Postcards from Cedar Key

by Terri DuLong

  “Well, then, you’ll have to come out to our house and learn all about what you’re eating.”

  Opportunity for information was being dropped right in my lap. “That would be great.”

  “I live out on Twenty-four, and we’ll make plans for you to come over.”

  “I’d really enjoy that,” I told her, and took the last bite of my muffin. “Well, I need to get going. I’ll be supplying yarn to Dora for her shop, so I have to stop by there and discuss the arrangements with her.”

  “That’s right,” Corabeth said. “Somebody told me you own your own alpacas and spin the yarn. I’m looking forward to purchasing some. Oh, and you have to join our knitting group. I’m sure Dora will tell you all about it, but we meet on Thursday evenings. To just sit around and talk and knit.”

  “And gossip,” Liz interjected, causing the women to laugh.

  “Thank you for including me,” I said, standing up. “I really enjoyed meeting you ladies and I’ll probably see you Thursday evening.”

  Walking down Second Street toward the yarn shop I hoped that some of the gossip that would be revealed over time might eventually lead me to my answers.

  Walking into the yarn shop I was greeted by a large, black standard poodle.

  “Well, hello, handsome,” I said, reaching out my hand for him to sniff. “And who are you?”

  “Berkley, how nice to see you,” Dora said, coming from behind the counter. “This is Oliver—my new best friend. I got Oliver a few months ago from the rescue league. He’s four years old and I’m afraid he didn’t always have the best life with his previous owners.”

  I bent down to pat him and was immediately struck by the fact that the dog wouldn’t make eye contact with me. Instead he hung his head and looked at the floor.

  “It’s okay, Oliver,” Dora said softly. “Berkley is a nice person and she won’t hurt you.” As she explained to the dog, she gently lifted his head, encouraging him to look at me.

  My heart broke to think of the abuse he had probably suffered causing him to have such a lack of self-esteem.

  I looked into his soulful brown eyes. “You’re such a handsome boy,” I told him, and rubbed the top of his head.

  “We go to obedience classes in Gainesville once a week. Oliver has done outstanding, and even the trainer is impressed,” she relayed with pride in her voice. “I bring him with me every day to the yarn shop because having people fawn over him is a good thing. It gives him the confidence he needs.”

  “How sweet, and how fortunate Oliver is to have you as his caregiver.”

  “Oh, I’m the fortunate one,” Dora said as a huge smile crossed her face. “I’m glad you dropped by. Did you want to discuss selling me your yarn?”

  “If you’re not busy, that would be great.”

  “I just heated some water for tea. Would you like to join me for a cup?”

  “Sure,” I said, as I settled myself on the sofa. “What a pretty shop you have. I love the fireplace and how you arranged the two sofas to face it.”

  “I’m afraid I can’t take credit for that or the decorating. My niece, Sydney, was the original owner. The shop was called Spinning Forward when Sydney opened it, and then a few years later her daughter, Monica, bought the shop and changed the name to Yarning Together.”

  “Thanks,” I said, accepting the mug of tea. “That’s an unusual name for a knit shop, isn’t it?”

  Dora laughed. “I suppose it is, but when Monica’s stepdaughter saw knitting being done, she questioned why the craft wasn’t called yarning rather than knitting. Clarissa continued to refer to the craft as yarning, and when Monica bought the shop, she decided to change the name based on Clarissa’s terminology.”

  I smiled. “That’s really sweet, and I’m sure it made Clarissa happy.”

  “It did, even though she now refers to it as knitting. So you think you’d be interested in supplying our shop with some of your yarn?”

  I took a sip of tea and then nodded. “Yes, I know that hand-dyed, hand-spun yarn is popular with knitters. The average yield from one alpaca is approximately five pounds of raw fleece, and as you know, I own two alpacas. I do have some customers on the Internet, but I’d have enough to do a supply for your shop as well. And if you happened to have a big demand for it, I know my friend Jill would be happy to also sell you some.”

  “That sounds great. Do you have any samples with you?”

