As I sat there in the quiet cottage drinking alone, I remembered a day several years ago with Jess that had always troubled me, but suddenly with the help of the whiskey it seemed much more clear. He had just come back home for the Christmas holiday from college and he was driving me across Buckhead to a party at a friend’s house. On the way, he pulled a small silver flask from his jacket and took a drink and then handed it to me. His offer caught me by surprise, but I took a small drink and handed it back. He went to it several more times before we arrived and he never said a word to me. Finally, I asked him if there was something wrong and he told me to shut up. I pressed him again when he took another drink. He threw the flask across the seat at me and yelled that he was sick of my pestering and to leave him alone. Later I found out he had failed three of his classes from the fall term at Georgia Tech and that my father was furious with him. His resentment with the success Maggie and I had enjoyed in school often evident.
Certainly, that couldn’t have been the sole reason for my brother’s treachery with Hanna, but in my rapidly progressing state of intoxication it seemed logical enough. Then I heard a knock on the door of the cottage. I stood up a bit unsteadily and walked over to see who it was. Standing on the porch were Rebecca Bidwell with little Melanee Dalton holding on to her hand. I pushed open the screen door and walked outside to join them.
“Mathew, I asked Rebecca to bring me over to remind you about dinner,” Melanee said. “You’re late and everyone’s waiting for you.”
I tried to consider my response before Rebecca replied, “I was walking past the hotel when Melanee yelled out to ask if I had seen you. I was on my way down to the beach to help with everything for the party.”
I took a deep breath to mull over my options and then before I could speak Melanee again reminded me, “Mathew Coulter, you’re being awfully rude by keeping everyone waiting!”
I had to laugh. Finally, I said, “Melanee, I am really sorry. The time just slipped away and I can’t apologize enough for my inconsiderate behavior. Would you please tell your grandmother how sorry I am and that I will be over as soon as I can get dressed.”
“Well please hurry,” she scolded.
“And by the way, what is appropriate dress for dinner at the Beach Hotel?” I had to ask.
Rebecca answered first. “You are dressed just fine, Mathew. Hurry up now and we’ll head on over there together.”
I looked down at myself to appraise my ability to attend a dinner at the hotel. While a little foggy in the brain and certainly not dressed to the standards set in Atlanta society, I decided I had felt sorry for myself long enough, at least for one night.
Rebecca Bidwell left Melanee and me on the front steps of the hotel and said she hoped to see us later down at her party at the beach pavilion. Melanee took my hand and led me through the front door of what was one of the largest structures in Grayton Beach, but far from what anyone might consider a hotel back in the city of Atlanta. It was two stories in height and as you walked in the open glass front door it was only two rooms wide with a small lobby or gathering room with a few comfortable chairs to the left and the dining room immediately on your right. Seated at a long table there was the woman, the Mrs. Elliot I had seen earlier on her porch with her little boy as I first came into town on the back of old Barley. She was with a man who must have been her husband.
There was another couple who I had not seen yet, but who immediately caught my attention by their extreme and unexpected appearance. The man was exceedingly large in girth, if not height, which I couldn’t tell from his seated position. I guessed his age to be somewhere in his forties and the jowls and roundness of his face nearly jiggled as he turned to acknowledge my arrival. His hair was coal black and greased straight back from his face. In spite of Rebecca’s approval of my casual attire, this man was dressed impeccably in a starched white shirt with a blue and red striped tie and a blue dinner jacket, immaculately pressed. Beside him was a woman at least a generation younger who was astonishingly attractive, her brilliant red hair flowing long and carefully groomed, the milky white tone of her skin flushed with thousands of tiny brown freckles. Like her companion, who I assumed to be her father, she was immaculately dressed. Her fine white dress was well tailored and provocatively cut.
Lila Dalton walked into the room from a swinging door across the back wall with a tray of food, followed by a colored man carrying even more. She saw me standing there with her granddaughter.
“Well, Mr. Coulter, so glad you could finally join us. Fortunately, we have enough for all. Take a seat at the end of the table there,” she said, nodding to the place next to the man of ample proportions on one side and Mrs. Elliot on the other. I realized most of them were a bit shocked at the wounds still fresh across my face. I tried to clear my head from the earlier effects of the whiskey and nodded in acceptance. As I sat down, Melanee ran through the door to the back as Lila came over to stand next to me at the head of the table. It surprised me to see Melanee move about so easily within the place without sight.
“My cherished friends and guests,” Lila said, “this is our newest arrival to Grayton Beach, Mr. Mathew Coulter, just down from Atlanta to spend some time over at the Headley’s place down the road. Mr. Coulter, I would like you to meet an old Grayton family, the Elliots, Julianne and Thomas. Their family from Birmingham has been coming down here from the early days. Their little son, Billy, is back in the kitchen keeping an eye on all of the dessert.”
I turned and acknowledged the Elliots and then listened as the hotel proprietor introduced the guests to my right. “And Mathew, please meet our visitors from far to the north up in New Jersey. This is William and Louise Palumbo.”
