“You know this goes against all rules of our fling,” Tara said.
“It’s been a year,” Darren said. “Will you please stop calling this a fling?”
“Okay,” Tara said. “I’ll upgrade us.”
“Great,” Darren said. “Now open it.”
Gently, she opened the box and stared.
“It’s a dog bone,” she said.
“Well, give it to him,” Darren said. Tara rolled her eyes, but took the bone and knelt down to give it to Nick. His collar was sparkling. A diamond ring dangled from his nametag.
“You’re a weirdo,” Tara said. She removed the ring and stood up.
“Is that a yes?” She smiled, handed Darren the ring, and held out her hand. He slipped it on her finger.
“Now this is a Christmas to remember,” she said as she stared down at it.
“Just wait until you see what I have in mind for New Year’s,” Darren said. Tara leaned in for a kiss. Darren pulled back. “Where’s your mistletoe?” he demanded.
“Right here,” Tara said, pointing to her heart. “Right here.” And this time, when she leaned in for a kiss, there was no stopping her.
“A Cedar Key Christmas”
TERRI DULONG
For Shawn, my Christmas gift of December 16, 1966
All my love
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I’m grateful to all of the people in Cedar Key for continuing to inspire me with a sense of place.
Heartfelt thanks to Bonnie Lee Thomas, the Yarn Works gals in Gainsville, the Tuesday Morning Book Club in Quincy, Washington, all of my Facebook fans, and every single reader that sends support and encouragement. It means everything to me!
Wishing you a blessed and joyful holiday season!
Chapter 1
“Orli,” I hollered, racing through the house like a category three hurricane. “Have you seen my knitting bag?”
Lifting up toss pillows from the sofa and kneeling down to peek under chairs, I turned around to the sound of my daughter’s voice.
“In the golf cart,” she stated.
My knitting bag was in the golf cart? Oh, Lord, that’s right…I’d placed it there that morning so I wouldn’t forget where it was.
I threw my eleven-year-old daughter a grateful smile. “Thanks, honey. I’m running late for the knitting group at Spinning Forward. Carrie should be here any second,” I said, racing toward my room to grab a sweater, with Orli close on my heels.
“But, Mom,” she pleaded. “I wanted to tell you…”
“Not now, sweetie. I just don’t have the time.”
Coming back into the family room I saw that Carrie had arrived. A high school senior, she was very reliable staying with my daughter on the few occasions I needed a sitter. “Hey, Carrie,” I said in greeting. “I’ll be back by nine. With only a week left till the Christmas sale at school, we have to get the knitted dishcloths finished.”
“But, Mama,” Orli said, clutching her twenty pound Maine coon cat and following me to the door. “I told you I had something I have to tell you.”
I leaned over to kiss her cheek and give Clovelly a pat between his ears. “Oh, right,” I said, inching toward the door as I recalled Orli mentioning something about this after supper. Although I was willing to listen while I cleared the table, filled the dishwasher, and folded a load of towels that had sat in the dryer for two days, Orli wanted my full and undivided attention…something I hadn’t been able to give her for a few months.
When the economy went south, I’d been forced to take on more hours waitressing at Cook’s Café, and recently I’d begun cleaning for two extra clients. Being a single mom wasn’t easy, but I wouldn’t trade it for anything. Despite my parents’ objections and even some interference from Grant, Orli’s father, from the moment I found out I was pregnant, I knew the route that I would take…and it wouldn’t be abortion, adoption, or marriage. When the test strip showed a plus sign and a doctor confirmed my pregnancy in May, I only had a few weeks left to finish my first year as a journalism major at Emerson College in Boston—which is what I did. And then I came home to Cedar Key, Florida, to build a life for my daughter and myself.
“Honey, I’ll be home from knitting by nine. It’s Friday night, and you’ll still be up, so we can talk then, okay? I really have to get to the knit shop. You know how important it is that we finish those dishcloths for the kids to buy.”
