Grayton Winds

by Michael Lindley

  Annie Martin and I became nearly inseparable in those first weeks, working long hours in the evening after my work at the paper was finished. While we tried our best to keep focused on business, invariably our conversation would stray and we continued to learn more about each other. I found myself struggling not to reach for her hand as we walked down the street after a dinner to discuss the upcoming events and activities for the book release.

  I took a few days off from the paper to go to Chicago at Sam Keller’s request to meet with reviewers and book industry people. My boss seemed to understand it would be beneficial to the newspaper to have a writer who had found some success in publishing. Sam asked Annie to accompany me to help navigate the schedule and make the proper introductions. We took the train out on a rainy night in New York, leaving Grand Central Station in time to have a meal in the dining car as we were leaving the lights of the city behind.

  Annie sat across from me, talking on with so much enthusiasm about everyone we would be meeting and how important this trip was to properly introduce the book in the Midwest. I was hearing her talk, but finding it difficult to pay attention to what she was saying. I sat enjoying the sight of her across from me at the little table, the quiet rumble of the train making the dishes rattle.

  Finally, she said, “Mathew Coulter, have you heard a thing I’ve said?”

  I smiled and said, “Every word.”

  “How do I ever put up with you? This book is going to be successful in spite of its wayward author.”

  “I have excellent help,” I said.

  “You certainly do,” she answered, frowning at me and pulling her loose papers and notes together. She placed them in her bag on the floor beside her.

  “I’d like you to see Atlanta,” I said, surprising even myself at this sudden suggestion.

  “Atlanta?”

  Trying to recover, I said, “I’d like you to see the town I grew up in. You’ve never been there?”

  “No, I’ve never been in the South,” she said.

  “Don’t you think you need to see the local roots of your not yet famous author client?” I asked. “To round out the story and background you’re trying to package.”

  “Mathew Coulter, you are truly impossible.”

  “I think you’d like my sister, Maggie,” I said.

  She stared at me with an amused expression. “And your mother?”

  “That’s another story.”

  We stayed at The Drake Hotel in Chicago, an elegant place along the shore of Lake Michigan on the north edge of the city. We arrived late in the afternoon the following day and after checking in I asked Annie if she would like to go for a walk down Michigan Avenue. It was early spring in the city and the wind was blowing fiercely through the tall buildings. A strong gust caught me as I was lifting my stiff leg up on a curb and I stumbled forward. Annie caught me by the arm and prevented me from falling on my face.

  “You’ve never told me about your leg,” she said as we continued on. “Sam’s told me you were decorated in the War.”

  I kept walking, trying to think how best to change the subject.

  “It was my brother who was the hero,” I said. “He had a whole chest full of medals.”

  “And he’s gone now?” she asked.

  “He was killed over a year ago.”

  “Killed?”

  “My father was in a very ruthless business,” I said. “He ran liquor in the South.”

  She stopped and looked at me with a surprised expression. “But I thought…”

  “You thought we were high society? My parents were very good at holding their position in town, even during these years when my father’s business changed with the times,” I said. I noticed she was still holding my arm. We kept on along the sidewalk and then across a bridge that spanned the river, the water a deep green below us.

  “Jess was killed by a rival family trying to take over my father’s business,” I finally said.

  “My God!” she said.

  “My father became quite ill after Jess was gone. He had a stroke and wasn’t able to run the business any longer. I had no interest in bootlegging. The family is no longer involved.”

  “Oh Mathew, I had no idea,” she said. “I’m so sorry about your brother.”

  We walked on in silence for another block.

  “I came close to losing my leg after a shell exploded near me during a battle outside Verdun,” I suddenly said. She looked at me and held my arm tighter. “I was lucky. I had very good care.” The comment took me back for a moment to a young nurse at the American Hospital in Paris.

  Our business in Chicago over the next day was hectic and fruitful. Annie felt we had made a good impression with all the right people. There had been little time for more personal conversations. We caught the late train out of Chicago and went to the dining car for something to drink before retiring for the long night’s ride back to New York. We sat facing each other in the cramped cabin, glasses of soda water with lime in front of us.

  “Thank you for putting up with me,” I said.

  “You’ve done wonderfully,” she said.

  “I mean about all the old family stuff.”

  “I was the one who was so nosey,” she said, swirling the ice in the glass and then looking out the window into the night.

  “I’m surprised Sam let you come along with me un-chaperoned,” I said. “Won’t your office be scandalized?”

  “Should I be worried?” she said.

  I shook my head and smiled.

  “We work in New York, Mathew. It takes a lot to create a scandal.”

  “Thank you for all you’ve done,” I said. “I would have been lost in this crowd and all that’s gone on back in New York getting this book out.”

  “It’s my job.”

  “And you seem to enjoy it,” I said.

  “Some clients are better than others,” she said, and then smiled at me before she took another sip of her water. She put the glass down and stared at me with sudden seriousness. “When are you taking me to Atlanta?”

