She shrugs. “A diet pop. Whatever kind.”
Phew. I can pour a soda, no problem.
I lay a napkin on the bar and set down the frosty drink glasses. “How about eggs, bacon, and toast? Unless you want something else.”
Paddy doesn’t serve breakfast, but he keeps enough of the makings—eggs for salads, bacon for burgers, and bread for sandwiches—to put together a decent meal.
“Mmmmmm, sounds terrific. I haven’t eaten a home-cooked breakfast in a while. Most of the time, it’s just a Poptart and coffee to go.”
I head to the kitchen, and she follows, soda in hand. She leans on the window while I pull stuff from the fridge.
“How do you like your eggs?”
“Scrambled. I’d love onions and peppers if you got 'em.”
I wash my hands in scalding water and then hunt around in the fridge, knowing they’re in here somewhere. I find them and fire up the grill before I chop the vegetables up into smaller pieces suitable for an omelet.
“Cheese?”
“Oh goodness, yes. I love cheese. Cheddar if you have it.”
Even if Paddy didn’t keep cheddar in stock, I’d run to the store to get some to make her happy.
“As you wish.” I’m not sure why that line from one of Mom’s favorite romantic movies just popped into my head, but it seems appropriate.
The look of near-euphoria on Thea’s face as I cook makes me glad I’d watched Mom cooking breakfast almost every morning from the time Da married her fifteen years ago. So yeah, my step-mom, but she’d never treated me, Mac, or Liam like step-children. She’s been my mother longer than the woman who gave birth to me, Rose.
And Mom never tried to crash her car with me and my brothers inside, like Rose. I rub the thick scars on my arm incurred in the accident. My physical reminder of what can happen when mental illness goes untreated.
My shoulders knot up, the way they always do when I think about my birth mother.
The car accident happened so far in the past, though, and this moment…
This may not be my future, but it is my now, and I should enjoy each minute before I head to med school and am bogged down in books and cadavers.
I shake all thoughts of Rose from my head, thankful for my now-happy family, and elated at the presence of this gorgeous girl standing in front of me.
This makes me one of the lucky ones, I decide as I plate up our breakfast.
I hand Thea the plate, and she grins at the bounty of food.
“And you cook.” She shakes her head, her voice quiet as though her words were not meant for my ears.
“What?”
Her eyes widen a bit. “Oh, just wondering what you can’t do. Drive a boat, get into medical school, and cook breakfast.”
I laugh. “Well, I cooked it. It’s not impressive unless I cooked it well.”
We sit back down at the bar and Thea digs in, cutting off a piece of omelet dripping with gooey cheese. I hold my breath. She chews the egg, her delicate jaw moving.
“Mmmmm. Mmmmm.” I expect her to spit the egg out into the napkin, but I breathe a sigh of relief when she cuts off another bite. “Wow, so good, Shay. A check in the ‘can cook’ column for you.”
She grins and another layer of anxiety melts away. I’m off the rest of the day, and I’d love to spend it with her. She’s more than just a random body and I want more than meaningless sex. I like her and think she likes me, too. “So what’re you and your friends doing today?”
She chews and swallows a bite of buttered toast. “Oh, same as yesterday and most of the days before. Lie out at the pool, sip a fruity drink, and read a book. I’d love to visit some of the attractions, but Bennie’s been here before and has no desire to be a ‘tourist.’ I’m not sure I can stand another day of lounging around the pool, though.”
I have an in. “I’m off the rest of the day. I’d be happy to show you around, if you want.”
She lays her delicate fingers on my arm, and the hairs there stand at attention. “Goodness, yes. Where do we start? Hemingway Home? The Lighthouse? The cemetery?”
“Whoa, slow down. How much longer are you in town?”
“Four more days.”
My heart drops. Not a lot of time to spend with her.
“We can visit quite a bit in four days. Let’s make a plan.”
She pulls out some glossy brochures from her purse for some of the popular tourist attractions.
“I want to go here for sure.” She holds up the brochure for the Hemingway Home.
