[Christmas Key 01.0] There's Always a Catch

by Stephanie Taylor

  River takes her hand and leads her through the darkened house without another word.

  The next morning, Bonnie sticks close to Holly’s side at the dock, always ready to help out. Holly’s overly efficient list-making and task-completing from behind her dark sunglasses are simply ways to keep herself occupied as the fishermen load their luggage onto the ferry, and Bonnie knows it.

  “Did we print them receipts from the B&B for everything?” Holly asks, waving at Cap and Buckhunter as they pull up in their golf carts. Each man has two fishermen and several duffel bags piled onto their carts. Holly is still amazed at how her neighbors have pitched in and pulled together to make this visit a success. A knot of happiness twisted with melancholy fills her chest as she watches her neighbors shake hands with their new friends, saying their good-byes and laughing jovially about the mishaps that the fishermen survived on Christmas Key.

  “Yep, got their receipts, and gave them the thank you notes and the travel brochures that you had printed up,” Bonnie says efficiently.

  Holly pretends to consult a list on her clipboard when she sees Coco and Alan approaching. The wheels of their suitcases make loud clacks with each roll over the boards of the dock. Coco has wisely avoided her daughter since their confrontation in the B&B’s back office, and with both Bonnie’s and River’s promises to keep all talk of selling the island under wraps, there’s been absolutely no mention of resorts or relocation.

  Watching her mother stride down the dock, chin raised defiantly, Holly feels a headache pressing against the backs of her eyes like two thumbs pushing into soft clay.

  “Holly,” Alan says, approaching her alone. Coco hangs back, her long legs encased in a stretchy ankle-length black skirt. She shuffles the paperwork for their flight like she doesn’t even see her daughter standing there.

  Alan stops in front of Holly, his tall frame stooped over slightly. He has a rolling suitcase in each hand. “Listen, Hol, your mom…”

  Holly braces herself. Her stepfather doesn’t generally interfere with the prickly relationship between his wife and her only child, but Holly feels a lecture coming on, and she knows she won’t like it.

  “She wants to do the right thing here, and, to be perfectly honest, she’s always wanted to do right by you,” Alan starts, setting the suitcases upright and sticking his hands into the pockets of his shorts. He jingles the coins and keys in his pockets nervously.

  “Alan—” This is not a conversation that Holly feels like having on the middle of the dock with nearly every islander crowded around and an extra nineteen visitors looking on for good measure.

  “No, hear me out, Holly.” Alan pulls a hand out of his pocket and holds up a palm to stop her. “I get that you two are like oil and water, and I also get that this island is a source of contention for you two right now.”

  “It’s not a source of contention, Alan. My grandparents gave me a home, and she wants to take it away.” Her last few words sound more like a little girl complaining to her dad about the unfairness of it all than she wants them to, and in no way is she—a thirty-year-old mayor and businesswoman—trying to plead her case to her mother’s husband. She clears her throat and stands up straighter. There is absolutely no chance that she’s going to let Alan play mediator here and offer an opinion about this island like it’s any of his business.

  “She’s trying to solidify your financial future, Holly. She sees that this place could easily become a money pit,” Alan says in a quiet voice, leaning down to her. “And she wants to keep you from ending up with no island and no money.”

  “Alan. That’s not going to happen. This island is growing, and before you know it, Christmas Key will be a major tourist destination.”

  They both glance around at the group of middle-aged fishermen, at their duffel bags and sun-bleached baseball caps. Holly realizes that this particular group of tourists isn’t quite the moneyed, cosmopolitan crowd that would indicate a major tourist destination, but it is a start and she’s proud of what she’s doing.

  “Yeah, well…I’d ask you to at least look over any proposals that your mother puts together, okay? Don’t be narrow-minded when it comes to your future, Holly. I say this strictly from a financial standpoint, and one from which I have nothing to gain, you understand?” Alan’s face is serious. The placket of his button-up shirt flaps in the breeze; under it is a white t-shirt. Holly fixes her gaze on the thin gold chain that snakes out from under his collar and wraps around his neck.

