Just then, the band, also stranded by the storm, went on break and, for a moment, the voices of everyone living on the island and visiting the island blended like a symphony. The colors and stories added many notes. The kerosene light was now so dim that the bodies could hardly be seen. It was a room of voices, of stories, of lives anchoring for a moment, long enough for a drink and maybe more. Someone offered Vicki another drink, and when she turned around, Connie had left.
Would she follow the advice given? Would she return to her life and the endless cycle of her everyday existence, the joys of motherhood blended with the eclipse of who she was and who she used to be and who she wanted to become? Basically, Vicki mused, would she do as Simon said?
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
MUCH HAPPENS BETWEEN THE hours of sunset and sunrise. Sometimes, issues become clear in late-night conversations or spells of insomnia or prayers. Other times, they work themselves out in our dreams, as if our brains surrender to another existence, and in the morning, our subconscious minds have it all figured out for us.
In the morning the restaurant sounded boring without Connie’s laughter, and Howard no longer sat on the upside-down bucket in the kitchen. Someone said he had caught his own private charter off the island in the middle of the night, and they had seen him carrying Connie’s gigantic blue suitcase.
Vicki stopped in for a coffee to go, then left on the morning boat for her two days off. As the boat took off at high speed, she glanced back at the island that was shrinking into a tiny speck, and then it vanished. Several dolphins playfully escorted them for the rest of their ride. When she turned to look forward again, she could see Ben sitting on the edge of the dock waiting for her. She felt like a person living a dual life between “on the island” and “off the island.”
She liked this part of her world, the one with Ben in it. They spent the morning sipping coffee while sitting outside near the fountain at the Bell Tower shops in Fort Myers.
“I’m sorry. Did it burn you?” she asked as she knocked her large latte over and onto his lap. “I can’t believe I did that.”
“Why are you always dropping things? The bottle of wine into the sand last time we saw the sunset, the lightbulb last time I picked you up at the condo, the suit—”
“I know, I know,” she interrupted. “My suitcase was in the water when you picked me up at the marina.” She didn’t want to admit that love was playing a hilarious joke on her every time she saw him, but she knew she loved him, and the sound of his voice made her drop some- thing every time.
Later, Ben had to meet up with a contractor to discuss plans for a high-rise they were designing in Naples, and Vicki left to pick up her father at the airport.
The business situation in Michigan would demand more time, but he was returning to Florida for a few days to handle additional details on this end. She spotted him instantly and gave him a big hug. They spent a couple of hours eating and talking together at a restaurant on Sanibel.
“So how was Michigan, Dad?” she asked as she sipped her chocolate shake.
“The new owners are now selling hot dogs in the shop. I don’t know that it goes that great with ice cream,” he said
“Ugh.”
“And they painted the front door a much darker pink.”
“I liked the old pale pink. It was always a pale pink,” she said.
“Yeah, I know. Couldn’t believe it.”
“What else did they change?” she asked.
“They’re redecorating Mom’s guest rooms upstairs.”
“No. You’re kidding. They can’t! We wallpapered those together, all of us.”
“Yeah. Wait till they find all the letters you girls scribbled in marker on the walls under the paper.”
“Hey, they’re still carrying the same flavors, aren’t they?”
“Yep, but they added sorbet down on the end,” he said.
“That’s no good. No, they shouldn’t start getting complex like that.”
“Tell me about it. And you know how you girls used to draw the daily special in chalk on the chalkboard?”
“Yeah, what happened to the board?”
“They were going to dump it.”
“How could they? Customers loved those chalk drawings.”
“I know. I’ve got the board in my suitcase. It still has your parfait picture on it. Some of the whipped cream smeared off, but we’ll preserve the rest of it.” He sipped his creamy coffee.
“Sounds like you miss the place, Dad.”
“I do. I admit it. My mind still smells the waffle-cone batter heating up on the griddle every morning,” he laughed. “Looking ahead now, how are you preparing for Spain?”