  “I do,” I said, reaching into my tote bag and pulling out three skeins of yarn.

  “Oh, these are gorgeous.” Dora reached out to touch the soft fibers of blues, greens, and lavenders. “Okay, well, Chloe was all for the idea, so when you have some skeins ready to sell us, bring them over and we’ll add them to our inventory.”

  “That sounds great.” I reached out to pat Oliver, who had edged his way over to my leg. “Oh, Corabeth mentioned that you have a knitting group here on Thursday evenings. . . .”

  “Yes, we do, and it would be nice if you could join us. Seven o’clock till around nine. We just sit around and knit, get caught up on what’s going on in town, and enjoy each other’s company. We also take turns bringing some kind of pastry to go with coffee or tea.”

  “I’ll definitely join you, and it’ll give me a chance to meet some of the women from the island. I’m sure they have some great stories to share.”

  Dora laughed. “Oh, yeah. I think each one is a born storyteller.”

  “Do you get a lot of people here who only come for the summer?”

  “Hmm, not really. We do have a fair amount of snowbirds though. People who own homes here but only stay during the winter months. Or tourists escaping the cold of the north for a few months. But you’ll see that during the summer it’s mighty quiet here.”

  All the more reason that old-timer locals might recall a particular woman who came to stay during the summer of 1972, I thought.

  6

  By the time that Tuesday evening arrived, all of the items on my list had been crossed off. I had finished spinning the yarn for my customer, called Angell and Phelps for an order, and made another supply of my chocolate clams, but I hadn’t gathered any information about anybody knowing a Jeanette Whitmore.

  I was hesitant to just come out and ask people if they recalled that name. Perhaps I wanted to avoid any disappointment so early in my search. I also felt that it would be more likely for somebody to share information after they got to know me better. So I was in no hurry. Heck, I’d already waited forty years, so a little longer wouldn’t matter.

  After I applied my kohl eyeliner and a bit of mascara, I slipped into a pair of white cropped pants, black tank top, and sandals. I’m far from a fashion plate, and my normal attire usually consists of shorts or jeans with a tee shirt, but the anticipation of meeting Saxton for a drink notched up my dress code a bit.

  I stood back from the full-length mirror to access my image and was surprised that for a split second I saw my mother looking back at me. I never felt that I resembled her, nor had anybody ever mentioned this fact, but within the blink of an eye and for the first time, I did catch a glimpse of Jeanette Whitmore.

  Walking slowly over to Dock Street, I knew that my mother had walked these same streets. Although the postcards indicated that the main reason for that communication was to give my mother updates on my well-being, even now, forty years later, I wondered how she could have just up and left her daughter for an entire summer. I had my own theories on this—but no proof whatsoever.

  Saxton was already seated at one of the tables on the outside deck when I arrived.

  “Hey,” he said, standing up as a huge smile covered his face. “I’m glad you could make it.”

  I felt a smile cross my own face and noticed again that Saxton Tate III was definitely one very distinguished-looking man. Wearing khakis, a pale blue polo shirt, and loafers, he looked every bit the cosmopolitan author.

  “Me too,” I replied, and glanced down to see a cute white dog on a leash staring up at me. “A
nd you must be Lola.” I reached out my hand to allow her a sniff.

  “Yes, this is my buddy. Lola, meet Berkley,” he said, not taking his eyes from my face.

  “She’s really sweet. How old is she?” I asked as I settled myself on the opposite stool.

  “Lola’s five. I’ve had her since she was a pup. Do you have any pets?”

  The waitress approached our table, preventing me from answering. I noticed Saxton had a glass of red wine in front of him.

  “I’ll have what he’s drinking,” I told her before turning my attention back to him. “Yes, I have a huge black cat named Sigmund. He’s ten now.”

  Saxton nodded. “Pets are wonderful companions, especially for people who live alone. So how do you like Cedar Key so far?”

  “I like it a lot. People are friendly, and of course it’s a beautiful place to live, so I’m hoping that my chocolate shop will do well. Thanks,” I told the waitress as she placed the wineglass in front of me.

