Postcards from Cedar Key

by Terri DuLong

  “Great, come on in.” I gestured for him to have a seat. “I have the wineglasses right there.”

  “Nice place,” he said, as his eyes scanned the room.

  “Well, it’s a bit small but perfect for me. I have a bedroom, kitchen, and bath, and that’s all I need. Dinner will be ready in about a half hour, so you can uncork the wine and we can have a glass,” I said, pointing to the corkscrew next to the wineglasses.

  Saxton nodded as he continued to glance around the room. “I see you’re a very neat person. You must have thought my place was a dump.”

  I laughed. “Well . . . I can’t live in clutter, if that’s what you mean. I like everything where it belongs.”

  Saxton began uncorking the wine. “So you’re a rigid kind of woman.”

  Rigid? What was that supposed to mean? That was the first time somebody had used that adjective to describe me. “Um . . . no . . . I wouldn’t say that exactly.”

  Saxton laughed as he filled the glasses. “I didn’t mean that in a derogatory way. But you strike me as a woman who doesn’t often let her hair down, if you know what I mean.”

  I accepted the glass he passed me as I paused to consider this. “Well, I wouldn’t say that. And no, I’m not sure what you mean.”

  Saxton touched the rim of my glass with his. “Carpe diem. Here’s to seizing the moment.”

  I nodded and took a sip.

  “Do you ever do something just because? Just because it strikes your fancy and might be a spontaneous fun thing to do?” he asked.

  Sitting beside him on the sofa, I felt a bit of annoyance that what was supposed to be an enjoyable evening was beginning to feel like a session with a shrink.

  “Well . . . ah . . . yes,” I replied as I racked my brain to try and recall such an incident. “Moving here. Moving to Cedar Key was pretty spontaneous.”

  “Was it?” Saxton asked. “You said you came here mostly to find some answers about your mother. So you actually did have a specific reason for relocating here.”

  I thought about this for a few moments. “Yeah, you could be right. But that doesn’t mean I’m rigid.” All of a sudden that five-letter word sounded nasty to me.

  Saxton reached for my hand and gave it a squeeze. “I didn’t mean to get you upset. It’s just that sometimes it’s good to let go, be loose, and enjoy the moment.”

  “Oh, you mean like leaving piled-up newspapers around and having shoes and clothes everywhere? Would that make me less rigid?”

  Saxton threw his head back as his laughter filled the room. “Touché! That wasn’t quite what I had in mind.” He took a sip of wine. “Have you had any luck finding somebody who knew your mother?”

  Smart man. Since we were obviously headed toward a tiff, better to change the subject.

  I watched him reach for a slice of cheese and shook my head.

  “No. I told the women at the knitting group my mom’s name, but it didn’t seem to ring a bell with anybody.”

  “It’ll probably just take time for somebody to remember her. This is very important to you, isn’t it? Finding out why she came here?”

  “It is. Even if I find some answers it won’t change anything. I mean, my mother came here, stayed the summer, went back to Salem, and life went on. But I just feel, in here,” I said, tapping my chest, “that I need to know her story. It’s like something has been missing all of my life in my relationship with my mother, and maybe by knowing why she left . . . it’ll help me to understand better.”

  Saxton nodded. “I see what you’re saying. And I applaud you for having the strength to do this.”

  “Strength?” I said with surprise. “Why would you think it required strength to try and find some answers?”

  He took a sip of wine and then let out a deep sigh. “Well, many times the answers aren’t pleasant. But you accept this and still, you’re willing to forge ahead. That requires strength on your part.”

  Okay, so this man had now redeemed himself. He might feel that I’m rigid, but he also complimented me by saying that I had a strength I wasn’t at all sure I possessed.

  “Thank you,” was all I said as I stood up. “That casserole’s ready to come out of the oven. Give me five minutes and we’ll be all set to eat.”

  Saxton took the last sip of wine in his glass and then smiled. “That was a delicious dinner, Berkley. Thank you. I really enjoyed all of it, and you’re quite the chef.”

  I laughed as I stood to remove the dishes from the table. “Not really. Just basic home cooking. Let me get these dishes washed and then we can have dessert and coffee.”