“Well, I do need to start reading. There’s a list of assigned books. The first is, A World History of Our Own Times—a five-hundred-and-seventy-one-page history book.”
“Do you have time out there?” He bit into his cheeseburger, loaded with hand-sliced onions and tomatoes.
“I’ll make time. I’ve got five more books just like it lying on my sandy floor. My foreign language academic counselor said that, as an American representative in Spain, I should be able to answer intelligently any political or historical questions people may ask me concerning the U.S.”
“Yikes. That could be scary for our country!” he teased.
“Hey, I could tell them what sorts of fish we have in our waters. Now isn’t that a lot more interesting?” she asked.
“Yes, but can you tell them in Spanish? That is the real question,” her father asked.
“No, I don’t think so. Hey, Dad, tell me, what types of fish live in Lake Michigan?”
“I’ll be darned!” He laughed. “My daughter is asking about fish?”
“I’m sort of curious.”
“Okay. There’s perch, bass, catfish, tuna, smelt, sturgeon. Do you want me to go on?”
“No, that’s good enough.”
“That reminds me.” He reached into his wallet and pulled out a small photo. “You asked for it. You got it. Here’s a picture of Holland’s lighthouse.”
“Thank you, Dad.”
“Not a problem. When you called and asked me to drive out to there and take a picture of it, I didn’t think I could find the time,” he said. “But I did, and after quickly snapping the photo, I found myself sitting there, for a good hour at least. The water, the lighthouse, it got me thinking about the journey Mom and I have taken, from the Midwest to the South, and now what? It was then that I realized we need to operate another business of our own. I miss pride of ownership. I miss our old comfort zone. We raised you girls there. All our memories are there. It’s been tough on us, leaving it all behind.”
“I know it has, Dad.”
“But we’ll find something new,” he said. “A new adventure. We’ve got to. That’s what people do when they leave behind the life they loved. They find new things.”
“You will, Dad. I know you will.”
On her second day off work, Vicki awoke with a strong craving. And because there is a time for everything—a time to be silent and a time to speak—she knew it was okay to spend the day silently alone. After weeks of being in the company of and listening to the stories of others, she now wanted to listen to herself. And she longed for this personal time as much as one might a day at the spa. She needed the silence as does a woman balancing on a trapeze. The slightest noise might distract or throw her off course, sending her and the thoughts she needed to think into midair, then crashing to the ground. She neither knew nor cared what she might say to herself, nor what she might hear in her day of solitude. She only knew she needed to mentally pamper herself for existing in a constantly changing world. There was no harm in pampering one’s soul from time to time, acknowledging its journey.
She packed her bag with books on seashells, then drove to the west end of Sanibel and over Blind Pass Bridge to Captiva Island, the narrow piece of land with the Gulf of Mexico on one side and the bay a couple of feet away on the other, and t
hen she drove as far as she could go, toward the end of Captiva. She needed to go there. She had walked around the tip of Captiva many times throughout her life, with her grandmother, her sister, her family and felt that area calling her back.
Older and now alone, she grabbed a handful of the sizzling-hot white sand and let it sift through her fingers. She tossed broken shell chips into the water and started walking along the crunchy seashore, a forced emporium. At first, she noticed the shells in a detached sort of way. Florida Fighting Conch—three-inch-long shells, rich in orange and brown to deep mahogany shades—seemed to be the majority. They shared the sand with scallops that looked like stone fans, and whelks, which were orange, white and brown, like little pounding tools. Fragmented seashells that once were whole and gorgeous somewhere out in the Gulf of Mexico were now getting smaller with every foot she walked along the beach. She stayed selective. The shells of dead mollusks went carefully in her bag. Seashells with living, slimy creatures inside were pitched into the waves. As for the starfish and sand dollars, it was hard to tell if they were alive or dead, so she tossed them back into the water. Her eyes followed the flying, fuzzy starfish until they hit the water and sank.