  Saxton held up his glass. “Cheers, and let me officially welcome you to the island.”

  “Cheers,” I repeated before taking a sip. “Oh, this is good. What is it?”

  “It’s called Cycles Gladiator, and one of my favorite red wines here. I heard you had only visited the island once last year before making the decision to relocate. You must be quite an adventure-some woman.”

  I laughed while shaking my head. “No, I don’t think I am. But after visiting here last fall, I knew I could be happy living here.”

  “Do you still have any family up north?”

  “No, my grandmother passed away the year before my mother, so it was just me. I do have an aunt in Atlanta, my mother’s sister, and she might be coming to visit in the next few months. But we’re not close at all. We hardly know each other. How about you? Do you still have family in England?”

  Saxton shook his head. “No, nobody. Oh, some distant cousins, but that’s about it. I have a thirty-eight-year-old daughter who lives in Seattle.”

  A thirty-eight-year-old daughter? She was only seven years younger than me, and he didn’t look old enough to have a daughter that age.

  As if reading my mind, he said, “I was only twenty when Resa was born. I’m afraid I became a statistic of a young marriage that failed. You mentioned your parents met at Berkeley. Has your father also passed away?”

  “Yes, they were never married and he was killed in Vietnam, so I never knew him.”

  Saxton took a sip of wine and was quiet for a few moments before asking, “Do you feel that affected your life in any way? Not knowing your father?”

  I thought it was an odd question and one that I had never given much thought to. “Not really,” I said with a shrug. “I guess what you don’t know, you don’t miss. Do you see your daughter very often?”

  Without hesitating, he replied, “I haven’t seen her in thirty years. Her mother is American and we met at university in London. Resa was born there, and when we divorced eight years later Muriel took her and came back to the States.”

  “Oh,” I said, hoping my expression didn’t reveal too much of my surprise. “But didn’t you have visitation rights?”

  “I did, but I’m ashamed to admit that I didn’t enforce them. I thought perhaps it was best that they both make a new life. I paid support for Resa until she was thirteen, when Muriel remarried and her husband adopted my daughter, so we had no further contact. Muriel had a top position with a corporation in Manhattan and married a doctor, so I’m sure Resa had a good lifestyle and didn’t go without anything—except her real father.”

  He didn’t disguise the regret in his tone. “But you know she’s in Seattle?” I questioned.

  Saxton nodded. “I happened to see the obituary of Muriel’s husband in the New York Times last year and it said he left a daughter Resa Campbell from Seattle. Campbell wasn’t her adopted name, so I assume she’s now married, probably with her own family.”

  “Families can be pretty difficult, can’t they?” I said, thinking of my own situation, and before I knew it or understood why, I found myself sharing with Saxton the truth about how I ended up on Cedar Key.

  “Wow,” he said, and nodded to the waitress for two more glasses of wine. “That’s quite a story. So you really came here on a search to find some answers. Have you had any luck yet?”

  I shook my head. “No, but I haven’t begun to actively search for information. My mother was here forty years ago and although a lot of the locals are still here, I’m not sure anybody will remember a twenty-seven-year-old woman from the northeast.”

  “Well, if she was here for the entire summer she had to have lived and worked somewhere. Besides, this is a very small town, so I’d say your chances are pretty good about at least finding somebody that knew her. It might be a bit more difficult, though, to actually find out why she was here.”

  “Yeah, I thought of that. My mother was an extremely private person, so to be honest, I’m not sure she would have opened up and told the truth to anybody. Now that she’s gone, though, I just felt compelled to come here and try and find some answers.”

  “What kind of woman was she? Was she outgoing and friendly? Or do you think she would have kept more to herself?”

  I let out a deep sigh. “My mother was extremely complex. When she worked in the chocolate shop, she was very friendly to the customers, but I always got the feeling that she had to make an effort to be that way. Like it didn’t come naturally to her. She had an isolated life—really no girlfriends to speak of. She never dated, and if she wasn’t working she was at home.”

