I took a deep breath and tried to balance my concern for trading away the family’s legacy, as jaded as it had more recently become, with my elation for a possible escape from having to try to run the damn enterprise.
“Fair enough,” I finally said.
A week later my father was moved to a recovery home where he would receive constant care for his rehabilitation, as limited as it appeared it would be. The doctors were now even more pessimistic about the ultimate state of his quality of life in the future. It appeared his mind was slowly recovering, but his body and speech would probably never come back even close to fully functional. He was still unable to talk or move even his fingers, so communication was impossible although he seemed to understand some of what we would discuss with him.
Palumbo had stated his case to Maggie and my mother that night at dinner after we had discussed the arrangement down at the gazebo. Surprisingly, both of them were more than open to the proposition. I suppose all of us were looking for a way out of the dilemma we faced. I learned later that night from my sister the family’s banker had paid a recent visit following my father’s stroke. He had informed our mother the family’s accounts were at dangerously low levels and that my father was far overextended. Apparently, his efforts to carry on the illusion of prosperity had been fueled by excessive optimism in future receipts. Suddenly Palumbo’s proposal took on a more immediate sense of urgency.
I spoke to my father one morning when he seemed more lucid and I explained in great detail about who Willie Palumbo was and what he was proposing. His face seemed impassive throughout my explanation and his eyes looked at mine with a blank and expressionless stare.
Chapter Twenty-five
It was several weeks later before I was back in Grayton Beach at the Headley place. Palumbo had stayed on to work through the transition of power and frankly, I truly believed he would be there for months trying to grease all the right palms to keep the business on track. My father had shown very little improvement and would likely be in the recovery home for months, if not more.
Both my mother and sister had agreed to the settlement Palumbo put on the table and my mother did indeed have power of attorney for my father in the event that, as the lawyers described it, he may become incapacitated or die, of which fortunately only the former had actually occurred. The financial offer Palumbo had made was staggering and the first installment was deposited as promised on schedule. This initial down payment on the business transition was enough money for all of my family to live out the rest of their lives in easy comfort, although I chose to accept none of the compensation. It was actually a bit troubling to think my father’s nefarious business was worth so much and I couldn’t help but worry they would all be living on blood money from a gangster for the rest of their lives. Yet how different was this from the standard of living my father had been providing all these years.
On the trip back, I had also started to think about where my life was headed. Sticking my head in the sand down along the sleepy Gulf Coast was an interesting consideration and one that held some appeal at that moment. My family was cared for better than could ever have been expected. I certainly had enough money from the family trust fund for me to buy my own place to get settled in more comfortably. I cared about the friends I had made along the beach, the Daltons and the Bidwells. I imagined Palumbo would be back down as his business and flight from the law required or allowed. And, of course, there was Eleanor Whitlock to help keep me warm at night. I had been thinking more about my somewhat forced declaration of love for the woman that day on the Headley’s porch with Melanee and Sara. When someone fills your mind and your absent thoughts as much as Eleanor had these past weeks back in Atlanta, surely there must be something there, I thought.
Palumbo had arranged for a car to drive me back to Grayton Beach from Tallahassee and on that last leg of the journey I also started thinking about the tenuous recovery of Sara Dalton. I hadn’t spoken to anyone down there since I had left and there was a nagging fear in the back of my mind that Sara may have succumbed to the death grip of her demons and the drugs and perhaps even run away again. The car pulled into Grayton Beach late on a Saturday evening, just before dark, and as we drove by the Beach Hotel I scanned the front porch and inside looking for Sara. There were a few summer guests sitting out and conversing, but no sign of any of the Dalton family. With dinner cleared it was possible they were down at the pavilion at the beach with some of the other guests, a ritual I had found was observed on most weekend nights through the busy season. Grayton Beach and the Gulf Coast were surprisingly more of a summer destination rather than winter when the migration was to South Florida for the more tropical weather along Palm Beach and down to Miami. In the summer, more and more families from Birmingham and Montgomery and over in Atlanta were coming down to the Gulf beaches to find some escape from the heat with somewhat cooler breezes and the water, of course.
I had brought a few more things with me on this trip back from Atlanta, some clothes and books mostly. After unloading and tipping the driver for his trouble I made a drink and then walked down through the dunes to the beach. There was a crowd of a dozen people milling around the pavilion, drinks in hand. The small quartet Lila occasionally hired out of Point Washington was setting up to play dance music. Lanterns were lit along the corners and there was a beautiful light cast across the gathering revelers. Then I saw Lila over talking to some guests. When she saw me, she excused herself and came rushing over. I scanned the crowd looking for Sara and her daughter, but they were not around. Lila came up breathlessly and gave me a giant hug. Some of the new guests that didn’t know me looked on in surprise.
“Well, isn’t this a nice welcome home,” I said.
“We’ve missed you, boy,” she answered, and then kissed me on both cheeks. She had a big glowing smile on her face that reassured me some everything was okay with her family. As usual on a big summer night she was dressed extravagantly in a beautiful long dress and all of the appropriate accessories.