  Saxton stood to help and followed me to the sink. “I’ll dry,” he said. “Where’s your dish towels?”

  A man willing to help in the kitchen? He had definitely redeemed himself.

  “Oh, right there,” I said, pointing to the closet. “Third shelf on the left.” I heard him chuckle and turned around. “Something wrong?”

  “No. Not at all.” He had opened the closet door and stood staring inside.

  My sight took in what he was seeing. Each shelf perfectly arranged with dishcloths, dish towels, tablecloths, linen napkins—each item perfectly folded, lined up, according to color and size.

  I joined his chuckling. “Hmm, you mean to tell me that your linen closet doesn’t look like that?”

  In answer he came toward me, pulled me into his arms, and kissed me. “You’re special,” he said. “Very, very special.”

  “And you,” I whispered, “are a very good kisser. Very, very good.”

  Following the kitchen cleanup and a slice of my almond cake, we were sitting next to each other on the sofa enjoying our coffee.

  “This was nice,” Saxton said. “Not just the dinner—but being with you. I enjoy your company.”

  I smiled and shifted to better see his face. “Thank you, and I like being with you too.”

  “I’ve been thinking,” he said as I saw his expression grow serious. “I’ve been giving some thought to maybe contacting my daughter.”

  I remained silent to allow him time to continue.

  He took a sip of coffee. “Resa probably doesn’t even want to bother with me. Why would she? It’s been thirty years, and not only did I make no attempt to contact her, I willingly allowed her to be adopted by Muriel’s husband.”

  “You thought you were doing the best thing,” I said softly.

  He nodded. “True. But many times a child doesn’t see it that way. She easily also could have considered it a rejection.”

  He was right. Didn’t I still feel a nagging sense of abandonment because my mother had left me with my grandmother that summer?

  “So, I don’t know,” he said. “I’m having mixed feelings about contacting her, I guess. How would you feel? What if your father hadn’t been killed in Vietnam and he now tried to contact you?”

  I blew out a breath of air. “Wow, I’ve never once considered that scenario. Well . . . ah . . . yes, I think I’d like to get to know him. You know, find out if we had any similar interests, did we look alike, that sort of thing.”

  “Really?” He stood up and smiled. “That’s good to know. So you’re saying that you’d probably forgive him for being out of touch for so many years?”

  I stood up and reached for the coffee mugs to head to the kitchen. “Well, I’m not sure about forgiving. That can be a difficult thing to achieve sometimes, but yeah, I do think I’d like the opportunity to at least meet him and try to get to know him.”

  Saxton nodded. “Right. And maybe the forgiveness would follow.”

  “Another cup of coffee?” I asked.

  “That would be great. Excellent coffee, by the way.”

  I smiled as I poured two more cups. “I grind my own beans,” I told him as I walked back into the living room.

  Saxton laughed. “I should have known. What’s this?” he asked, pointing to a circular stained glass piece hanging on my wall. “It’s a Wheel of the Year, isn’t it?” Removing a pair of reading
glasses from his shirt pocket, he walked closer to get a better look.

  “I’m surprised that you know what it is,” I said, coming to stand behind him and passing him the mug of coffee.

  “You seem to forget—I’m from England. Where Wicca was popularized in the 1950s and early 60s. This is an exceptionally nice piece.”

  I looked at the vibrant shades of blue, gold, green, and other colors depicting the annual cycle of the earth’s seasons.

  “It belonged to my mother. Except for me, it was one of the few things she brought back from being a student at Berkeley.”

  “I once wrote a mystery novel about a stolen Wheel of the Year, so I did quite a bit of research about them. As I recall, these are the eight festivals throughout the year referred to as Sabbats. I believe that term originated from Judaism and Christianity and is of Hebrew origin.”

  “That’s right,” I said, impressed with his knowledge. “The festivals themselves have historical origins in Celtic and Germanic pre-Christian feasts.”

  Saxton reached out a finger to touch the midsummer part of the wheel where June 19–23 was etched into the glass. “The time of year that I came to earth,” he said quietly.

