Those Cassabaw Days

by Cindy Miles

She grasped his jaw on either side, tilted his head up and then she slanted her mouth over his and kissed. Suckled. Tasted until she heard pennies clatter to the floor and Matt’s hands slipped around her waist.

  “Well,” Emily finally said, “at this rate the counter will never get finished.”

  Matt laughed, set her on her stool, pulled the mason jar filled with pennies between them, and they both began setting them in place as Ella Fitzgerald played in the background. They worked until the wee hours of the morning.

  “Wow,” Emily said, yawning. “Three-fourths finished.” She gave a wink to Matt. “Impressive.”

  “How ’bout breakfast?” he said, pulling her into his lap. “Jep’s up about now making pancakes.”

  “Sounds good to me.”

  * * *

  AS THE DAYS went by, the two had fun together. Actually enjoyed each other’s company. It was endearing; it was exactly what Emily had always dreamed it’d be like to be Matt’s girl.

  Better, really.

  Hidden beneath that endearment, though, was a niggling sort of ghost that wouldn’t leave Emily’s mind. She could still sense urgency in Matt. What did that mean? With their budding romance, the butterflies, the exhilaration of the next touch, the next kiss, Emily tucked that ghost away. Besides, they were so busy finishing the café it was easy to put aside the fears that came along with that particular ghost.

  The repairs to the Windchimer were finally complete—even the penny counter was mere hours from completion. Matt had installed the new wash sink, faucets, deep freeze and industrial dishwasher, as well as finished repairs to the floor.

  Inside, the walls received two fresh coats of sea-serpent-green paint. The quirky milk-glass globes for the lighting had been cleaned and shined with new life. The jellyfish prints were displayed on the walls and added a perfect beachy thirties flare to the decor, along with the Depression-era glass-bottomed mixers and electric fans. They’d covered the ceiling with punched tin, and Emily couldn’t wait to see how the LED glass insulators would reflect against it.

  “So are we ready to hang them?” Emily asked. She stood, making a small, slow circle, and inspected the interior of the Windchimer.

  “Let’s get to it,” Matt answered from behind her. He pushed her hair aside and dragged his lips across the back of her neck. “God, you smell good,” he said on an inhale.

  Emily’s eyes drifted shut as Matt’s mouth moved over her skin.

  Just as quickly as he’d started the assault, he stopped, grasped Emily by the shoulders and turned her around to face him. “Come on, then,” he teased. “Let’s get ’em strung.”

  Emily let out a long sigh. “I can barely stand after that,” she muttered. “But okay.”

  Matt just laughed.

  Dragging a pair of ladders around, with Emily holding the strands of insulator lights and Matt nailing them to the rafters, an hour later and the twinkling stars were hung. Matt climbed down after the last length was nailed, turned to Emily and dumped her over his shoulder.

  “Mattinski! What are you doing?” she laughed, bouncing off his stone-like back.

  “Close your eyes,” he said.

  She did so, giggling, and waited.

  He pulled her back over his shoulder, cradled in his arms. “Open them.”

  Emily blinked her eyes open and stared into the twinkling insulator lights, covering the rafters of the café. They cast an unusual and most perfect glow, like a blanket of stars after the sunset. A smile pulled at her mouth, and it just grew wider. “Oh, Matt,” she whispered, and when she looked up, he was staring down at her. His features softened somewhat.

  “Christ, you’re beautiful,” he said in a husky voice. “Is this real?”

  Emily reached then, grazing his stubbled jaw with her fingertips. “If it’s not, I hope I never wake.”

  They stood there, beneath the amber luminescence of the insulators, unable to look away. Finally, Matt did.

  “Hey,” he said, setting her down. His arms went around her, and he kissed the top of her head. “Close your eyes again.”

  Standing inside the café’s indoor dining area, Emily shut her eyes tight. “Ooh! Another surprise. Okay. Closed.”

  Matt’s fingers threaded through hers. “Follow me. No peeking.”

  “I won’t!” she breathed.

  “I don’t trust you,” Matt said, his raspy voice washing over her. “Here, let me help.” He rounded behind her, slipped his hands over her eyes, and nudged her forward. “Just keep walking. I won’t let you hit the doors.”

  “Promise?” Emily said behind his hands.