“Where are the girls?” I asked. She looked down at the beach and pointed and I could see them now. Sara was walking along the waterline with her little daughter who had a long-handled net in her hands, helping her to catch blue crabs in the shore break. “Everyone’s all right?” I asked, almost afraid to hear the answer.
“They’re fine, Mathew,” she said to my great relief and then she asked me about my father and Maggie and how everything was going back in Atlanta. I took a few minutes to fill her in on my family and my father’s health, although I certainly left out the particulars of our recent deal with Palumbo.
“I’m so sorry to hear about your father,” she said. “I hope he’ll be comfortable and continue to improve.”
“It’s going to be a long road back,” I said, and the familiar sadness returned again that came with the images of my father lying lifeless in a bed, unable to move or speak. I excused myself and told Lila I wanted to go down to see Sara and Melanee. The present I had bought for Melanee back in Panama City before I had to leave so suddenly for Atlanta was hopefully still under the care of Eleanor who had agreed to look after it when I left.
As usual, Melanee sensed my approach before she could have possibly heard me coming. She turned from her work scraping along the beach with the net at her mother’s direction and yelled out, “Mathew, that’s you isn’t it, Mathew?”
I called out and said hello and then hurried down and picked her up. I gave her a big hug. Sara stood there smiling at us and I was pleased to see her face still had that new healthy flush of color in her cheeks that had returned with her continued recovery.
“Mathew, look at the crabs we’ve caught,” Melanee said, and she wiggled with excitement for me to put her down so she could take me over to the pail. Indeed, there were a half dozen little blue crabs crawling about inside, each trying to climb on top of the others to attempt to get out of their confinement. I turned to Sara and she came over and welcomed me as well with a warm hug. She smell
ed of fresh flowers and I saw that both of the girls had blossoms stuck in their hair.
“Welcome home,” she said, and I had to stop and think for just a moment that indeed this was my new home, although my existence still seemed tentative and uncertain. She asked about my father and of Maggie. I told them both about what had transpired back in Atlanta.
Then Melanee said with sudden impatience, “We need more crabs, Mathew. There’s barely enough for a snack here.” Sara and I both laughed and returned to the work of spotting blue crabs in the wash of the waves and helping little Melanee to get into position to smash the net down on top of them and scoop them up. It was a grand game and we kept after it until well after dark; a lantern that Sara had brought down helping to illuminate the little buggers.
Back at the hotel, Lila’s cook steamed up the crabs and served a tray of lump crab meat on crackers for the guests to munch on. Melanee helped to serve, proud of her catch. The day was winding down and I was exhausted from the long trip back from Georgia. I excused myself and Lila walked out with me when I had said goodnight to all of the others. She placed her arm in mine as we walked down the stairs. We stopped and looked down toward the beach, a billion stars now shimmering overhead.
“What are your plans now, Mathew Coulter?” she asked.
A dozen thoughts seemed to push through my mind all at once as I contemplated my answer and all I could manage to say was, “Wherever the tides may choose to take me.”
I slept late into the next morning and woke refreshed and alert for the first time in weeks. With a pot of coffee next to me at my writing table, I started looking through the work I had done before leaving for Atlanta. Before I knew it half the day was gone and I was lost again in the story and the writing. I planned to clean up later in the afternoon and drive into Panama City to see Eleanor. Something outside broke my concentration and I walked over to the screen door at the front of the house.
Rebecca Bidwell, the shopkeeper’s daughter from Point Washington, had just come up and she was tying her horse, Barley, to the fence in front of the Headley’s place. Melanee Dalton was sitting up on top of the big brown horse, a look of pure delight on her face.
“Look Mathew, Becky’s giving me a ride on old Barley,” she said.
“You look like a real cowgirl up there, kid,” I yelled back. I walked down and greeted Rebecca as she stood at the fence.
“Welcome back, Mathew,” she said. “I just wanted to let you know Sheriff Crowe stopped by our house earlier today. He still hasn’t found out who…” and then she hesitated for a moment, “who killed Seth.”
“Yes, I know, I spoke with him before I left for Atlanta, but he seemed to have some positive leads.”
“He keeps coming by and asking all of us more and more questions,” she said, and I could tell she was more than a little concerned. “And he won’t tell us anything. My pa and brother, Jonas, are getting real upset about it.”
“He’s just trying to do his job, Rebecca,” I said, trying to comfort her, but thinking how strange it was how Crowe was moving forward so tentatively with his investigation.
“I just thought,” Rebecca said, “since you’ve come to know Sheriff Crowe, you might be able to speak with him and try to learn more about what’s really happening. Maybe you and Lila could speak with him?”
I promised her I would talk to Lila and we would do our best to find out what he was really working on.
“It just keeps me up at night knowing there’s someone out there who did this to Seth. It’s been so long.”
“Let me see what we can find out,” I promised again.
She went back and took the reins and said goodbye before climbing up on the horse behind Melanee. The little girl waved as they rode away back toward the hotel.
Later, I drove into the parking lot at Palumbo’s club in Panama City. It was just before dark and the place was filling up. Inside I found out that Eleanor wasn’t working that night, so I got back in the car and drove down the beach road toward her house. One of her roommates there told me she had gone for a walk on the beach. As I walked down through the sand on the narrow path through the dunes, the breeze picked up and pushed the tall sea oats about in a slow rhythm with the currents.