My daughter’s arms went around me in a tight embrace, and I heard her say, “Okay, I love you.”
“Bye,” I hollered to Carrie as I raced down the steps to the golf cart parked in the driveway. “Love you too,” I told Orli and said a silent thank you for the best daughter in the world.
Jumping into the golf cart, I put the key in the ignition, glanced at the battery indicator, and groaned. “Oh, shit!” I’d forgotten to charge the battery. Thank God it was only a short walk down Second Street to the yarn shop.
I walked in to find the ladies busy at work. Monica looked up. “Oh, Josie, we weren’t sure you were coming. I’m glad you could make it.”
I took a seat beside Polly on the sofa. “Sorry I’m late. I was interviewing with another possible client for cleaning and got way behind in everything.”
“Not a problem,” Miss Dora said. “Would you like some tea?”
“No. Thanks anyway.” I reached into my bag and removed the brightly colored lace pattern dishcloth I was working on.
Every year, a few weeks before Christmas, Cedar Key School held a Christmas sale for the children to purchase inexpensive gifts for their family members. The new items were either donated by community residents or were purchased with money that had been donated. Small, but meaningful gifts that the children could purchase for a minimal price. Our knitting group always donated hand-knitted items, and this year it was dishcloths for the mothers.
“You’re taking on another cleaning job?” Miss Dora questioned. “My goodness, do you have any time for yourself to relax?”
I sighed as I concentrated on my yarn overs and slipping stitches. “Not at the moment, and lately I’m feeling like I’m on a road to nowhere. All the hours and hard work I put in working for other people, yet financially I can’t seem to get ahead. For the first time in eleven years that college degree that I tossed away is looking mighty good.”
“Well, I know it’s a touchy subject with you, Josie, but…you know that if you asked your mama for some help, she’d be more than happy to do so.”
“You’re right,” I snapped. “It is a touchy subject, Miss Polly.”
“So,” Polly said, clearing her throat as her needles clicked away. “Did y’all hear about the latest upheaval with Mr. Al’s house?”
I now recalled that Orli had mentioned Mr. Al’s name earlier when she said she needed to talk to me.
“No. What’s going on now?” I felt a tad of remorse for being abrupt with Polly, but my mother’s success and her disappointment in me wasn’t a subject I enjoyed discussing.
Albert Casey was in his early seventies, and I’d known him from the time I was a child. Never married, a fisherman, and not overly sociable, Mr. Al—as he was known to the locals—had lived with his mother until her death a few years before. He remained in the same house after she died, but became not only a recluse but very eccentric. Over the years his front yard filled up with a broken boat, pieces of plywood, fishing nets, an old-fashioned wringer washing machine—anything and everything that never made its way to the dump. For the most part, locals were used to it. Mr. Al didn’t bother anybody and besides, much of it was hidden by the huge oak trees surrounding his property. But every now and again, somebody would complain and attempt to get something done. Over time, it was forgotten and nothing changed.
“Well, it seems a group has now gotten together, and they’ve put it on the agenda for a City Commission meeting in January.”
This sounded serious. Mr. Al’s debris had never turned legal before.
“You’ve got to be kidding,�
� Dora said. “Gosh, why can’t people just leave that poor soul alone? He doesn’t cause any trouble. That’s just how Cedar Key is—we have million dollar homes and we have trailers.” She let out a giggle. “I think that’s why people say we’re a funky island.”
I laughed. Dora was right. Like me, she’d been born and raised here. But Miss Dora was in that older segment. She was in her early seventies like Mr. Al and had never left the island. Many of the younger generations either left for college and only returned for visits or didn’t return permanently until they retired. Of course, some of those in my early-thirties age group had stayed on after high school.
Grace looked up from her needles. “You know, that’s just it. If somebody marches to the tune of a different drummer, people feel the need to make that person conform. I’ll never understand that. Whatever happened to a live and let live attitude?”