  We were both finally able to clear our schedules in June and Annie joined me on a train trip to Atlanta to visit my mother and sister. They threw quite a party for my homecoming and to impress my new lady friend, although I could tell my mother and her friends were noticeably disappointed in Annie’s lack of social position. My sister, Maggie, thought Annie was just wonderful and the two of them hit it off splendidly. Our cook, Velma, fawned over her like she was another Coulter sibling under her care.

  We spent a day with Maggie touring the city of Atlanta, lunching at the Piedmont Driving Club and shopping downtown, much to my dismay. But Annie was enjoying it all and she and Maggie were chatting on endlessly about the city and often about their good-natured frustrations with me.

  During lunch, Maggie asked me about Sara and Melanee Dalton. I told her I hadn’t heard anything since Sara’s letter. Annie wanted to know more about my time in Grayton Beach. I spent most of our lunch telling her about my time at the Headley cottage, and about Lila Dalton and her family. I decided it was best not to go into my unfortunate affair with Eleanor Whitlock and only briefly mentioned my friend the gangster, the notorious Willie Palumbo. Annie was very intrigued with Melanee and her talents. I could see her heart opened to the miseries the little girl had faced in her short life.

  We ended up back at our house on West Paces Ferry sitting on the back veranda, looking out over the dense woods beyond the pool and spacious lawns. Velma brought out lemonade for us as the dinner was being prepared. I thought of the night I brought Hanna Wesley here to meet the Coulter family. I could almost hear the music playing and the crowds of people seemed ghostly images before me; Jess and Hanna dancing close. I turned and looked at Annie Martin’s wonderful bright face and past memories quickly faded.

  “So, what’s to become of the two of you?” Maggie suddenly said with unabashed candor so common from her.

 
Annie looked at me first, as if it was my place to talk of our future. I put my arm around her shoulders as she sat next to me there. “This young publishing assistant has been so successful helping with my book that I’m sure she’s going to get a big promotion and never have time to deal with this hick-town writer from the South again,” I said.

  Annie elbowed me in the ribs and pulled away, clearly irritated with my response.

  I reached across for her again and pulled her back close. “I don’t think I can let this one get away, sister,” I said. I leaned close and kissed Annie Martin.

  On the trip back to New York, Annie and I were sitting across from each other finishing dinner on the first night out. As we stood to say goodnight and return to our cabins, Annie held on to my hand and led me back down the aisle and into the next car where her sleeping berth was. I kissed her good night and was turning to leave for my own car, but she wouldn’t let go of my arm. I watched as she looked both ways down the corridor, then she opened the door and pulled me in.

  Closing the door behind us, I heard her moving across the small cabin in the dark and then a small reading light over the bed switched on. Annie came back to me and put her arms around my neck. “No chaperones on this trip either, Mr. Coulter,” she said in a quiet whisper and then she kissed me. The warm wetness of her lips moved against mine and I pulled her tight. When she moved her face away and looked up at me, the most beautiful smile greeted me there in the soft light.

  “I love you Annie,” I said for the first time. “And please call me Mathew.”

  She laughed quietly, concerned for the noise in adjoining cabins. “I love you too, Mathew,” she said, and then she reached up and started to loosen my tie. I started kissing her again as she unbuttoned my shirt and then we were pulling at buttons and belts in a frantic attempt to pull clothes aside. She stepped back and let her dress fall to the floor, kicking off her shoes and standing there in pale silk underwear I couldn’t look away from as I struggled to strip down to my shorts. She smiled at my clumsy attempts and then came back into my arms.

  As we kissed again, I reached behind and tried to unfasten the clasp of her bra and then she finally helped and let it fall down over the front of her shoulders between us. I felt the soft roundness of her breasts push against my chest. My hands traced the smooth curves of her back as our lips came together again. Then she pulled away and went back over to the bed, pulling down the covers and laying down, leaving room for me to join her.

  Sunlight through the window woke me the next morning. I saw Annie sleeping there beside me, her hair covering most of her beautiful face and lying on her bare shoulders. I pulled her closer, and still half asleep, she moved into my arms and rested her head on my shoulder. We lay there together and I watched the countryside pass by outside the window, savoring the soft warmness of Annie Martin.

  The taxi dropped me at my apartment after we left Annie off. It had been a long trip back from Georgia. We were exhausted and both had to report back to work early in the morning.

  Back at the Times the next day, I was pleased to see reports on my desk that my book was continuing to do well. I also had several assignments from my editor that would require considerable work in the coming days and I started right in on it. About mid-morning I heard a commotion over on the other side of the large newsroom where my desk was set near the perimeter. When I looked up I saw one of our guards trying to stop a big man from coming on the floor. It was Palumbo’s man, Anthony, and then I saw the old gangster himself step forward to argue with the guard. I got up and walked over, very surprised at their arrival. I reassured the guard everything was okay, and that I knew these men, although when Willie Palumbo entered a room, things would seldom be okay for long. He gave me a big hug and many of my associates in the newsroom looked over with puzzled expressions.

  “Coulter, you look like a million bucks,” he said, and of course, Anthony stood off to the side without speaking with the same unemotional expression. “And congratulations on your new book. I really liked the bad guy,” he said and laughed. “Reminded me of someone we both know, don’t you think?”