  “Really? Your birthday is in June?”

  “June twentieth, the summer solstice. At least this year it will be, but most years it’s on June twenty-first. I’ve always admired the Wheel of the Year. It shows time as cyclical and the progression of birth, life, decline, and death as experienced in human lives.”

  I nodded. “And this is echoed in the progression of the seasons.”

  Saxton removed his glasses and turned around. “And so . . . do you practice Wicca as a religion?”

  I shrugged before answering. “Not really, although I do believe in some of their views and theories.”

  He took a sip of coffee and nodded. “And your mother? Obviously she must have had the same views to bring this back from California?”

  “She did and so did my grandmother.”

  “So you weren’t brought up with organized religion?”

  I laughed. “Oh, but I was. Catholic Church and even Catholic school for eight years, but when I reached high school, all three of us stopped going. I’m not really sure why. All I know is that we seemed to drift more toward being spiritual rather than religious. My grandmother used to go every single day, rain or shine, down to Derby Wharf. She’d sit on one of the benches there overlooking the water and claim that was her church.”

  Saxton smiled. “Your grandmother sounds like a wise woman.”

  “She was,” I said as a strong feeling of nostalgia washed over me.

  Saxton glanced at his watch and took the last sip of his coffee. “I really hate to leave, but I’m afraid I have to get home to take Lola out. I very much enjoyed this evening, Berkley. Very much. You’re not only special; I think you have a bit of mystery that I’ve yet to discover.”

  I laughed as I walked him to the door. “Oh, I’m not sure about that.”

  He placed his hands on each side of my face and kissed me. As I reached up to encircle his neck I knew he was every bit as special as he thought I was.

  12

  I was putting the last of the items into the picnic basket when Chloe knocked on the door.

  “Come on in,” I hollered as I placed potato salad and coleslaw on top of the fried chicken, biscuits, and blondies.

  I looked up when I heard her laughing. “What’s wrong?”

  “Good Lord. We’re only going out to Atsena Otie for lunch, aren’t we? Looks like you have enough food there to last a week.” She held up her own picnic basket. “And along with the food I’m bringing, we could probably survive longer.”

  I joined her laughter. “Well, I know Saxton has a healthy appetite and maybe Doyle does too. So we don’t want to run out of food.”

  Chloe settled her basket on the table. “I don’t think there’s any chance of that. Anything I can help you with?”

  I looked around the kitchen. “Nope, I think I’m all set.”

  “Great. Let’s get this stuff loaded on the golf cart and head over to the marina.”

  I spotted Saxton on the pontoon boat as soon as Chloe pulled into the parking lot. We grabbed our picnic baskets and headed down the walkway to the slip.

  “Hey there,” he hollered, reaching over to give us a hand. “Welcome aboard.”

  “Good morning,” Doyle said, standing up from the cooler where he’d been arranging water bottles and cans of soda. “Great day for a boat ride. Thought I’d take you gals up around North Key, out toward the airport, and then we’d head back to Atsena Otie for lunch.”

  “Sounds great,” I told him as I settled myself on the leather seating beneath the bimini.

  “It sure does,” Chloe said. “And thanks so much for inviting me.”

  Chloe sat beside me as Saxton untied the ropes tethering the boat to the slip. Doyle sat behind the wheel and started up the motor. He expertly put the boat in reverse and positioned it to head toward the channel.

  He was right. It was a perfect day for a boat ride. As we cruised under the bridge toward the channel the wind teased my hair as the sun warmed my skin.

  Picking up speed, Doyle headed out, and I glanced across the water toward my hometown.

  “Looks different from this perspective, doesn’t it?” Saxton said.

  I nodded as I saw his house on First Street, and we curved around where the Beachfront Motel now stood empty. Another example of the poor economy our country was experiencing. Guests at the Faraway Inn sat in the pavilion and waved to us as we cruised past.

  Doyle shifted in his seat to face us. “There’s a nice beach at North Key. We’ll stop there for a bit.”

  I looked over to my left. “Isn’t that Seahorse Key?” I asked. “Could we make a stop there too?”