  She’s considering just nodding in agreement to end this conversation when she catches Coco in her peripheral vision. Her mother is now standing under a palm tree with Buckhunter, of all people. From behind, she can see Coco’s strong, sculpted shoulders flex and ripple under her loose tank top as she gestures heatedly. Buckhunter is frowning, and every time he opens his mouth to speak, Coco interrupts by throwing a hand up in his face.

  Holly instinctively moves in that direction. Keeping everything calm and even-keeled in front of the fishermen is important to her, and her mother creating a scene just before leaving is totally unacceptable.

  “Just hold up,” Alan says, grabbing her forearm. “Your mom’s got this one.”

  Holly yanks her arm away from Alan’s grip, startled. He’s never touched her before, except maybe to give her a casual hug on greeting or departure. His presumption about his place in her life at this moment has finally pushed her to a dangerous place.

  “Get. Your. Hands. Off of me.” Holly hisses in a low voice. “I’m a grown woman and I will not be manhandled by my stepfather.”

  She’s more than ready to walk over and break up whatever is going on between Coco and Buckhunter, but when she turns back to them, Coco is already walking toward her with a smug look on her face.

  “Let’s get on the boat, Alan,” Coco orders, large black sunglasses shielding her eyes from view. “And you and I are not done with this discussion,” she says to Holly. “Not by a long shot. I’ll be in touch. And I expect you to consider any serious offers that I can drum up.”

  “Don’t waste your time, because I won’t,” Holly says stubbornly.

  “Well, then this is going to be more painful for you than it needs to be.”

  Coco keeps walking, assuming that Alan will follow. With a deep sigh of resignation, he lifts a suitcase handle in each hand.

  “Holly.” Alan nods at her curtly. “Thank you for having us.”

  A nauseating, acidic burn roils in Holly’s stomach she watches her mother and stepfather climb onto the boat. Her eyes search the crowd frantically for River. Nothing feels right. River leaving; Jake showing up at her house and insinuating that selling the island might be a good idea; Alan trying to appeal to her on Coco’s behalf; watching her mother rail at Buckhunter for some unfathomable reason—it all makes her feel queasy and unmoored. She places a palm against her flat stomach, deeply regretting the iced coffee she inhaled that morning on an empty stomach.

  “Hi, Holly,” Emily says with a sunny smile, waving as she approaches.

  Thank God—talking to Emily will calm her nerves. She reaches for her like she’s reaching out for a hand to pull her from deep water.

  “Hey, Em.” She opens her arms to hug her friend. “I’m so glad you’re here.”

  Holly smiles when she sees the shirt that Emily is wearing. Frank Baxter had ordered matching baseball shirts for both girls when they were teenagers, with three-quarter sleeves made of turquoise cotton. There’s a giant palm tree on the front, along with the words “Christmas Key” emblazoned in glittery script. On the back—just like a baseball team would—Holly’s grandpa had put their names, and each girl had the two-digit number of the year she was born printed in sparkly turquoise. They’d both loved the shirts. Holly still wears hers to bed occasionally.

  “I wanted to say good-bye,” Emily says. “It was fun having visitors.”

  “It was, wasn’t it? I’m trying to get more people to come to Christmas Key for vacation, and I’m working on some oth
er stuff.”

  “They’ll come.” Emily nods confidently. “These guys promised to tell everyone about us. And especially about our clam chowder. They liked the food.”

  “How could they not? The Jingle Bell Bistro has the best food on the island!”

  “In the world!” Emily corrects her.

  “That’s probably true,” Holly agrees. “Listen, I need to say good-bye to a few people. I’ll see you later, okay?”

  “I know, you need to say good-bye to River,” Emily whispers behind her hand. “He’s cute, Holly.”

  “Oh, not just him. I have to go play mayor and say good-bye to the rest of the guys, too,” she says, trying to shift the topic away from River. “But he is kind of cute,” Holly whispers back from behind her own hand. She hugs Emily again and makes her way through the group of men as they lift their luggage and fishing rods onto the boat.