  “Yes, Em. Okay, here we go.”

  The brisk sea breeze caught one of the pigtails Emily wore and brushed it over her collarbone. Straining her ears, she heard a shuffling, a stifled cough, a hushed chuckle. It was hard to hear over all the wind chimes—

  “Oh! Matt, let me see!” she said, pulling at his hands.

  “Hey!” Wimpy, Ted and the others all cheered. “Happy café opening!”

  Hanging from the rafters were no less than fifty wind chimes of all shapes and sizes. They all clinged and clanged, and Emily walked beneath them, her neck craned back. “Oh, thanks, fellas!” She threw her arms around Mr. Wimpy. “You guys are the best!”

  “Well, it was the jarhead here who first suggested it,” Ted admitted. “We all wanted to get you a little something.” When Emily hugged him, his cheeks turned ruddy. “Hell, girl,” he stuttered. “They’re just a bunch of noisy old pipes.”

  “So are you, Ted Harden,” Dubb said with a laugh.

  “So are we back to the penny counter tonight?” Putt asked. “Pee Wee’s making a pound cake.”

  “Definitely,” Emily said with a clap of her hands. “Be here at six sharp.”

  The vets all waved and shuffled off the veranda, heading home. Emily watched them amble up the boardwalk. Watched them all laugh. “Are they all really in their eighties, Matt? It’s so easy for me to imagine them as young, strong, cocky twenty-year-olds.” She tilted her head to look at him. “Full of life, full of spirit.”

  “Full of BS most of the time.” Matt gave a raspy laugh. “I swear, Ted Harden can dish it out. But those guys? Don’t make ’em like that anymore.”

  “Well, I don’t know about that,” she said, grinning. “I like to think they were a lot like you in their prime.” She smiled. “Thank you, Matt,” Emily said, and leaned against him.

  “For what?” he whispered against the side of her neck, below her ear.

  “For all of this,” she answered, and turned in his arms. “For being my best friend again.” She rose on tiptoes, swiped her lips over his and pulled back until they were nose to nose. She wiggled her brows. “For letting me kiss you whenever I want.”

  Matt laughed, and so did Emily, and he quickly swallowed both sounds as his mouth covered hers and stole her breath.

  Still, even as his lips claimed hers, the ghost of a fear that Matt might one day leave pushed at her thoughts.

  Could she live with the memory of Matt’s mouth against hers?

  * * *

  EMILY PULLED THE emergency brake on the Jeep, killed the engine and stepped out. The sea wind pushed her hair off her face, and the rising tide rushed the shoreline, a constant serene sound that Emily didn’t think she’d ever grow weary of hearing. With a deep breath, she made her way across the sandy yard.

  Matt had received a phone call and left in a hurry, saying he’d be back to the café by six while they all finished the penny counter. So she had decided to visit a local antiques store—well, more like an old hermit named Catesby on the north end of Cassabaw who lived in a run-down cottage.

  Jep had told Emily about him, and then she’d remembered exactly who he was. As kids Nathan used to tell her, Matt, Reagan and Eric horror stories about him being some sort of island monster who ate seahorses and little kids, but in fact he had a drool-worthy collection of antiques and was a well-known picker in Georgia and South Carolina.
/>   When Emily had visited him the first time, she’d discovered several wonderful finds from the thirties—the old electric fans and bowl mixers that now sat displayed in the café. But Catesby had called and left a message for her to come over and take a first look at his latest estate-auction find before he put them out for sale.

  She’d sort of become fast friends with the evil seahorse-and-child-devouring hermit.

  Emily stomped the sand from her Vans, gave a short loud knock and slowly pushed open the door. A bell tinkled overhead, and the dim interior, cluttered from wall to wall, was vacant of the movement. “Mr. Catesby?” she called out. “It’s me, Emily.”

  “Come on back here!” he growled out from somewhere in the bowels of the cottage. “And watch your step!”

  “Coming!” Emily returned. She carefully picked her way down a narrow little cleared pathway, toward the back, until she saw Mr. Catesby stick his head around the corner.

  “In here,” he said.

  Emily ducked inside, another room that was once probably a bedroom, lined and filled with crates and boxes and plastic tubs filled with treasures. In the center of the room sat three large plastic blue tubs, secured with lids.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Catesby,” Emily said with a smile. “Thank you for the heads-up!”