“We can do that. So what brings you here? To Key West? Other than vacation, of course.”
“Bennie, one of my friends from last night, her uncle has a condo here, and he’s away right now. So I pulled some money out of savings for the flight down since the accommodations were priced right.” She grins.
“What’s next?” I start clearing the dishes and pour us both another soda. “What are you doing for the rest of your life? When you head back to the real world?”
She purses her lips and pauses.
“I took last semester off for family matters, and this coming semester, too. But I’m pursuing my teaching license.” Her voice catches a little, making me think I hit a sensitive spot.
“Teaching? Wow, that’s terrific. What grade?” This isn’t small talk. I care. I want to know more about her. Everything about her.
It’s scary but exhilarating. Kind of like parasailing for the first time. Her smile leaves me as breathless as any extreme sport adventure.
“Elementary school. No grade yet. I’ll take whatever grade I can find a job in once I graduate, but I adore the little kids, so I’m hoping kindergarten or first grade. Those first few years in school, they’re so enthralled and eager to learn. Like a whole new world has opened up. I can’t wait to be the one to show them so many new things.”
I’m drawn to her enthusiasm. Some outstanding teachers gave me encouragement in my early years when I struggled with Rose’s death and my own injuries. Without them, I may not have reached my goals.
“You will be an amazing teacher.” I can’t think of anything else to say. It’s just a feeling.
Her head falls to the side. “And you? Medical school. Now that is impressive.”
“I’m impressed I survived undergrad to get there. Miami was tough.” I stuff my hands into my pockets. “Do you need to go back and get anything before we head out?”
Her giant lime-green bag rattles when she picks it up. “Got everything I need right here. Camera, sunblock, lip balm, and water bottle. I’m always prepared, thanks to my Girl Scout training.”
“Terrific. Let me get this…” I pick up the dishes, and she follows me into the kitchen where Paddy and his head cook, Manny, are prepping for lunch.
Paddy takes the plates and silverware. “I got this. You kids go enjoy yourselves.”
He gives me a thumbs-up behind Thea’s back. What he thinks is going to happen won’t in the broad daylight of our outing, but that’s okay with me.
Whatever happens, today will be, and I don’t use these words often, freaking awesome.
***
Thea
It’s not even noon, but I’m already having an incredible day. We stroll down Whitehead Street. First on our list: The Hemingway Home museum. Lush foliage hangs over the fences, scenting the air with a blend of sweet and spicy tropical perfume. I love all of the old houses, some painted in brilliant colors, others whitewashed, and most decorated with ornate trim. A vast number of the houses are tiny. Shay explains how many of the smaller homes were cottages used by the workers who staffed the cigar manufacturing plants a hundred years ago.
“How do people today live in such little houses?” The home I grew up in was modest, but nothing like these.
“Most people spend their time outside, since the weather’s fantastic year-round. If you look closely, though,” he says, pulling me near, his large hands warming my skin as he turns me to face the side of one of the houses, “the newer residents in these ho
uses added on to the back or built up an extra floor. My parents built a garage and put an apartment over it. That’s where I stay when I’m home. We still live more compactly than people in other parts of the country, though. Unless you’ve got some serious cash, your house is around 1,200 square feet, give or take.”
He takes my hand again, the brush of his work-roughened hands sparking bolts of electricity through my body. We walk in comfortable silence on our way to the Hemingway Home. I stop and can’t help but chuckle at a plaque attached to a stone wall in front of one of the houses.
I read the plaque out loud. “Passion Pistol House. Established 1900. Outstanding.”
His face flushes. “Yeah, people love to name their houses. This is one of the more, um, colorful ones.”
I stop and take a picture, and he pulls out his phone and snaps a photo of me pointing at the sign.
“Oh, Daddy will be so proud. Maybe I’ll leave this off of the digital slide show I put together for him.” I still try to maintain the “Daddy’s little girl” façade, but I’m twenty-two years old, so he has to know I’ve got the “sweet” thing still, but the innocence went out the door in high school.