She walked for miles, her neck aching from hunching over and looking down. But she felt her immune system strengthening with every step and breath she took. Searching for seashells calls a person’s attention to the immediate present, a therapeutic place to be.
When she glanced up, she spotted an old lady walking the shore toward her. The lady, white and freckled, and wearing a hat topped with colorful feathers, looked more like a nearly extinct, precious and treasured bird species.
“I like your hat,” Vicki said.
“Why, thank you,” replied the woman.
“It looks like something my grandmother would have worn. Purple was her favorite color. She loved to walk these beaches daily.”
“I’m a local here. Perhaps I knew your grandmother?”
“Betty Jann.”
“Yes, come to think of it, I did! We met at a meeting to raise awareness for manatees. There was a lunch afterward, and your grandmother and I sat at the same table. In fact, I told her I had the recipe to instant gratification.”
“You did?”
“Yes. I took her address and promised I would send it to her.”
“I can’t believe this. I’ve been wondering about that recipe. What is it? She was going to send it to me, but never told me what it was.”
“Oh, you’ve got to have it. Everyone needs a little instant gratification in life, dear. How about I send it to you?”
“Okay. I would love that.”
“Are you at your grandmother’s address?”
“Yes.”
“Good. I never throw out an address. I’ll send it to you. I feel bad I never got around to sending it to your grandmother, but I’ll send it to you right away!”
“Thank you.”
“No problem. Have a nice day.”
“You too.”
She continued walking, feeling a closeness with her grandmother and her past. And then she squinted as she looked across the channel, past northern Captiva Island. Somewhere out there, too far to see was Tarpon Key, her present. Soon the summer would be over, and she would leave that mangrove and Florida behind, just as she had done with Michigan. The very thought of leaving another comfort zone made her feel queasy. It was as if there newly hatching caterpillars in her gut, and they were nibbling on their eggshells.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
WHEN VICKI RETURNED TO the island, she missed Denver. “Ruth, where is Denver this morning?” she asked.
“He left. He left for good, Vicki. He said he had inherited money. Seventy-five thousand dollars, so he claimed. Like I really believe that! Oh well, you know Denver.”
Ruth took a white filter off the shelf and started measuring five tablespoons of coffee grinds.
“Add a few zeros, and you’ll have the accurate amount,” mumbled Vicki. She had heard more of their fight that night than she had fessed up to. “I wonder what he’s going to do with that kind of money?”
“I don’t think he was telling the truth, Vicki. It’s a nice fantasy, and I’m glad to see he’s got a good imagination. I couldn’t help but laugh when he told me, though. It was kind of amusing, and creative.”
“I hope he anchored here long enough to repair himself. I hope he spends it wisely.”
“What?”
“Nothing. I’d better get ready for work.”
Nothing ever changed on Tarpon Key—except its visitors. They were always coming and going, like ships—anchoring for a moment and gone the next. It seemed as if everyone should at one point or another make a journey in search of an island, to stop, to think, and to relearn who they were and what was important in relation to the ever-evolving world around them. Ruth, Simon, and some of the island cooks made Tarpon Key more than a pilgrimage site. They made it their home, staying there many years as artists at their crafts, broiling halibut and baking key lime pie day after day, to the utmost perfection. They liked the kitchen, their domain. This didn’t excuse them from needing, at times, to discover yet a further, more remote island, one where they could simply put their work aside and notice the beauty surrounding them.
Every day, Old Mr. Two-face looked different, or maybe it was Vicki’s perspective that was changing. She no longer noticed his skin, wrinkled from age, and his eyes, which once looked small to her, had become incredible windows offering a glimpse of awesome opportunity. His dark side now looked more lonely than spooky, and she no longer wanted a room on the other side because it wasn’t better over there, facing the trees.