  “Well, go ahead,” he grunted, and pointed toward the tubs with his cane. “Get what you want and we’ll talk prices after.” His face reddened. “I remember you told me you liked all them old clothes from the thirties. It’s a good collection.”

  Emily gave the old man a wide smile. “Oh, boy! Thanks so much. And that sounds fair to me.”

  Mr. Catesby shuffled out, and Emily watched to make sure his foot didn’t catch on anything. He was a lanky old guy, with bowed legs and a shock of white hair, and skin so tanned it looked like old boot leather. Lines nestled into his skin at the rims of his eyes, mouth and forehead. She smiled, shook her head, kneeled down and dug in.

  The moment she lifted the first lid, Emily gasped. It was a collection of dresses and various clothing items from the twenties and thirties that he’d recently picked up, and to Emily’s delight she’d found several that would be completely wearable after a good dry cleaning.

  One in particular was a lovely poppy print in white chiffon in a 1930s style that Emily instantly adored. Holding the delicate dress to her front, she prayed it would fit. She’d love to wear it for the café’s grand opening. Setting it gently aside, she continued her search and found several hats from the era, as well as a pair of black strappy pumps. It was indeed a treasure.

  As she loaded her selections into an empty tub, she lifted it and stepped out of the room. “Mr. Catesby?”

  “Yeah?” he called. “Up front.”

  With the tub in her arms, Emily picked her way to the front and set it down. Nestled between two stacks of boxes was an old worn-out recliner. Catesby was just rising. “Find what you were looking for?” he asked.

  “Yes, sir,” she answered. Her eyes scanned the room as she waited, and in the corner sat an old secretary desk. On it, a framed photo of a handsome man, his young wife and a toddler with a head full of pitch-black curls. At closer inspection, she recognized the man. Dark hair. Nice-looking. Tall, lean, with a wide smile. It was Catesby at what she’d guess was maybe early twenties. Emily set the tub down and walked over to it. “Mr. Catesby?”

  “Yep?”

  She lifted the photo. “Is this your family?”

  He looked over the rim of his glasses. A somber expression crossed his weathered features, and for a moment, they softened. “Alice. My daughter, Judith. They drowned in the Ashley River two months after that picture was taken. Long time ago.”

  “I’m so sorry,” Emily said. “I always thought you were from Cassabaw.”

  He shook his head. “Nope. Came here soon after that.” He looked at her then. “You want that whole lot?” He pointed to the tub, dismissing the discussion.

  “Yes, sir,” she answered. “Plus that fabulous apothecary chest in the corner there. It’s a wonderful find. Just what I was looking for.”

  “Hmm...” He tapped on his calculator. “How’s two hundred and twenty dollars sound?”

  Emily smiled. “Perfect.” She flipped open her wallet and retrieved the cash, then handed it to him. As he counted, she reached over and squeezed his hand. “Please come to the café’s grand opening. I’ll save you a seat.”

  Catesby glared at her. “Folks don’t like it when I’m around,” he grumbled. “I can tell.”

  “Well, I like you around,” she assured him. “And I know a group of fellas who I think you’d love to meet.” She smiled and winked. “I’ll see you there.”

  “Don’t hold your breath, girly!” he called as she left.

  Emily just smiled. He’d come.

  Just as Emily pulled up to the river house, Matt came ambling up from the edge of the marsh. The afternoon had waned, and the first streaky lavender signs of dusk appeared in the sky. On her head sat one of the hats she’d purchased, and it fit perfectly, and when she heard his approach she looked up—and had to swallow. Hard.

  The sight of Matt Malone, bare to the waist, complete with broad shoulders, chiseled muscles and wicked tattoos, never ceased to make her lose her breath.

  “What are you wearing?” he asked, and nodded to her head.

  She grinned and grazed her prize with her fingertips. “One of my treasures. Cool, huh? Do you remember old Catesby on the north end of the island?”

  Matt’s gaze was still on her head, inspecting the hat. “Yep.” He grinned—and it was a sight Emily was getting more and more used to. “He’s even grumpier than me.”