  River is standing with Buckhunter and Fiona under a palm tree, surveying the scene. As she approaches, Holly eyeballs Buckhunter with curiosity; she’s dying to know what Coco was ranting about, but if the conversation left Buckhunter flustered, he’s not showing it. His face is a calm sea, his wiry arm draped over Fiona’s bare, freckled shoulders like they’re hanging out at a backyard barbecue. Seeing them together acting like such a couple is still a new thing for Holly, and she does a double-take every time sees them consult one another about something, or she catches a glimpse of Fiona drinking her morning coffee on Buckhunter’s porch.

  “Hey, chief,” Buckhunter says, lifting his chin at her. “Quite the going away party you’re throwing here.”

  “Not intentionally,” she says, looking around. “I think we all kind of liked having new faces on the island. It’s going to be weird when it’s just us again.”

  “Mmmm,” Buckhunter says in his gravelly tone, neither agreeing nor disagreeing with her.

  “Let’s amble down the dock.” Fiona tugs at Buckhunter’s limp hand hanging over her shoulder. She winks at Holly.

  “All right, doc. I’ll amble down the dock with you,” Buckhunter teases, moving the unlit cigar in his mouth from one side to the other. “Let’s roll.” They wander off, Buckhunter’s beat-up Birkenstock sandals slapping lazily against the wooden slats.

  “So.” River’s hands are on his hips. He straightens his shoulders and looks around like he’s assessing the area.

  Holly twists the end of her long braid with one hand. She hopes the brim of her baseball cap is enough to shield the sadness in her eyes from his view.

  “This went way too fast,” River says. “I wish we could rewind and start it all over.”

  “Even the food poisoning?” Holly squints up at him, laughter in her eyes.

  “Well, it wasn’t my favorite part of the trip, but I’d do it again if I had to.”

  “What was your favorite part?” she asks in a quiet voice, cocking an eyebrow at him suggestively.

  “Hmmm…” River gives her a long meaningful look that makes her stomach feel like she’s riding a sailboat through a storm.

  She tosses the braid over her shoulder and moves as close as she can without actually touching him. They’re both aware of the fact that about forty sets of eyes are taking in their good-byes, and Holly is determined to keep things light and tear-free.

  “For the record,” River says with authority. “That police officer really blew it when he let you get away.” His eyes crinkle at the corners. “If you were my girl, I promise I’d never make that mistake.”

  Holly turns her eyes to the glare on the water intentionally so that she won’t have to look at River. “It kind of seems like I’m the one letting you get away,” she says.

  “True. But if you tried to keep me, it would probably count as a hostage situation of some sort.”

  Holly kicks at a pebble on the dock, sending it skittering into the water. “Right. I wouldn’t want to get all Silence of the Lambs on you.”

  River laughs loudly. “That could get creepy fast.”

  “It might,” she says. “But we’ll talk. You know, you can Facebook me. Follow me on Instagram. Tweet at me: @xmaskeymayor.”

  “Are you serious?” He laughs. “@xmaskeymayor? How did I not know this?”

  “Yeah, it’s true. I try to keep up a steady stream of pictures and updates about the island, but I’ve had my hands pretty full for the past week or two.”

  River pulls his phone out of his pocket. “I’m following you right now—I swear.”

  They spend the next ten minutes hunched over the screen, the warm skin of River’s arm brushing against hers as they follow each other on all of their social media accounts. They take a picture of themselves under the palm trees at the dock, laughing as River posts it to his Facebook page. But beneath the laughter is the somber feeling of an impending good-bye.

  “All aboard!”

  The fishermen make their way through the crowd, shaking hands, slapping backs, and waving to the islanders. Holly turns her phone off and drops it into her purse.

  “Maybe I should hire you to be our sports and recreation organizer,” she jokes, walking alongside him as he follows the other guys to the boat.

  “Can I telecommute?”

  “You can, but I think you’d have to visit every so often to make sure you were up-to-date with what’s happening on the island.”

  River stops behind two of his friends, waiting for them to board. “It’s a deal.”

  There’s an awkward moment when Holly pauses and wonders whether she should throw herself on him in front of everyone, but River solves the dilemma by dropping his bags and lifting her off the ground.

  “Thank you kindly for all of your hospitality, Mayor,” he says in her ear. The juxtaposition of his formal words and their intimate embrace makes them both laugh.

