. I had never wanted to scratch someone’s eyes out until that moment. “Now, tell me what you want so I can go.”

  The bartender appeared before Zell could answer. He stood there for what felt like a very long time, his mouth slack as he stared at me, fumbling with the grimy towel slung over his shoulder.

  “Another for me,” Zell barked, jolting the man from his fog. “And bring one for the lady.”

  I waved a hand at the bartender. “Nothing for me. I won’t be staying.”

  “Bring it anyway.” Zell barked at the man’s back before turning his attention back to me. “You really should order something, Lily-Mae. It’s not polite to let a man drink alone.”

  I ignored the remark, eager to be away from him. “How much will it take to make you leave me alone?”

  He drained his glass, grinning hideously as the liquid went down. “Still in a hurry to get away from me?”

  “Yes.”

  “All right, then, ten thousand.”

  For a moment I couldn’t speak. It never occurred to me that he would ask for such a sum. “Ten thousand . . . dollars?”

  “That should cover the money and the truck—plus a little extra for my trouble.”

  It was impossible. “I don’t have anything like that kind of money.”

  The bartender appeared with two glasses. Zell waited until he left to lean across the table. “You’ve just married a very rich man, Lily-Mae. Or have you forgotten?”

  Panic rose in my throat, nearly choking me. “You can’t expect me to ask Roland for the money.”

  “If you’re squeamish, I could always ask him.”

  A rush of tears prickled behind my lids. “Why are you doing this?”

  “I’m not a man who lets things go, Lily-Mae. I may get crossed now and then, but I always make sure to settle up. I have an acquaintance, the kind who knows how to find things out. He’s been keeping an eye out, though I must say, I didn’t expect y
ou to make it so easy. Imagine my surprise when I got a call saying you’d gotten your picture on some big, fancy sign in New York. It was easy after that. Your name was in all the papers. All I had to do was follow the trail.”

  “You’re not afraid I’ll go to the police? Blackmail is a crime.”

  Zell clucked his tongue disapprovingly. “Blackmail is such an ugly word. I prefer to think of it as business between old friends.”

  “We aren’t friends. We were never friends.”

  “My price is still ten thousand.”

  “And if I can’t pay you—what then?”

  His eyes went steely as he reached into his pocket, then placed small squarish packet on the table between us. “Then . . . this.”

  I stared at it, confused. It was a packet of playing cards, the kind with risqué drawings splashed across the faces. My fingers were clammy as I fumbled to open the packet. I could feel Zell watching me, waiting for some kind of reaction or recognition.

  My breath left my body all at once as I glanced at the first card in the deck—the queen of hearts—horrified at the sight of myself perched on a brightly striped beach ball, wearing nothing but a pair of red high heels. I remembered the pose; it was one I had done for a calendar when I first came to New York. But I’d been wearing a bathing suit at the time, a red one with a large white bow pinned to the front. Only the bathing suit was gone now, leaving me—or a drawing someone had doctored to look exactly like me—completely exposed.

  My lips felt numb suddenly, thick and bloodless. “Where did you get these?”

  “My acquaintance was kind enough to pass them on to me. Apparently, he’s in touch with a certain photographer who was willing, for a small fee, to share some of your, eh . . . work. There are more in the pack if you’re interested, a few even more risqué.”

  “It isn’t me,” I blurted desperately. “I never posed like that. They’ve been tampered with.”

  “So you say. But will Roland’s friends care, do you think, when they’re eyeing you across some fancy dinner table? Very important man, your husband, a powerful man with powerful friends; philanthropist, international businessman, sits on several boards, political aspirations, too, I understand. It would be a real shame to see all that ruined. And it would be, what with the papers and all. I hear they pay big money for stories about New York royalty.” He paused, smirking as he slid the queen of hearts back at me across the table. “Especially when they come with artwork like this.”

  I gaped at him, stunned by the undisguised glee in his expression, my mind racing back to Palm Beach and poor Mr. Addison, banished by friends and colleagues because of his relationship with a divorced woman. And what were her secrets compared to mine?

  “Ten thousand,” he repeated, not batting an eye. “Noon, one week from today. Here. Don’t cross me, Lily-Mae. I’ll do what I say. Your husband’s name won’t be worth a plug nickel when I’m through.”

  I stared at him, too numb to find words, let alone form them. I kept hoping to find some flicker of remorse in his eyes, some shred of conscience I could exploit, but I knew better. I’d always known better.

  I made it home somehow, sitting stonily in the back of a cab while the driver eyed me curiously in his rearview mirror. He was trying to place my face, to remember where he’d met me. I held my breath as we passed that ridiculous billboard, praying to God he didn’t look up. I couldn’t have borne that conversation just then, or any conversation, really. I was too busy trying to figure out where I was going to get my hands on ten thousand dollars.

  October 24, 1958

  New York, New York

  They say old habits die hard, and I suppose it must be true. I know I had no right to ask Jasper for help when I dialed the phone—not after the way we’d left things at the Gardiners’. But I truly didn’t know where else to turn. He was cool at first, when he heard my voice. I wasn’t surprised. We’d only spoken once since that night, when I had finally called to tell him Roland and I were married. He had wished me well, then tersely ended the call. And now, after months of silence, I’ve asked him to lend me ten thousand dollars.

