Postcards from Cedar Key

by Terri DuLong

  I had a feeling something more than the weather had brought about his burst of happiness.

  “I think I’ll take a box of your best chocolates. And . . . could you wrap them up real pretty like? Maybe put a bow on top?”

  “Certainly,” I said. “A gift for somebody?”

  “Yes, it is,” and I heard the pleasure in his voice. “It’s for Miss Raylene. I got around to asking her out—on a date. And she accepted.”

  I smiled as I began filling a box with truffles. “That’s wonderful. Where are you taking her?”

  “A fancy Italian restaurant in Gainesville. Do you think she’ll like that?”

  I pulled a piece of gold wrapping paper off the roll and nodded. “Oh, I’m sure she will. And with the chocolates, she’ll be one happy woman.”

  “I sure hope so. Oh, and could you give me a pound of your chocolate clams too. No need to wrap those. They’re for me. It’s those chocolates, ya know.”

  I turned around to face him as I wrapped the box with white ribbon. “What do you mean?”

  “Well, ever since I started eating those chocolates of yours—well, each day I seemed to get more confident with Miss Raylene, and finally . . . the other day, at the Senior Lunch, I just blurted it out. Came right out and told her I had a fondness for her and I’d like to accompany her to a lunch in Gainesville. And she said she’d love to. Now, doesn’t that just beat all? It has to be your chocolate. I’m certain of it.”

  I smiled as I placed the bow on top of the package. “Hmm, so you think my chocolate has magical qualities?”

  “I don’t know much about magic or any of that. All I do know is that after a few months of eating that chocolate, why, I’m a whole new man.”

  I placed both boxes into a bag, rang up the sale, and passed them across the counter.

  “Well, I’m very happy for you, Mr. Carl. When is this date scheduled for?”

  “I’m picking Miss Raylene up Saturday morning about eleven. And I plan to give her the chocolates then. Do you think I should also get her a bouquet of flowers? Or would that be overdoing it?”

  “Why don’t you see how the date goes, and if it goes well, maybe have some flowers delivered to her. To thank her for a nice time.”

  He nodded his head emphatically. “Great idea. Thank you so much, Miss Berkley. You’ve been a big help to me and I appreciate it.”

  “My pleasure. Just be sure to give me a follow-up on that date,” I told him as he turned to leave.

  I stood by the door and watched him cross the street to the coffee café. Such a sweet man. And if he wanted to believe that it was my chocolate that had boosted his confidence, who was I to disagree?

  The ringing phone pulled me out of my thoughts, and I answered to hear Flora’s voice.

  “Hey, Berkley. Do you have any plans for lunch today?”

  “None at all. Why?”

  “Because I’d like you to come over. I’m fixing up some soft-shell crabs. They just molted last night, so they’re nice and fresh. I was up most of the night with them.”

  You have to babysit crabs? “Sure,” I told her. “I can be over about noon.”

  A few hours later I walked up State Road 24 to Flora’s house overlooking the bayou.

  She opened the door with a warm welcome. “Come on in,” she said as the aroma of garlic filled my senses.

  Flora led the way through the small house out to a screen-enclosed porch with a great view of the salt marshes and water.

  “How pretty,” I said, taking a seat on one of the patio chairs.

  “Yeah, I was always glad we could raise our kids in such a great spot. And now my grandson runs the soft-shell crab business that my husband started years ago.”

  There’s a lot to be said for family continuity, I thought, and I felt proud that I was carrying on Gran’s tradition with the chocolate shop.

  I glanced down into the yard and saw tanks of water. “Is that for the crabs?” I asked.

  Flora nodded. “That’s where we keep them while they’re getting ready to shed their shells. You need to grab them within three or four hours before the new shell hardens. That’s why I was up with them all night. Once they back out of their shell, I remove them from the tank and they go into the freezer or refrigerator. How about a glass of sweet tea?”

  “Sounds great,” I said, standing up to get a better look at the glass tanks below me.

  Flora poured from the plastic pitcher on the table.