  “So there’s no reason to think that her lifestyle would have been any different here,” Saxton said, and reached down to give Lola a pat.

  “Right, and why here? It’s not like she left Salem for a larger city for work or education. Why come to such a small town, a place that she’d never been before?”

  “And you say that the postcards are really only updates on how she’s doing? No other information about what she’s doing here?”

  “None. In her postcards to my grandmother she only mentions the weather or that she’s feeling okay.”

  “Do you think she was ill? That maybe she came here to recuperate from an injury or illness?”

  “Even if that were the reason, why keep it from me? Why not tell me that was why she left? I mean, gosh, years ago people had to go to sanatoriums to recover from tuberculosis.”

  “Yes, true, but many families also kept that a secret. What’s your theory on all of it? Do you have any ideas why she left so suddenly without even saying good-bye?”

  My theory had been in my head for years, but I’d never actually verbalized it to anybody. I blew out a breath and took a sip of wine. “What I’ve always felt,” I said softly, “was that she’d probably just had it with motherhood. A young, single mom trying to raise a daughter on her own. Even though my grandmother helped a lot, I’m sure it was still pretty tough on her. Especially in the sixties and seventies. I remember telling kids in school that my father had died in Vietnam, and when they didn’t question me further I never volunteered the information that my parents had never been married.”

  Saxton nodded. “Hmm, the stigma of being different. But she did come back after a few months, and it seems the main reason for the correspondence with your grandmother was to make sure you were doing okay—to check on your welfare.”

  “Yes, true. I’ve thought of that also.”

  “Do you remember how she was when she returned? Any difference in how she acted toward you? A change in her lifestyle?”

  “That period in my life is pretty blurry, and it’s hard to remember details from that long ago, but I’d have to say, no. I don’t recall her acting any different at all. She resumed working in the chocolate shop, she was still very overprotective with me, still didn’t show much affection. Don’t get me wrong, she wasn’t a bad mother at all. Actually, I’d have to say she was a very good mother. . . . It’s just that I always felt something was missi
ng from her. I can’t explain it.”

  Saxton reached out and patted my hand. “I certainly hope you’ll find your answers, Berkley. But more important, I hope they’ll be answers that will make you feel good—both about your mother and yourself.”

  Before I had a chance to question exactly what he meant, we both turned to the sound of a male voice approaching our table.

  “Hey, Saxton, how’re doing?”

  I looked up to see a man that had directed his question at Saxton but was staring at me. Tall, good looking in a relaxed sort of way, he appeared to be in his early seventies. With a silver ponytail caught at the nape of his neck with elastic, wearing cutoffs, tee shirt, and sandals, he reminded me of an aging hippie.

  Saxton stood up to shake his hand. “Doyle, good to see you. I’m doing fine, and I’d like you to meet my new friend, Berkley Whitmore.”

  The man put his hand out to shake mine as I noticed he seemed to be scrutinizing my face.

  “Nice to meet you,” he said, with a hint of a Southern accent. “Are you visiting the island?”

  “No, I recently moved here and opened the chocolate shop over on Second Street.”

  “Chocolate shop?” he questioned with surprise in his tone. “Where’re you from originally?”

  The man was pleasant enough, but I got the feeling that my line of business baffled him, and I laughed. “Yes, chocolate. That wonderful-tasting stuff that so many people crave. I’m from Salem, Massachusetts.”

  My statement brought silence on his part, and he only nodded.

  “So,” Saxton said, “are we still on for the fishing trip tomorrow? Doyle here is a top fisherman, in addition to being quite an artist. Many of his works are displayed at the Arts Center.”

  “Really? I’ll have to get over there and see them.”

  “And you’ll have to be sure to let me know what you think. Yeah, the fishing trip is still on. I’ll meet you at seven at the City Marina,” he told Saxton before switching his gaze back to me. “It was very nice meeting you, Berkley. I hope you’ll enjoy living on Cedar Key.”