  I wouldn’t have blamed him if he said no, but he didn’t. In fact, he never even bothered to ask why I needed the money. I only had to tell him I was in trouble. He told me to give him an hour and then meet him at the St. Regis for lunch.

  I scanned the tables for familiar faces as I walked in. Thankfully, there were none. It was late and most of the lunch crowd had cleared. Jasper was there, already working on a second martini. He stood as I approached the table, then slid back into his chair. I spread my napkin in my lap for something to do. I couldn’t seem to meet his eyes, afraid that if I did I would crumple into a million pieces. It wasn’t until the waiter left that he really looked at me, saw the shadows beneath my eyes, the deep crease of fear that had etched itself between my brows over the last several days, that he realized just how much trouble I was in. He reached for my hand, refusing to let it go until I agreed to tell him what was wrong. Dear, sweet Jasper. He always could see right through me.

  Before I knew it, the whole story was tumbling out: Zell sneaking up on me at the reception; the winos outside the Terminal Bar; the playing cards and their humiliating pictures. He was furious at me when it was finally all out, for not calling the police, or at least telling Roland. I tried to make him understand why I couldn’t do either of those things, that nothing on earth would ever make me risk my husband’s good name. I made him swear he would never breathe a word of what I’d just told him to anyone. He thinks I’m being foolish, but he agreed. Then he pulled a heavy brown envelope from the inside pocket of his suit coat and slid it across the table.

  I told him I didn’t know how I’d ever pay him back, but that I would, somehow. He waved away my promise, a little sloshy after his third martini, and told me to forget it. He has more clients these days than he knows what to do with, and it’s because of me. Besides, he was the one who booked the calendar job. Paying to keep the wolves away was the least he could do.

  As I was leaving, he handed me a card, crisp ivory stock with his soon-to-be new office address embossed in heavy gold letters. I couldn’t help but remember the dog-eared card he had handed me the first day we met, the day he had picked up two sisters on a narrow dirt road somewhere in Tennessee. He’s come a long way since then. We both have.

  October 25, 1958

  New York, New York

  What a skilled liar one becomes when necessity requires it, when everything you hold dear is suddenly in peril and panic takes root in your chest. I have kept no secrets from Roland, held nothing back. Until now. But experience has taught me that the lies we tell are often kinder than the truths we conceal—even when the lie comes at a price almost beyond bearing.

  One of the hardest things I’ve ever done was sitting across the breakfast table from Roland this morning, sipping my coffee and pretending nothing was wrong, my nerves worn raw beneath a too-tight smile. It was such a strange secret to be keeping—a rendezvous in a squalid downtown bar, not with a lover but with an extortionist. And yet the need for secrecy seemed just as urgent, as if I were, in fact, breaking one of my marriage vows—not a vow of the heart, but one of trust, which felt worse somehow. I was terrified that he would glance up from his newspaper unexpectedly, and that in that unguarded moment my face would give me away. And then what would I have said?

  How could I explain not coming to him the night Zell confronted me at the Astor? Or turning to Jasper—a man he plainly disliked—for the money to buy Zell’s silence, rather than confiding in my own husband? I couldn’t. Nothing would ever make him understand my silence, or my secrecy.

  But I know Roland too well. I know what would have happened had I gone to him the night Zell showed up, what his reaction would be, even now, if he knew Zell meant to blackmail me with his filthy pictures. There would be no stopping him. He would charge in on his
white horse to defend my honor, heedless of the cost to his reputation and standing among members of his social circle.

  Zell wouldn’t think twice about going to the papers, especially if there was money to be had—and when it came to gossip about the rich and powerful, there was always money to be had. There would be a scandal—the kind a man in Roland’s position wasn’t likely to survive. My husband is a businessman, used to men who operate inside the law and bear some semblance of a conscience. Zell is none of those things. He will hurt me by hurting Roland—if I let him. And I will not let him, cost what it may.

  Which is why I had to go through with it, and why I’ll hide the truth from Roland, to keep him from riding to my aid, and ruining himself in the process. I had no desire to set foot in that god-awful place again, or to look Harwood Zell in the eye one more time, but I knew I wouldn’t hear the last of him until I did.

  My stomach revolted at the reek of smoke and stale beer as I stepped through the door of the Terminal Bar, my breakfast churning its way up toward my throat as I anxiously scanned the tables. There was no one I knew, of course—or, more precisely, no one likely to know Roland—but I needed to be sure. The irony didn’t escape me as my eyes swept the dingy interior. Yesterday, I had done the same thing when I entered the St. Regis, worried about being seen, and there I was again, this time in a gritty bar on the wrong side of town. The only difference was that this time there was a smart little shopping bag full of cash dangling from my wrist.

  Zell was sitting at the corner table again. He stubbed out his cigarette the minute he saw me, his eyes glittering sharply as they fastened on the shopping bag. I placed it on the table in front of him, not sure what happened next.

  “Do you want to count it?”

  His eyes narrowed shrewdly. “Not if I want to make it out of here with my skin intact, I don’t. I’m just going to have to trust you, Lily-Mae, although that hasn’t always worked so well in the past. Still, I’m willing to risk it. After all, I do know where to find you—and the esteemed Mr. St. Claire.”