The big man reached out his beefy hand in greeting. I looked into his eyes and could see from his penetrating gaze he was assessing my worth and the story of my introduction.
“This is my wife, Louise,” he said without looking away. His accent was thick from his Jersey origins. When he said wife, I had to pause a moment to gather my surprise.
“Mr. Palumbo, nice to meet you… and Mrs. Palumbo,” I said with what I hoped was not too much astonishment in my voice.
“Mathew, my boy,” Palumbo said. “What a pleasure. Please call me Willie. Did I hear your name is Coulter from Atlanta?”
“Yes, that’s right,” I answered, already on the defensive within my moonshine clouded brain.
“You wouldn’t happen to know Samuel Coulter now, boy?” he asked.
I hesitated for a moment and then drunkenly and perhaps wisely decided not to reveal my family’s true identity. If this man did know my father, I wasn’t ready for anyone to reveal my location. “There are a lot of Coulter’s in Atlanta, sir, but I don’t think so.”
He eyed me with suspicion and then said, “I’ve known of the Coulter’s who are in the liquor business for years. Not even a distant relation?” he asked.
“No, but it’s nice to meet you sir and Mrs. Palumbo,” I answered.
“Louise, please,” his wife said with a Jersey accent even more pronounced than her husband’s. She also reached down the table to shake my hand and I noticed the freckles on the skin of her long delicate fingers with nails painted a bright red. She held my hand longer than seemed appropriate. I finally pulled it away and looked back at Lila Dalton beside me for some reprieve from the discomforting introductions.
“Mathew, we’re so glad you could join us tonight and welcome,” Lila said. “We’re having baked flounder from the docks down in Destin. I hope you enjoy.”
I thanked her and looked around the table at the guests assembled and then around the room, appointed sparingly in the practical style of the local beach dwellings. Windows on the front and side walls looked out at the sand dunes and the few other cottages nearby. In the corner was a brightly polished black upright piano with music sheets spread on the rack above the keyboard and a long bench pushed under. Across the back wall toward the kitchen was a large painting o
f what looked to be the lake scene I had experienced earlier prior to my encounter with the large reptile I thought was going to eat me. It was beautifully done in soft pastel colors and exhibited a far more welcoming environment than I had experienced earlier.
Willie Palumbo reached for his glass that was filled with a white wine. I then noticed the bottle sitting in the center of the table. He lifted his glass up in a toast to those around him. “To our friends here tonight, old and new. May the world always grant you the best in life and if not,” and he paused looking around the table and at Lila Dalton, “take whatever the hell you need anyway.”
Everyone laughed and lifted their glasses and I saw one at the place in front of me and did the same. It struck me, even in my diminished state, that this was a man like my father who took life by the throat and squeezed out all it had to offer.
Dinner was served and seemed to fly by in a blur with everyone talking at the same time and the wine’s effects raising the noise level even higher. I could hear myself responding to questions, yet my mind seemed far away, detached. As plates were being cleared by Lila and Melanee and their server, Mr. Palumbo leaned over close and asked if I wanted to join him for a cigar on the porch. I had been rude enough through dinner in my drunken state and decided it would be best to accept his invitation. Mr. Elliott did, however, decline politely and stayed inside to continue the discussion with the women over coffee. I had noticed he was also particularly taken by the lovely Mrs. Palumbo. Outside, my new friend pulled two long cigars from the inner pocket of his jacket and handed one to me. We sat down together on chairs, looking out across the sand hills to the beach. The sun was now hanging low to the southwest, casting a brilliant orange and red canvas across the late evening sky. I heard a match struck and turned as Palumbo held it out for me to light my smoke. The taste was smooth and pleasing and I told him so.
“Cuban,” was all he said in response before lighting his own with a great flourish. We sat in silence for a while enjoying the smoke and the view, sounds of laughter and plates being stacked coming from inside. I noticed the smell of rosemary coming from low bushes planted to the side of the porch.
Palumbo finally spoke. “Tell me, Coulter, what really brings you down to this nowhere place all by yourself without a stitch of extra clothes or supplies?” His tone was harsh and accusative.
I turned and just stared at him for a few moments, taking another long draw on the cigar and then letting the smoke out slowly. He looked to be a man accustomed to straight answers, although I was not prepared to comply. “Perhaps I should ask you the same,” I responded and then beneath his coat I saw a brown leather holster on his belt holding a pistol.
His facial expression didn’t change and he continued to look straight ahead. “Oh, I brought plenty of clothes, young man,” he said with little note of humor in his tone.
I kept staring at the gun and then I realized he was watching me. I felt my heart racing in my chest. We just looked at each other silently for a few moments, his eyes seeming to gaze clear through any pretense I might try to continue. Suddenly it seemed honesty would be the best course of action. “Mr. Palumbo,” I started, a bit unsteadily.
“Willie, please.”
“Right, Willie. I’m afraid I haven’t been completely honest with you tonight.”
He nodded back and said, “So I gathered.”
A loud crash of breaking glass from inside startled me and I looked back through the window to see Lila bending down to pick up the broken pieces. Willie Palumbo never stopped staring at me and I noticed his right hand rested even closer to the gun at his waist.