Not only sexually, but I had to grow up fast when Mama got sick. Daddy worked the swing shift often as a police officer, and I would care for Mama when I got home from school. Then when she passed away, I took on many of the household chores she had done, and watched as Daddy withdrew from the world. He tried, but was often so overwhelmed by sadness that he was unreachable. He’s doing better now, but I can see the strain in his face from trying to help Jen with her kids, Kyle and Josie.
I don’t want to place that burden of care for me on anyone. Jen didn’t know about the mutation before her diagnosis. The surgery, PBM as I call the procedure (short for prophylactic bilateral mastectomy) is a radical step, but healing from the operation is easier than the months-long fallout from treatment, with no guarantees of success.
I’m an awful patient, and don’t want to put anyone through the same shit I went through with Mama.
And I do mean shit. Mama’s side effects to the treatment went beyond nausea and vomiting and hair loss.
I shake off the negativity, and stand by all of the choices I’ve made thus far. I’m confident about getting the PBM, no matter what other people might say. A movie star in her thirties had the same procedure a few months ago, and while most applauded her decision, Twitter blew up with some idiotic comments.
I called to check in this morning, like every day since I came on vacation. Jen kept her breakfast down, which is a monumental accomplishment.
She’s like me. She loves to eat—especially traditional Southern cooking—but the chemo messed with her appetite.
When she’s up to it, we’re headed to Mama Hattie’s restaurant for shrimp and grits.
We reach the corner of Whitehead and Olivia. A six foot red brick wall surrounds Hemingway Home, and like other gardens throughout Old Town, the scent of exotic tropical plants from the property infuses the air.
I’m giddy. I minored in English and loved my Modern American Lit class. We read some stellar stuff, but I love A Farewell to Arms. Hemingway, who went by the nickname Papa, was a complex man, not likeable much of the time, but a fascinating character and a hell of a writer.
And I want to play with the cats.
My childhood cat Candy had extra toes. The vet labeled Candy “polydactyl,” but my aunt called her a “Hemingway,” which I later found out was because Hemingway once owned a polydactyl. I read there are dozens of cats on the property, some descended from Hemingway’s original cat, and how polydactyls were prized on ships for their ability to catch rodents.
I pull out my wallet to buy a ticket. Shay shakes his head. “My treat. Two please.”
He pays and thanks the cashier.
“Next tour starts in ten minutes if you want to wait in the living room,” she informs us.
I nod and beam at Shay, excitement bubbling in my chest. “Thank you so much!”
We turn to the house, a rectangular building with a porch wrapping around the entire second level. The roof is flat, and tall, arched windows highlighted by mustard shutters help create a striking piece of architecture.
We enter the house, and it’s just as hot as outside. No A/C in here. I fan myself and tug at my shirt where it’s sticking to my back. I open my bag and pull out a tissue, dabbing at my forehead and upper lip. I’d skipped the make-up this morning too, for fear it would melt.
Shay hasn’t broken a sweat at all.
I want to hate him for looking so cool and gorgeous, but the way he rubs my arm and whispers and points out things makes me feel something altogether different from hate.
Desire. Churning in my stomach, swirling out to tickle my fingers and toes.
For someone who seemed shy last night, he’s so relaxed now. I’d like to think I put him at ease because I’m so comfortable with him.
The tour guide, Dan, comes in, and directs our attention to some paintings on the wall, and describes some of the architectural history of the house.
We move from the living room to the dining area. Shay’s hand burns into my shoulder. I could use some ice or something to cool me down.
Pictures of Hemingway and his women line the walls of the dining room and solidify Hemingway’s reputation as the King of Machismo, a womanizer with a whole host of nasty habits.
The hairs on the back of my neck stand on end, and I glance over to find Shay grinning.
“Enjoying yourself?” He points to a picture of Hemingway with a giant marlin. “Ever been fishing?”
I shrug. “Yeah, but I never caught anything bigger than a foot long.”