  “I’m going to miss you,” Holly says into his neck as she holds him tight, her feet dangling a foot off the ground.

  “Kiss her!” comes a shout from the boat. Holly and River turn their heads to see Bill’s son Josh hanging off the stern of the boat, a goofy grin on his sunburned face.

  River sets Holly on her feet, his hands still on her waist.

  “Lay one on her, slugger!” Bonnie hoots.

  With his eyes, River asks for permission; Holly winks back, granting it. And so he takes her into his arms gently—leaning her back just enough that the move looks dramatic—and puts his lips to hers. The small crowd around them cheers.

  “Alright, I think it’s time,” River says, pulling her upright again. “I’ll talk to you soon?”

  “You know where to find me.” Her eyes search his for a moment; he bends to pick up his bags. Holly watches as he lifts his luggage up onto the boat, her heart clenched with disappointment.

  Once the men are on board and most of the islanders have scattered, Bonnie and Holly stand together on the dock, waiting for the deckhand to unmoor the boat. The vessel bobs on the water and the morning sun glints off of the windows so that it’s impossible to see inside. It’s better that way because Holly isn’t sure if she wants to watch River leave, and she knows she doesn’t want to make eye contact with her mother again. Instead, she and Bonnie link arms and stroll back towards Main Street together.

  “Back to real life,” Holly says wistfully, watching her sandaled feet as she matches her steps to Bonnie’s.

  “Well, real life ain’t half bad, sugar. And we’ve got work to do, so that’ll distract us. Nothing like some good old-fashioned work to keep us busy as bees in a hive.”

  Holly isn’t so sure. She lifts her Yankees cap off of her head and puts it back on again, readjusting it. “I don’t know if it’ll keep my mind off of men entirely, but you are right about one thing, Bon: we have some serious work to do.”

  Chapter 27

  Holly dives back into work without hesitation.

  First thing Monday morning she opens her email to find a message from her mother: Coco and Alan are spending a couple of days in Miami, and they plan on taking a few meetings b
efore heading back to New Jersey. Coco has an appointment with Holly’s accountant, they’re looking into the vendors they use for anything that isn’t grown on the island, and they’ll be having dinner with two potential buyers who’ve shown interest in Christmas Key.

  The email fills Holly’s stomach with lead. She works hard to distract herself and keep from sending a nasty reply. They book a few rooms in September and October for people who want to visit the island, sort through a pile of mail, and Holly posts a few pictures from the fishermen’s visit to her social media accounts. At noon, she leaves Bonnie in charge so that she can drive home to have lunch and take a walk on the beach.

  Holly takes her tuna sandwich and a root beer out to the lanai with her grandpa’s prospectus. She lays the book open on the table in front of her. His words and intentions are right before her eyes:

  There may come a point where the elbow grease required to maintain a whole community seems daunting. The idea of selling paradise to anyone willing to buy it might cross your mind. You may even entertain an offer or two, but you have to resist them. Take a walk through the black, red, and white mangroves. Count the cabbage palms that surround our bright buildings, partake of the alligator pear tree’s fruits. Search the seagrass beds for queen conch, and admire the different breeds of sea turtles that swim in our waters. And then keep moving ahead—towards progress, towards change, towards new challenges. Always keep moving.

  Knowing that she’s working to build on her grandparents’ dream will have to keep her strong as she goes head to head with her mother in the coming months. With her grandfather’s legacy in her hands, and the place she loves as passionately as she loves any human on the planet at stake, Holly needs to find the strength to both forge ahead and to hold her mother at bay.

  She’s been using the strange note she found in the prospectus as a bookmark—the one dated January thirteenth, nineteen ninety-four—and she’s glanced at it so many times that the words written in her grandpa’s ballpoint scrawl have become like background noise to her each time she tucks it between the pages of the bound prospectus. What could he have possibly meant by Call L.B.? And why would he have done a five thousand dollar transaction at First Union Bank in Miami? Who knew? More than twenty years later, it probably isn’t even possible to find out. There’s no way to track his decades-old banking online, and she doesn’t have much information to go on anyway.