“You need to understand, I’ve come down here to get away from some nasty business back home in Atlanta," I said.
He just nodded again.
I hesitated a moment and then continued on. “And yes, my father is Samuel Coulter. I’m sorry I lied earlier, but I was hoping to keep my family connections to myself for a while.”
“So, you don’t want them to know you’re here?”
“Exactly, it would be best if I had some time alone.”
I could see his body noticeably relax and his hand moved away from the gun and rested on the arm of his chair. “Well, Mathew, I see we have some common ground here in quiet little Grayton Beach.”
“And how is that, sir?”
He took a long pull on his cigar and let the smoke out slowly, watching it drift away on the light breeze coming across from the west. Then he said, “Louise and I have come down to get away, too. There are some people back home who would prefer to see me looking out at the world through bars or better yet, from six feet under the dirt.” He turned and looked back over at me, but before I could process what he had just told me or manage a response, I heard notes from the piano inside ring out clearly through the open windows. The tune was hauntingly moving and while I wasn’t familiar with the melody, it was most certainly a classical piece. When I turned to look inside, expecting to see one of the women playing, I was shocked to see young Melanee Dalton sitting on the piano bench, her feet too short to reach the pedals, but her hands moving effortlessly across the keyboard.
“It’s Chopin,” I heard Palumbo say, but I was too absorbed in the little girl’s music to respond. “She’s quite a prodigy,” he said.
I forgot all about Mr. Willie Palumbo sitting beside me. I stood and walked back into the hotel and over to stand beside the piano. Melanee continued to play and the others in the room had also stopped what they were doing to listen to the girl. There was sheet music on the piano, but of course she was playing without seeing, the notes coming through her fingers with pure confidence and a proud look of accomplishment on her face.
“Do you like this song, Mr. Coulter?” she asked as she continued to play and I had to wonder how she even knew I was standing there.
“It’s beautiful, Melanee,” I answered. “Where did you learn to play?”
“My grandma helps me. We listen to music on the Victrola and then I try to play what I hear.” Her grandmother, Lila, walked by and just smiled at me.
I was simply amazed at the ability of this little girl and when she finished everyone applauded and cheered loudly. She slid off the seat and turned to face her admiring audience with a quick curtsey. Then she jumped back up onto the bench and arranged herself to play again. I knew the tune right away, Let Me Call You Sweetheart, a song the band had played the night before at my parent’s house when I was dancing with Hanna. I listened to the sweet melody echo through the small room, and then Melanee began to sing. Again, I was dumbfounded. Her voice was angelic with the most pure pitch I had ever heard.
I noticed the Elliotts stand behind me to start dancing and Palumbo came in from outside and invited his wife to dance as well. Lila came over and stood beside me and reached to take my hand. I nodded at her invitation, still mesmerized by the little girl’s performance and began moving as best as I could to the sounds of the music with Lila Dalton in my arms. I looked at the face of the innkeeper who had so kindly invited me to join them all on this evening. She smiled at me and said, “I told you she was quite remarkable.”
“She is amazing,” I answered, looking back at Melanee Dalton. “I understand her mother has been away,” I said, and then immediately regretted bringing up the subject.
Lila didn’t hesitate, “Yes, her mother Sara is a wandering soul.” She paused for a moment, looking over at her granddaughter. “Sara’s been gone for almost two years now. She didn’t even get back for Christmas this past year. It’s so heartbreaking to watch Melanee. She loves her mother so much and in her heart knows she’ll be back for her one day.”
“I’m sorry, but how could she leave her like this?” I asked.
“Sara has many demons,” was all she said and then the song was over. Everyone applauded loudly again.
Chapter Nine
There was music again later that night down at the beach for the party to celebrate the engagement of Rebecca Bidwel
l and Seth Howard. The small band was set up in the corner of the wooden pavilion. It was nestled into the sand dunes and kerosene lamps hung from the rafters of the peaked roof that had been built over half the deck as cover from the sun during the day. A railing ran around the side and torches had been placed in the sand along the rail for more light. Overhead, the sliver of a waning moon hung behind high wispy clouds.
I had tried to go straight back to the Headley place after dinner at the hotel, but Palumbo had been insistent I come down to the beach with him and his wife. The brief time of social contact and the effects of more alcohol had only served to darken my already dire mood, but Palumbo had a way of being particularly persuasive.
The band was playing one of the new Jazz songs popular back in Atlanta. I stood alone watching the crowd, a glass of local whiskey in my hand. The honored couple, Seth and Rebecca, was leading a group of dancers out on the floor and I thought about the previous night with Hanna Wesley in my arms on the dance floor back in Buckhead. The whiskey was lending itself to my overall sense of gloom when a man walked up I had not previously met. In the dim light I could see he was an older man with deep wrinkles across a face covered with a thick gray beard and crowned with long flowing gray hair. He wore a black suit, buttoned high in the front with a white shirt and narrow string tie.
“You must be Coulter,” he said, his voice a low rumble like the sounds of the waves coming onshore.
“Yes sir, Mathew,” I answered.
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