Having worked lunch, Vicki ran back to the staff house and changed into an evening dress. With time to spare before the dinner guests arrived, she plopped herself down on the mattress, wiping her eyes with the corner of the pillowcase. She missed Denver, the makeshift raft who had stopped long enough to gather twigs to fix his weak spots. He was the kind who would arrive at his next destination stronger than a tanker.
She prayed that Evelyn wasn’t victim to any more abuse. Someday she might realize she deserved a good life, and that she was as much of a person as anyone else. Hopefully she would leave her crazy and dangerous comfort zone, despite the discomfort that leaving caused. But first, she needed to get to know and trust God, not the unknown spirits speaking through a deck of cards. What had they offered her thus far? They wouldn’t even reveal who they were.
Howard remained the mystery of all mysteries. After his disappearance that morning with Connie, no one spoke of him again. Vicki couldn’t wait to look up his Spanish contact. Maybe he could offer clues concerning this caravel.
Connie sent a postcard stating that she would definitely discover an island closer to home but that the timing and location of her last voyage hadn’t felt right. She lived like a buoy, bobbing up and down for breath, barely hanging in there.
The world itself could lose value as people came and went suddenly. High school students in Colorado were shot down in class. John F. Kennedy, Jr., his wife and sister-in-law crashed into the waters off Martha’s Vineyard while on their way to a wedding. Office workers were shot down in Atlanta, Georgia. A train wreck in India took hundreds of lives. Mid-westerners died of summer heatstroke. Over twelve thousand people died in an earthquake that shook Turkey during the night. The quake itself lasted forty-five seconds. Mourning and grief for all these victims would last for years. And the most shocking of terrorist attacks came on U.S. soil—both towers of the World Trade Center and one wing of the Pentagon destroyed in explosions of fire as they collapsed in clouds of debris. Who would ever forget the hideous TV pictures, repeated over and over again? Planes hijacked and turned into diving bombs aimed at America’s universal symbols of freedom, fortresses of power and economic might. More than three thousand people disappeared with no trace – flight crews, passengers, innocent tenants, military personnel – mothers, fathers, children, brothers, sisters, s
weethearts and friends. Death had come in a cruel manner, manifesting itself in many costumes. These people, many young in age, had come and gone so quickly, too quickly.
As the world collectively mourned such public losses, individuals everywhere mourned silently and alone for lost loved ones of their own. Many embarked on journeys in search of something comfortable and soothing to fill their voids. Some dared to venture far enough, to find that one special place, not necessarily a real island like Sanibel or Captiva, but something more remote, like a Tarpon Key, their own lost continent of Atlantis, a place of recovery. And many didn’t need to venture that far. What they were looking for to fill their void and comfort their loss was with them all along.
Also in this season, the artists in Saugatuck were looking to the leaves, masters of color, as they prepared for their annual autumn exhibit. The proud branches would soon model bold, vibrant, yet perennial oranges, purples and reds, but only for a season. Then they would shed everything without question, and the locals would decorate the naked winter branches with more than five hundred thousand Christmas lights. Couples, wrapped in warm blankets and riding through the village in horse-drawn carriages, would marvel at the trees, not dead, just asleep, yet looking so awake.
Back in Holland, they were strategically planting tulip bulbs four to eight inches deep and six to ten inches apart in the cool soil, and students were buying their books and returning to campus where classes would be starting soon. Vicki tried imagining herself walking the campus – its perfect comforts of life and its pristine charm and the bright young faces. She instead felt thankful for her living, breathing lessons on the island. Although she couldn’t picture herself a part of university life now, her mind rushed her through its seasons, and she longed to rake the lawn and smell the burning piles of orange, crunchy leaves on the side of the road leading to her classes. She craved a mug of hot chocolate with marshmallows while warming her toes in front of the residence fireplace. She wanted to feel the first snowflakes of the season land on her eyelashes. Suddenly, everything went gray like a landslide burying her thoughts of both the future and the past.
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