  “Willie, what the hell are you doing in New York?” I asked quietly. “I thought you were a wanted man around these parts.”

  “Hell,” he answered, “I’m a wanted man about any damn place I choose to go,” and he was laughing that same old hearty laugh I had come to know down in Florida. “Man needs to get home now and then.” He took me by the arm and led me out into the hall. “You got time for a lunch break?”

  I looked at my watch and it was about lunchtime. I had been working steadily all morning. “Sure, I’ve got a few minutes.”

  We walked around the corner to a little Italian place I thought he might like. He asked for a table in the back. When we sat down he looked at the menu and then proceeded to order just about everything listed. Soon our table was mounded with dishes and Anthony and Willie didn’t hesitate to sample most of it. Finally, he took a break from chewing and wiped his mouth with a napkin before he said, “Was down on the Gulf Coast last month to check on my interests. Went over to Grayton Beach to see how all of our old friends were doing.”

  I thought to myself that Willie Palumbo didn’t have many friends down there.

  “Stopped in at the old Beach Hotel,” he said. “Sara was pretty busy in the back and just stopped out to say hello for a minute. Little Melanee played us a song on her new piano. That was damn nice of you Coulter and they’ve done a hell of a job on the hotel. Looks ten times better than the old place. Headley’s joint is still standing in spite of that repair work you did,” he said with a smile.

  “So, they’re doing all right?” I asked.

  Palumbo took another big bite of pasta he had swirled on his fork. It took some time for him to almost finish chewing before he continued speaking with remnants of chicken and white wine sauce sloshing about, in and around his mouth. “Little Melanee asked if I had seen you. She asked me to give you a message,” he said. “Damn, she’s a cute little kid. Grown a foot I swear. You wouldn’t recognize her. What is she, twelve now?”

  “What did she want you to tell me, Willie,” I said, growing impatient with his chewing and rambling.

  “She wanted you to know that the loggerheads had been back again last summer,” he said. “The turtles, you know?”

  “Yes, I know,” I replied.

  “She also said to tell you that her mom has been sick again,” he said, and then he stopped and looked up at me with a serious look for the first time. “Sara’s not well, Mathew. She looked a damn mess. Think she’s been drinking pretty hard.”

  “Where was Sanborn?” I asked.

  “You mean the kid’s old man? He split a few months after you left. I thought you knew.”

  The news of Bobby Sanborn’s abandonment hit me hard in the gut, but not as much as the revelation that Sara’s demons had taken hold again. “Didn’t you try to help?” I asked in an accusing way that didn’t seem to rile the man.

  “You know, kid, I did try to help,” he said slowly, looking directly into my eyes. “Found a doc over in Panama City who went to see her and I arranged for a full-time nurse to stay there again, but Sara wouldn’t have any of it. She sent them both away in a screaming fit. Told them to stay the hell out of her life.”

  My spirits were sinking fast as I thought about the child and how this would all affect her again, let alone what Sara was going through.

  “Seems she’s taken up with some asshole from over in Tallahassee who stopped through one day on his way to somewhere,” Palumbo went on to say. “Met him before we left. Bad sort.”

  My anger was boiling over. “Willie, how the hell could you leave her down there like that?”

  Again, he remained calm as he replied, “Look Coulter, I’ve done more than enough to help this woman, particularly because I cared deeply about her mother, Lila, and the little girl. Hell, you know we all nearly got ourselves killed down in New Orlea
ns trying to spring her,” he said. “Had a notion to take care of this new scumbag she’s hanging out with, too.”

  “I’ve seen how you take care of people, Willie,” I said. “The body count is high enough.”

  All afternoon I sat at my desk thinking about Sara and Melanee and their precarious situation. I couldn’t stand the thought of Melanee going through more heartache in her life and I was growing less patient by the minute with Sara Dalton’s behavior. Somehow, I managed to finish a story I had been working on and submitted it to my editor. I left a few minutes early and then walked out of the building and down the sidewalk. The late afternoon shadows covered the streets and it was noticeably cooler than when we had gone to lunch. I kept thinking about the situation in Grayton Beach and of a little girl who was faced again with a helpless situation.

  After several blocks, I turned east, down to my publisher’s building and the office of Annie Martin. She was up on the fourth floor and I rode the elevator alone, still stewing about Florida. When the doors opened, I walked down the hall and into the big room where Annie’s desk was located. There were a dozen other men and women scurrying about working on typewriters or talking on the phone. Most looked up when I walked in, as strangers were apparently not very typical on this floor. Annie was the last to see me, her head buried in a stack of manuscripts. When she finally glanced my way, a big smile spread across her face and then a look of curious confusion. I took her hand and told her we needed to take a walk. She leaned into Sam Keller’s office and told her boss she was going out for a few minutes and then we went back down the elevator and out into the street.

  As soon as we were outside, I turned and took her in my arms. I kissed her right there in front of a hundred people walking by. A few of them clapped and whistled as they passed. Then I leaned back and looked into her confused and shining eyes.

  “Will you marry me?” I asked.

  “Excuse me?” was her startled reply.