I could certainly relate to that; I remembered the pressure put on me by both Grant and my parents to marry. It just made no sense to me. Yes, I loved him as one loves during their first serious romance, but Grant was graduating from Harvard Business School a few weeks after I found out I was pregnant and had plans to continue on for his master’s degree. What purpose would it have served for him to drop out to rent an apartment and support a wife and baby? None. And after many hours of discussion, Grant finally came to agree with my decision under certain conditions—that he would be completely involved in Orli’s life right from the beginning; that he would support her financially and emotionally; that we would work out amicable and realistic visitation based on her age. I agreed to all of it, and, eleven years later, with Grant living north of Boston, despite our deviation from the norm, it worked well for us.
“Well, if it isn’t enough that the City Commission is going to review the complaints,” Polly related, “Mr. Al’s nephew is coming down to get involved. Heard he booked a room at the Faraway Inn.”
“What?” I said, dropping my knitting in my lap. I recalled Ben Sudbury from his summer visits to the island when we were teens. He was about three years older than I was and never failed to let us kids know how bored he was spending an entire summer on an island off the coast of Florida. His mother, Miss Annie, kept her sense of family closeness and responsibility after she left Cedar Key to attend college in New York. When she married a physician a few years after graduating and settled in Manhattan, Annie Sudbury still returned to her roots every chance she got—which was something that her only child showed no interest in when he moved out of his parents’ home for college.
“You mean to tell me that Mr. Wonderful is actually going to bother coming down here to visit his uncle? He hasn’t been here for ten years, since his mother’s funeral. Why the heck is he coming now?” Yeah, okay, so I might not have the best relationship with my mother, but I sure wouldn’t go ten years without being in touch. Family was family, after all.
Polly cleared her throat before speaking, not making eye contact with any of us. “I’m afraid he’s coming down to put Mr. Al in a nursing home and put the house up for sale,” she said softly.
“What?” our four voices chorused, as we all began talking at once.
“Well, that’s just downright silly,” Dora said. “Al’s about my age, and we’re certainly not nursing home material.”
“Mr. Al might be considered a bit odd,” Grace added, “but whenever he’s dropped by my coffee shop, I’ve never seen signs of mental instability or thought he was a safety risk living on his own.”
“That’s right,” Monica chimed in. “Adam told me just last week that he bumped into Mr. Al walking downtown with his dog. Seems they had a very enjoyable conversation about world events.”
I gripped my knitting needles tighter as the unfairness of the situation hit me. “Right. Put Mr. Al in a nursing home, and you may as well take away the air he breathes. After all the years he spent out there on the water fishing for his livelihood, there’s no way he could be cooped up in a two by four room on the mainland.”
We debated the subject for the next two hours as we continued to knit away on the Christmas dishcloths, but by the time 9:00 arrived we were no closer to a solution that would help Mr. Al.
Walking home along the quiet downtown area, I let out a deep sigh. Not for the first time, I felt fortunate to have been born and raised on Cedar Key and even more fortunate to now have the opportunity to raise my own daughter here.
I stopped for a few moments along First Street to gaze up at a million glittering stars. There was no light pollution on the island, and it was such a gift to be able to glance up and see the beauty of the night sky.
When I walked in my front door I was disappointed to hear Carrie inform me that Orli just couldn’t keep her eyes open beyond 8:15 and had gone to bed. I’d been looking forward to spending some quality time with my daughter—something we hadn’t done in a while. A ripple of guilt surged through me as I realized that I was the cause of this.
With Christmas around the corner and money tighter than usual, I’d been working a lot of extra hours lately. I knew my parents or Grant would provide the iPod and various other items Orli had on her list this year, but I wanted to be the one to give her what she wanted.
After I paid Carrie and thanked her, fatigue began setting in. I tiptoed into my daughter’s room and saw her sleeping soundly, Clovelly curled up at her side. Leaning over, I kissed the top of her head and whispered, “Good night, baby. I love you.”