  “Thanks,” I said, and took a sip. “Delicious.” I might be a Yankee girl, but I’d quickly come to love the sweet tea the South was noted for. “This is quite a business you have going here.”

  “Oh, it was much larger during my husband’s time. But my grandson gets enough of the crabs to sell to local restaurants, and we enjoy eating them too. Let me get our lunch,” she said, heading back into the house.

  “Can I help?”

  “No, I’m all set,” she hollered over her shoulder, and returned a minute later carrying a tray.

  Flora placed a dish in front of me with crabs that had been sautéed in butter and garlic.

  “And help yourself to some salad,” she said, indicating the bowl before she sat down to join me.

  I took a bite of the crab and smiled. “Oh, gosh, this is really delicious!”

  Flora nodded. “Nothing quite as good as soft-shell crabs.”

  Neither of us spoke for a few moments as we enjoyed the delicacy.

  “So, any luck finding something out about your mother?” she asked.

  I took a bite of salad and shook my head. “I’m afraid not. Nobody seems to remember her being here. I did find out from one of the postcards she sent to my grandmother that she was working here though. She only mentioned a job, but didn’t say exactly what she was doing.”

  Flora wiped her mouth with a napkin. “Hmm, there have never been that many jobs available on the island. Well, there’s fishing and now clamming, but back in the seventies . . . beyond that, a young woman would have worked in one of the shops, done cleaning or maybe waitressing.”

  “I suppose she could have done any of those things, but wouldn’t you think somebody would remember her?”

  “Those employees came and went. And if it was just a summer job, all the more reason not to recall a person.” Flora refilled her glass with sweet tea. “I do hope you’ll find your answers, Berkley. Must have you feeling a bit lost to have a missing piece to your family history.”

  “Thanks, and yeah, it would be nice to finally understand why my mother came here.”

  “Any updates from Grace and Lucas? Are Chloe and Maude still planning to go to Paris?”

  “Suellen heard from Grace the other day, and they’re doing fine. They’re down in the south of France for a couple weeks, traveling to different towns. Chloe changed her mind on going. Apparently her son is no longer working there. He got transferred to San Francisco, and Maude said they’d have to get somebody to look after the two dogs if they went, so they’re not going. Both of them seemed fine with staying put here.”

  Flora laughed. “Yeah, Cedar Key has a way of doing that. Making one want to stay put.”

  I knew after finishing the crab and salad that I’d be having a light supper. This was confirmed when Flora brought out a funnel cake on a plate.

  “Oh, that looks wonderful,” I said, gazing at the puffed fried cake topped with confectioners’ sugar. “Do you really use a funnel to make that?”

  “We do. So the batter can’t be too thick, because it has to fill the funnel, and then you release it into the oil in the skillet.”

  I took a bite and let out a groan. “This is so good, Flora.”

  “I’ll give you a copy of the recipe before you leave.”

  Just a small thing, I know. Offering to share a recipe—but also another small expression of being accepted on the island.

  22

  Afew days later I got a call from Saxton asking if I was free late Sunday afternoon.

  “W
ell, I normally don’t close the shop till five, but I can close earlier. Why? What’s up?”

  “Miss Maybelle called and asked if we could join her for tea around four.”

  “Absolutely,” I said. “I’d love to.”

  “Great. I’ll pick you up about three forty-five.”

  Saxton steered the golf cart over the airport bridge and took a right down a dirt road. He pulled into the driveway of the last house, which had an unobstructed view of the water.

  “What a nice spot,” I said, getting out and following him to the front door. “The flowers were really sweet of you, by the way.” I nodded toward the large bouquet of vivid yellow and orange chrysanthemums.

  Maybelle opened the door as soon as Saxton knocked, pulled it wide, and said, “Welcome, welcome. Oh, Saxton, you shouldn’t have . . . but thank you.” She accepted the flowers and gestured for us to have a seat in the small but cozy sitting room.