I made my way down through the dry white sand to the water. Looking first to the east I could see only a couple walking along the shore together and then back down to the west I saw a solitary figure some distance off, a shadow in the fading light. I took my shoes and socks off and left them in the sand. I rolled up my pant legs and started walking down the beach, the low waves washing up over my feet at times, feeling fresh and cool. The distant figure grew closer, walking slowly toward me. Soon I could see it was a woman, her flowing skirt blowing in the wind. Then she stopped and was looking out at the water as I approached. I was only a dozen yards away when she turned again and I could see it was Eleanor, and when she realized who it was she ran quickly down the remaining space between us, water splashing up as she ran in the falling tide. She threw herself into me, almost knocking us both over into the water and I lifted her up in my arms and backed up away from the surf. I tried to speak and say hello, but she was kissing me all over my face and we were both laughing. Then we fell down on the sand. She pushed me over on my back and kissed me again, this time slowly and full on the mouth. Her hair was spilling down around my face and she pulled it back with her hand.
“I was wondering if I would ever see you again,” she said.
“I’m sorry I didn’t call or write,” I said. “It’s been a little difficult back there.” And then I told her about my father and my trip back.
“Your little present is still okay,” she said, referring to the gift for Melanee I had left with her that night at the club. “I’m not sure I’ll want to give it back,” she said with a big mischievous grin on her face. “I’m getting kind of attached to the little thing.”
It was a mockingbird I had seen that day in the old pet shop along the beach and I knew Melanee would love having a new little companion, caged where she could always play with it and sing to it and feed it. “You wouldn’t take a present from a little blind girl?” I teased.
“No, but you may have to buy one for me, too.” Then she kissed me again and I felt her shiver. The bottom of her dress was wet from the surf and the wind was getting cooler. We walked up closer to the dunes and there was wood from a previous fire. We gathered some more drift wood from around the beach and soon had a big warming fire going. Huddled next to each other, we sat looking at the fire and out across the Gulf of Mexico, dark and rolling in the night. Above, a few clouds drifted across the starry landscape and several gulls squawked overhead as they floated their way down the beach to their night’s roost.
Later as the light from the fire began to ebb, we made love on the sand and I lost myself in Eleanor and the glorious comfort of her arms and legs and smooth skin and the graceful rhythm of two people who were coming to know every move the other would make.
Chapter Twenty-six
A steady routine returned to the beach through the summer. My time was full with writing and welcome breaks down at the beach and occasional dinners with Lila and her family at the hotel. At least once a week I would break away to drive into Panama City to see Eleanor and on those times when she had a day or two off, she would come back to Grayton Beach with me. Our relationship was becoming more comfortable and indispensable, and my earlier declaration of love was proving to be surprisingly prophetic.
My book was progressing as well as I could have expected. Before I knew it, the routine of the beach eased into early September and while the temperatures stayed hot and humid, subtle changes in the weather and environment began to show. The patterns of fish and birds began to change noticeably and cloud formations in the mornings and evenings took on new character. The late afternoon thunderstorms that had blown in through the summer began to shift north of the beach and it was a marvelous time of transition to the coming mon
ths of fall and winter.
I hadn’t received a word from Palumbo since I had left him back in the summer in Atlanta and each day a few moments of my conscious thought were on Willie Palumbo and his progress in taking over the Atlanta liquor business. Having always been surprised by his tenacity and capability, I was fairly certain he would be successful in putting this new operation together. But, I also knew there were many factions and powerbases in the city he would have to navigate and overcome. Interestingly, his wife Louise had stayed in Grayton Beach this entire time in her tiny room at the Beach Hotel. She rarely ventured out and Lila was always fussing about her and how worried she was about her current state of affairs.
I did receive a letter from my old friend and beach housing benefactor, Jimmy Headley, indicating he planned to stop down to Grayton Beach to see me before he headed back after a long summer’s break to rejoin his father’s firm. There was no specific date in the letter and I assumed he would arrive on his own schedule. I was frankly looking forward to the company of an old friend from my younger days in Atlanta.
He showed up at the most unexpected time and true to form, caught us all by surprise. Jimmy was of medium-height, a very round sort with a wild head of reddish brown hair and freckles from head to toe, who through the years has come to be one of the most jovial and interesting people I had ever known. He had also established himself as one of the more accomplished revelers at parties and certainly proved his mettle upon arrival.
It was late on a Saturday night and I was down at the beach pavilion with Lila and all of her guests from the hotel. The band was playing and people were dancing. Drinks were in plentiful supply, in spite of the mandate from the federal government according to the Volstead Act. I was out on the dance floor that night with Lila Dalton in my arms and we were twirling in a truly intoxicated attempt at the latest dance steps. While Lila was twenty-five years older than me, we had become close friends and nearly inseparable at times such as these. Her daughter Sara and granddaughter Melanee had continued to progress well together through the summer. Sara was careful not to get too close to the parties and the alcohol for fear of any relapse and we were all sensitive to that. On this particular night, she was back at the hotel with her daughter, working on music and reading stories.
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