“A little smaller than the marlin.” We both laugh and it’s so normal, like we’ve known each other forever instead of twelve hours.
He rests his chin on top of my head, and I’m like one of those cartoon characters who’s been hit in the head and sees birds and stars circling overhead.
After my first boyfriend broke my heart in middle school, calling me hideous when I got my first zit, Mama tried to comfort me. She asked, in all sincerity, if I saw stars when we were together. I didn’t and Mama said it was because he wasn’t the one. She saw stars the first time she laid eyes on Daddy. The same thing would happen to me when I found the one.
I’ve been seeing constellations, both literally and figuratively, since the moment I glimpsed Shay across the bar.
Boy, I am in trouble. I squeeze my eyelids shut and take a deep breath, trying to calm my thudding heart. I’d never believed in love at first sight. Lust at first sight, yeah, but never love.
This may be what it’s like to experience both, at the same time.
***
Shay
Dan leads us up a narrow set of squeaky stairs to the second floor. We pause at the landing at the top of the stairs to peruse the book collection ensconced behind a layer of Plexiglas. Those are some old books, and many of them had likely been damaged by overzealous tourists before the clear shield went up.
Like the rest of the house, exotic furnishings and artwork fill the bedroom, but the one thing Thea is most attracted to sprawls out on the wrap-around verandah: the cats.
I’d heard the tour before. Mom loves to visit, and a close friend of hers once worked here as a guide. Thea grins when our tour guide introduces us to some of the friendlier cats: Marlene Dietrich, Rita Hayworth, and Greta Garbo, all named after movie stars from the Golden Age of Hollywood in the 1930s and 1940s.
I keep a close eye on Thea, afraid she might try to smuggle out one of the smaller cats in her gigantic bag.
Greta Garbo seems smitten with Thea, too, and I couldn’t blame the little tuxedo cat. If Thea invited me to rest my head on her lush lap, I couldn’t resist.
We’d make an interesting sight.
Our group starts to move on, and I motion to Thea, the curls loosened from her ponytail bobbing as she says her goodbyes to Greta.
She slides up
next to me in the gallery and my fingers ease in between hers. My heart thumps against my sternum. A two-ton weight constricts my chest.
The scent of gardenias and red ginger float up from the gardens below, but as intoxicating as they are, they can’t compare to Thea. I could drown in the delicious fruitiness enveloping her.
My head reels and my heart shifts.
Is this love?
The logical side of my brain tells me “no way, man!” You can’t love someone after one day. Can you?
I do know it’s different than lust.
At least wedged somewhere between the two.
I’m not one for casual sex. I’ve had one girlfriend. I dated a little in college, but spent most of my time studying. Becoming a doctor has been my top priority for what seems like forever.
Funny how I’d thought about school so little since last night.
I stare at Thea while she examines some of the old photos.
“What? Stop staring!”
I run the pad of my thumb across her palm, which must be sensitive because she trembles a little.
I’ve experienced those same little quakes since I first spotted her, and they’ve now reached a nine-point-zero on the Richter scale.
We head downstairs and out to the patio.
“Oooh! I came across a story about the pool when I was researching a paper in my American lit class sophomore year.” Thea’s gaze drops to the ground and finds the penny embedded there. She snaps a picture of the coin, then looks back up at me and grins. “Do you know the story?”
The same question I’d asked her last night about the constellations. “Why don’t you tell me?”
Her face lights up and her eyes crinkle at the corners. “Well, apparently the pool cost a lot of money, even by today’s standards. In a fit of rage over the expense, Hemingway threw the coin down on the patio and told his wife to take his last penny because she’d already spent everything else.”
She motions at the ground like she’s flinging something and her face screws up in mock anger. If I wasn’t already smitten, I would be now.
“I like the way you tell it.” I imitate her gestures and she playfully punches my arm. Well, more like taps me with her small fist. I deflect a second attempted tap and grab her hand, holding it while we stroll around the rest of the grounds.
Goodbye to You Page 3