  The cottage made me feel like I was stepping back in time. Ornate deep brown velvet furniture was arranged to flank the brick fireplace. Vintage lamps with satin shades and fringe perched atop pale pink marble tables. An exquisite oval shaped Persian carpet, in shades of beige and tan, covered the white tile floor beneath the furniture. Large framed paintings covered the pale yellow walls, and all of it was surrounded by glass windows on two sides from floor to ceiling.

  “What a beautiful room,” I said, as I seated myself in one of the cushy chairs.

  “Thank you. It’s my little sanctuary. Always has been. Let me get these in water and I’ll just be a minute.”

  Maybelle walked around the counter, which separated the sitting area from a kitchen that looked like it could have been taken from a fifties television show. A candy red refrigerator and matching stove stood along one wall, while the other three walls had white cabinets with stenciled red strawberries along the edges. I smiled and couldn’t help but feel that perhaps Maybelle was stuck in a time warp.

  “Lovely,” she said, placing the crystal vase on the counter. “Now I’ll get our tea.”

  “Let me help,” Saxton said, jumping up from the chair across from me.

  He came back into the sitting room, placing a silver tray complete with silver teapot and Limoges cups, saucers, sugar, and creamer on the large marble coffee table.

  Maybelle followed with another tray filled with bite-size sandwiches, scones, and pastries.

  “Oh, my goodness,” I said, leaning over for a better look. “This reminds me of afternoon tea at the Plaza.”

  “It is. Saxton, if you’ll be so good as to uncork the champagne, we’ll have a glass with the sandwiches.”

  I noticed a bottle of Veuve Clicquot chilling in a silver ice bucket on one of the end tables and heard a soft pop as Saxton expertly opened it. He filled three flutes, passed one to Maybelle and one to me, and then held his in the air.

  “To the illustrious Miss Maybelle, as bubbly as the champagne and as sweet as the pastries.”

  She nodded, took a sip, and smiled. “Now then, help yourself,” she said, passing me a plate. “We have strawberry and cream cheese sandwiches, these are smoked salmon, and those are cucumber, radish, and basil.”

  I was definitely beginning to feel I was back at the Plaza Hotel for my memorable tenth birthday. “I can hardly believe this,” I said, reaching for one of the sandwiches. “My mother took me to the Plaza when I turned ten and I had the Eloise Tea.”

  “Really?” Saxton said, surprise covering his face.

  “Ah, you were one of the lucky girls, weren’t you? That’s a memory that no little girl ever forgets.” Maybelle delicately placed a salmon sandwich on her plate.

  “Did you go there and have an Eloise Tea?” I asked, after taking a small bite of the strawberry and cream cheese sandwich that was every bit as tasty as I’d remembered it being.

  Maybelle laughed. “I did, but not as a little girl.” She took a sip of champagne and blotted her lips with a linen napkin. “I took my goddaughter there when she was eight.”

  “So she has a great memory just like I do,” I said, fractions of a second before seeing the imperceptible shake of Saxton’s head.

  Awkward silence filled the room for a few moments, and then Maybelle cleared her throat. “I’m honestly not sure if Victoria remembers that event or not. Her mother, Dorothy, was my best friend since my Copa days, but when Victoria was about ten . . . well, we had a falling out.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” I said.

  “Yes. So am I. I adored that child, but it’s been many years since we’ve been in touch.”

  It was obvious that whatever had caused the parting with her friend was a source of sadness for Maybelle.

  “These sandwiches are just delicious,” I said, in an attempt to change the subject.

  “I’m glad you’re enjoying them, and when we finish I’ll show you some of my costumes as I promised.”

  Saxton reached for another sandwich and smiled. “And I think Maybelle has a story to go with each one of them.”

  “Had you always wanted to be a dancer in New York?” I asked.

  Maybelle laughed, and I was glad that the mention of Dorothy and Victoria hadn’t ruined her jovial mood. “Oh, my, yes. Always. By the time I was thirteen, I’d pretty much made up my mind that eight years of dance classes was going to be my ticket to fame. I left upper state New York and headed to the Big Apple the day after I turned eighteen. And I never looked back.”