Shutting off lights around the house and preparing for bed, I vowed to do better over the weekend spending time with my eleven-year-old.
Chapter 2
I awoke to the aroma of toast and bacon. Rolling over in bed, I was shocked to see the digital clock read 8:35. It had been ages since I’d slept beyond 6:30. Stretching my arms above my head, I let out a loud yawn. Orli wasn’t allowed to turn on the stove without my being awake, but she was a pro at using the toaster, microwave, and coffee maker. I got up and followed the scent of Maxwell House to the kitchen.
There was my daughter sitting at the table, munching on toast and bacon, a book propped against the sugar bowl. I smiled at how grown-up she looked, and that’s when it hit me that her twelfth birthday was three days after Christmas. God! I’d been so busy I hadn’t given it a thought.
Walking over, I placed a kiss on the top of her head. “Good morning, sweetie, and thanks for making the coffee. But why’d you let me sleep so late?”
“Because I know you’ve been working a lot, and you’re tired.”
I smiled as I reached for a mug and poured myself a steaming cup of dark brown liquid—nice and strong, just the way I liked it.
“How’d I get so lucky by getting the best daughter in the whole entire world?” I asked and joined her at the table.
Without missing a beat, she replied, “Because I have the best mom in the whole entire world.”
My smile broadened. We’d been reciting this exchange from the time Orli began talking. I made no secret of it—she was my best friend, my buddy, my everything. I had a relationship with her that I never seemed to be able to manage with my own mother.
As if reading my mind, Orli said, “Oh, Grandma called last night while you were at the yarn shop.”
“And?” My mother was a drama queen and always had some catastrophe going on. In reality, she’s a romance writer. Yes, really. Over the years I’ve gotten used to people either gushing over this fact or being bewildered by it. Actually, she’s quite successful across the country, and the name Shelby Sullivan is fairly well-known among women readers. She began writing the month she took me home from the hospital, and by the time I was four-years-old, she’d secured a contract with a New York publisher, and the rest is history.
“She wanted to remind you to make sure that I’m appropriately dressed to go for lunch and shopping with her in Gainesville this afternoon.”
I shook my head and then gulped some coffee before letting out a deep sigh. “Darn, I was all set to send you off wearing a pol
ka dot bikini, hip boots, and a tiara.”
Orli giggled. “Sometimes I get the feeling that Grandma thinks you’re still my age.”
“Hmm, either that or she just can’t resist controlling every situation like she does in her novels.” I got up to refill my coffee cup. “Okay, enough about Grandma. I’ll have you at her house by twelve noon. Tell me what it was you wanted to talk about yesterday.”
An expression of concern crossed my daughter’s face.
“Well…it’s about Mr. Al,” she said. “Some of the kids at school are being mean to him. When we walk past his house on our way home, they throw trash and junk over his fence into the yard, and then they yell ‘here’s some more stuff for the Cedar Key dump,’ and that’s not right. He came out yesterday yelling and screaming at them, said he was gonna call the cops if they didn’t stop, so Danny yelled back that it wouldn’t matter because pretty soon Mr. Al would be in a nursing home and his house would be gone. Is that true, Mom? Did you hear anything about that?”
From the moment my daughter was born, I made a promise that I would raise her much differently from the way it had been with my mother and me. Orli and I would be able to tell each other anything, and we’d always be open and honest.
“As a matter of fact, Miss Polly mentioned this at the yarn shop last night.”
“So it’s true?”
“I don’t know about that. All I know is that some people have complained about the condition of Mr. Al’s property, and his nephew is supposed to be coming down here to see about putting him in a nursing home. Even though Mr. Al is a little odd, he’s of sound mind, and I don’t see how it’s possible to force somebody to sell his home and go to a nursing home.”
“And what would happen to Pal?” my daughter asked, distress now covering her face.
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