  A laugh bubbled out of Emily. “He runs a close second for sure, but he’s really sweet once you get to know him.” She winked. “Kinda like you.”

  “Hmm.” He nuzzled her neck, kissed her jaw and glanced at the Jeep’s loaded back end. “Need some help?”

  “I do, yes,” she said. Juggling the box of dresses and whatnot in her arms, she nodded to the Jeep. “Let me set this box down and you can help me with that old apothecary chest.” She started up the steps to the veranda and grinned over her shoulder. “I’m going to paint it robin’s-egg blue and set it directly by the front door, on the left.”

  Emily let herself inside and set the box down in the center of the living room, and when she turned Matt was already stepping in with the chest in his arms. “Oh! Right here is fine,” she said, and he set it down next to the box on the big braided rug in the living room. “Thanks.”

  He scrubbed his jaw and inspected the chest. “Nice piece. What else did you find?”

  Emily was having trouble keeping her eyes off the smooth shifting and subtle bunching of muscles in Matt’s back as he bent, inspected, ran his hand over the aged wood. The scars, in various shades of reds and purples, also grabbed her attention, and she had to force herself not to reach out and caress them. What on earth had they done to him? What had he endured?

  “Em?”

  Emily beamed. “Dresses. A pair of heels. Some more hats, including fedoras for men. And a wonderful pair of high-waist, wide-legged women’s trousers in navy blue.”

  He continued to stare but said nothing.

  Emily knew him well enough, though, that his silence meant for her to continue with an explanation. So she did. “We’re going to dress up for the grand opening. I’m going to play the roaring twenties and thirties for the patrons. You know, not loud or obnoxious, but subtle, in the background while they take their meal.” She shrugged, smiled and sighed dramatically. “I thought I’d give the Windchimer a memorable, long-lasting Gastby-like opening touch.” Emily cocked her head. “What do you think?”

  “I’ll have to hear it before I can make an honest judgment.”

  Emily squealed and hurried over to the corner of the living room where she’d set up her record player. Choosing an album of various artists, she pulled the vinyl out of the sleeve and set it on the turntable.
Carefully, she set the needle.

  “Don’t you just love the old crackling sound that happens as the needle moves closer to the music on the vinyl?”

  Matt’s mouth tipped up, and he was clearly amused. “You are so weird.”

  The music started, and Emily began to shimmy an old dance. “Takes one to know one. You know what your problem is, Matt Malone?” she teased as she danced a circle around him. “You’re a fuddy-duddy.”

  Grabbing his hand, she ducked under his arm as though he were leading her in a dance, when in truth he just stood there, grinning and shaking his head. “I’m not talking about a run-of-the-mill nincompoop, either. Oh, no.” She ducked under his arm again. “I’m talking Grade A, humongous to the nth degree nincompoop!”

  “Is that so?” Matt said, and spun her fast. “I’ll show you.”

  “Ha! Matt!” Emily laughed as the next song began. “The Charleston! Come on! Do it with me. Ple-e-ease!” She batted her eyes. “We used to do it all the time with Jep!”

  Matt rolled his eyes. “Emily, I stink like the marsh. I’ve been working on the dock for the past four hours. Besides, I don’t dance.”

  “That’s a big fat lie, Matt Malone, and you know it. Please?”

  Looking around, Matt grinned, grabbed her hand and spun her out. “If you squeal on me, you’ll be sorry.”

  “I swear, I won’t!”

  With boxes and appliances still in her living room, she and Matt cut a rug, as Jep would say, as they laughed and went through all of the moves of the Charleston.

  It reminded Emily of the scene in It’s a Wonderful Life, when George Bailey and Mary Hatch were doing the Charleston in the gym, and the floors opened up into a swimming pool and everyone jumped in. She and Matt laughed, they danced to the old tinny music of horns and trombones and saxophones, and for a swift moment Emily forgot that this was truly the first time she’d seen him dance in, well, forever.

  And she liked it.

  The song wound down, and they slowed their moves, and a new song began. Emily’s eyes widened and she gasped. “This is my favorite, Matt!” She set a proper slow dance stance between them. “‘Girl of My Dreams,’ by the Blue Steele Orchestra.” They began to move in a slow dance. Emily kept one hand in Matt’s, her other barely resting against his shoulder.