  I’m sure there was a lot more to her story. It was obvious that she was a determined woman, and with her talent and motivation, she acquired whatever she set her sights on.

  Conversation flowed about island stuff as we enjoyed the delicious scones, Devonshire cream, and raspberry preserves. The citrus flavor of the tea added to the overall experience.

  Maybelle then brought out four of her costumes, covered in protective plastic. I sat beside Saxton on the sofa and momentarily felt like I was attending a Paris fashion show as I oohed and aahed over each one.

  It was easy to understand how each costume set the tone and mood of each production. The combined texture, line, and shape of each garment must have been magnificent with the stage lighting.

  I sighed as Maybelle brought out stunning gowns covered in beads, pearls, and jewels, along with white furs and stunning headpieces.

  I had no doubt that she enjoyed every second of her display for us.

  When she finished, she said, “Isn’t that the wonderful thing about memories? They’re with us forever. Now then, time for some pastries with a fresh pot of tea.”

  I was astonished when she brought out a platter filled with small squares of lemon tea cake and French macaroons. There was no doubt that Maybelle was back in her element and also that she had enormously enjoyed the baking and preparation for our tea.

  When Saxton and I got back to my apartment four hours later, I let out a deep sigh.

  “I hope she knows how much I enjoyed our time with her.”

  Saxton pulled me into an embrace as he kissed my forehead. “I’m pretty sure she does, and I’m glad you enjoyed it.”

  “Can I get you coffee, wine?”

  He patted his stomach and smiled. “Oh, no, but thanks. They might call it tea but it’s really a meal.”

  I laughed and joined him on the sofa. “I know. All of it was really wonderful. What a great person she is. So you know her pretty well?”

  “Maybelle was one of the first people I met when I moved here. She had been reading my books for quite a few years, it seems. Used to order them special from England. So when she found out I had moved here, she wasted no time showing up on my doorstep to introduce herself as one of my biggest fans.”

  “No! Did she really?”

  “Yes, she really did. Maybelle isn’t shy. But she was so delightful that I asked her if she’d like to join me for a cup of tea on the deck. She accepted, and the rest is history. I consider her a very good friend.”

  “What is her history? Was she ever married? Any c
hildren? Do you know what caused that rift with her friend Dorothy?”

  “Except for her Copa days, she doesn’t talk about herself much. I do know she was never married, no children, but she did adore that goddaughter, Victoria. And no, she never told me why she and Dorothy parted ways.”

  “And Victoria hasn’t been in touch with her either? Gosh, she’d probably be in her thirties or forties now, wouldn’t she?”

  “Probably, and no, she never saw or heard from Victoria again. Rather sad, and I’m sure it bothers her. By the way, I had no idea your mother took you to the Plaza for a birthday celebration.”

  I nodded. “Yeah, to be honest, although Maybelle said that’s something a little girl never forgets . . . I hadn’t thought about that in years. My mother and I took the train from Boston to New York. We certainly didn’t stay at the Plaza. She had booked us into a small hotel for three nights. We did all the usual touristy things. Took the carriage ride around Central Park, went to the top of the Empire State Building, a boat ride around Battery Park, but the highlight was the Eloise Tea at the Plaza. I had read the Eloise book, and I strongly related to her. An only child, spent more time with a nanny rather than her mother, and a bit precocious, as I could be. I didn’t have a nanny, but I spent a lot of time with my grandmother.”

  Saxton reached for my hand and gave it a squeeze.

  “So you do have some nice memories of time spent with your mother.”

  I did, and wondered if it was resentment that kept me from thinking about them more often.

  23

  Two days later Saxton and I left Cedar Key and headed to the northeast Georgia Mountains. I knitted for much of the eight-hour drive as we kept up nonstop conversation.

  Adding another skein of yarn to the emerald green cable sweater I was working on, I said, “Gee, I hope Chloe remembers to give Sigmund the ice water in the fridge. He likes his water nice and cold.”

  “That was good of her to offer to watch him while we’re away, and you left her a list, so I’m sure she’ll refer to it.”

  I nodded and kept knitting.