  Doyle shook his head. “No, I’m afraid not. It’s a wildlife refuge and bird sanctuary. There’s a three-hundred-foot buffer zone around the island and it’s closed to the public from March first through June thirtieth. That protects the nesting birds from human disturbance.”

  “That’s really great,” I said. “But what about that lighthouse there? Nobody uses it?”

  “Oh, no, it’s used,” Doyle informed me. “Since 1951 the lighthouse has been leased to the University of Florida. It’s used as part of the Seahorse Key Marine Laboratory. The lighthouse itself serves as a dormitory with six bedrooms and twenty-six bunk beds. See the boat dock over there?”

  I looked to where Doyle was now pointing and nodded.

  “The laboratory is located near there.”

  “During Seafood Festival weekend in October, it’s open to the public,” Saxton said. “Maybe Doyle will take us over there in the fall.”

  Doyle nodded. “Yeah, we could do that. It’s definitely worth visiting.”

  “Great,” I said, and gave him a smile. I liked this fellow. He had an easy way about him, and I could understand why Saxton enjoyed his company.

  After Doyle pulled the boat onto the shore, the four of us got out to walk the beach on North Key. We spent quite a bit of time searching for driftwood, shells, and whatever else the tides had brought in. Heading back to the boat, I stopped for a few moments to breathe in the salt air as Chloe, Saxton, and Doyle walked ahead. There was something primal about being on this barrier island surrounded by the Gulf of Mexico. I looked up and saw puffy white clouds floating by, and was suddenly overcome with an intense feeling of my mother’s presence. Closing my eyes for a moment, I felt her spirit surround me. Odd, since this was the first time I’d experienced this sensation since she’d passed away four months before. When I opened my eyes, I saw that Chloe and Saxton were back on the boat and Doyle was standing nearby waiting for me.

  I jogged toward him and saw a smile on his face. “Like it here, do you?” he asked.

  “I do. I almost feel like a castaway. It’s so peaceful and calm here.”

  He nodded. “That it is,” he said, before heading to the
boat.

  By the time we reached Atsena Otie, the four of us agreed we were ready for lunch. After Doyle had positioned the boat along the shore, Chloe and I set to work filling the table with plates and food.

  I felt Saxton’s arm around my shoulder and smiled as the boat gently swayed.

  “Well, now . . . you two ladies are welcome to join us sailors anytime when you bring food like that.”

  Doyle placed bottles of water on the table and nodded. “I agree. That sure does look good, and when we’re finished Saxton and I will take you around the island.”

  I settled myself on the seat beside Saxton while balancing my plate. “Is it safe to walk in there?”

  Doyle laughed. “Well, there are snakes of course, but there’s a trail and we’ll stick to that.”

  “This is my first time visiting Atsena Otie also,” Chloe said. “I heard there’s a cemetery in there.”

  “There is. A small one, but there’s still a few stones. The remains of the Faber Pencil Mill are also there. During its peak in the 1880s, the mill employed about a hundred people.”

  I took a bite of chicken and nodded. “Oh, I’d read about that. I got a book at the bookstore on the history of Cedar Key. You’re a great historian, Doyle. Saxton told me you were born and raised here.”

  “Actually, I was born in Bronson, but when I was just a baby my folks came to Cedar Key. Been here ever since. My parents ran a restaurant over on Dock Street. My dad and I were fishermen and provided all the fresh seafood for the customers.”

  “Has the island changed much since then?” Chloe asked.

  “Oh, not that much. Certainly not like other Florida towns,” he told her, and then directed his gaze at me. “And you’re originally from Salem, Massachusetts? Your family still up there?”

  “No, I’m afraid I was the last one. My grandmother passed away over a year ago and then my mother in November.”

  He nodded his head before lifting his water bottle to his mouth. “What brought you here? Had you visited here before?”

  “My first time visiting Cedar Key was last spring. I was looking for a small town to relocate.” I took a bite of potato salad, waiting for Doyle to say something else, but when he didn’t, I continued. “I had never been here before last year . . . but my mother had been.” I went on to once again share my story.