“So we’re officially meeting each other’s parents?” Jake said. “Things are getting serious here, Mayor.”
Holly blushed. “No, I mean, you will meet my mother. She owns as much of this island as I do.”
“There’s a story there,” Jake said knowingly.
“There is most definitely a story there,” Holly agreed. “And I promise to tell you all of it before Coco comes down from New Jersey for a visit.”
“Coco?”
“My maternal unit.”
“But you call her Coco, not Mom? And you two are named Holly and Coco—how far back does this Christmas-themed stuff go?”
Holly stepped out from behind the counter and walked around to stand in front of Jake. “It goes back. Way, way back. There’s a lot to learn about this island, Officer Zavaroni. And if you stick around long enough, I promise you will.”
Jake smiled at her, intrigued.
“Now, in the meantime, let’s get your parents acquainted with Christmas Key,” she said, stepping around him and ending the moment. “What do you think about taking them kayaking? They might see some dolphins.”
“My dad in a kayak?” Jake laughed, imagining it. “Let’s make that happen.”
Chapter Twelve
By the second day of their stay, the Zavaronis were satisfied that Jake had found a solid place to land after all that he’d been through that year.
“This place is beautiful, mimmo,” Mrs. Zavaroni said to her son as they sat on the beach together, watching the sun set. “And so is that girl.” She nudged Jake with her elbow. “Huh?”
“Oh, Ma, you sound like Dad.”
“You know what I mean. Natalie was never right for you,” she said. Mrs. Zavaroni straightened her short legs in front of her on the sand, smoothing down her skirt to cover the veins that had popped up over the years. They looked like a road map of her life: pregnancies, hard jobs, housework…everything had taken its toll and left its mark.
“Natalie isn’t an issue,” Jake assured her. “Marielle was the one who invited her to that party—I didn’t want to see her.”
Mrs. Zavaroni shook her head and clicked her tongue. “Your sister. She meant well, I’m sure.”
“Yeah, I’m sure she did.” Jake watched as the waves crested and broke, rolling onto the white sand. A palm tree rustled overhead.
“Water under the bridge,” Mrs. Zavaroni said. “And everything else is, too. This job might not seem as exciting as the one you had, Jake, but I think this is good for you.”
“You think so?”
“I do. You did good things in Miami—you helped people. But you also got hurt. It’s impossible to be around the things you saw everyday and not take it inside of you a little bit.” She squished up her face, picturing the things her son would have seen on the streets of Miami. “For every Mrs. Ochoa who just wants to be safe and protected, there are a thousand people who are drug-hungry and violent. They would hurt you, Jake—they would rather kill you than go to jail themselves.”
Jake nodded, pulling his knees up and resting his arms on them. He knew she was right.
“Here you have silliness like turtles in the road,” she said, recalling the story that she’d heard at the coffee shop from some of the locals. “There are old people who need help to board up their houses when a storm comes. And there are new people for you to meet and care about.” She paused, letting the silence infuse her words with meaning. “Maybe you won’t stop anyone from getting shot, but you’ll get the chance to heal yourself, and that’s important, Jake.”
Jake could feel his mother’s eyes on him as he stared ahead at the darkening horizon. Half of the sun still peeked over the edge of the water out beyond the beach that the locals called Snowflake Banks, and its bright orange glow made the whole place feel like it had been cast in gold. Even the skin on his mother’s arms looked like it had been touched by some sort of strange alchemy.
“You’re right,” he said. The sun slipped further, and the golden moment began to fade. “I haven’t had a single nightmare since I’ve been here, and I never break into a cold sweat when I get into my golf cart to start a shift.”
“You need this, mimmo.”
Jake nodded. It was a definite step back in terms of excitement and adrenaline, but his mother was right: there were things about this new gig that would be good for him. And the smell of the ocean was amazing—living in Miami he’d seen the beach all the time, but he couldn’t remember the last time he’d cracked a window and smelled the salt in the air. He breathed in deeply.
“I know,” he said. “I do need this.”
*
Jake had officially settled into a routine: a pit stop at Mistletoe Morning Brew for a cup of coffee and a short chat with Carrie-Anne and Ellen, followed by a day of patrolling Christmas Key by golf cart. Two weeks into his new life on the island and his tan had deepened, while the lines around his eyes had softened. The heaviness that Jake had grown accustomed to feeling each time he strapped on his holster and badge had dissipated, and he’d almost totally let go of the notion that he’d failed as a police officer by taking a job that required such a low level of adrenaline and risk.
There was good to be done on this island: on Wednesday he’d rushed over to a bungalow on the north side of Christmas Key to pick up a resident who wasn’t feeling well, and had driven her to see the doctor on Main Street. And just yesterday he’d had to mediate a disagreement about a property line that had escalated to name-calling when one neighbor refused to take down a lawn statue of Santa Claus mooning a reindeer.
When he’d seen his parents off at the dock on Tuesday, Jake had even forgotten to feel homesick, and he’d watched their boat grow smaller as it slipped into the distance without once wishing he was sailing away with them. Of course, Holly had played a big part in helping him adjust to life on Christmas Key, and their fast and easy friendship infused his days with an edge of hopefulness—hopefulness that he’d bump into her, and that she’d be up for a drink at the end of the day, or maybe to watch a movie together. So far, they’d hung out at her house with her golden retriever at their feet, working their way through the Back to the Future trilogy on DVD. Holly hadn’t lied about her lack of cooking skills, so Jake had brought dinner over for them to share as they watched the movies.
But the chance of a Friday night movie was off the table for this week anyway, as the whole island had a wake to attend. As the date had grown nearer, preparations escalated to a fevered pitch. The triplets who ran the gift shop/grocery store on Main Street had taken over the decorations at the island’s tiny chapel, and Holly and Bonnie had convinced Maria Agnelli that a woman shouldn’t prepare the food for her own wake. Everyone had signed up for a dish to bring to the Jingle Bell Bistro, and the atmosphere on Main Street that morning was of a small town preparing for a festive event, not a sad one.
“Jake!” Holly called from the front porch of the B&B. She waved at him, taking the three steps down to the sidewalk and stepping into the street to meet his cart as he slowed to a stop. “Can you run by Mrs. Agnelli’s and make sure she’s all ready for tonight?” Holly leaned in to the passenger side of his cart, poking her head under the cart’s roof.
“Sure. But what does she need to do to be ready for her own wake?”
Holly paused and narrowed her eyes, looking down Main Street at the dock. “Uh, I’m not sure. Black dress? Hair combed? Maybe make sure she isn’t dipping into the red wine and mourning her own death?”
Jake fiddled with the key that turned on the cart. “So…you want me to comb her hair?” He tried not to make a face.
Holly laughed. “No, mostly just make sure she’s with it today—it’s a bit of a crapshoot with her, as I’m sure you’ve noticed.”
“Not really. She reminds me of my grandma, so she seems perfectly normal to me.”
“Well, then just make sure she isn’t cooking. Trust me—you do not want to try her potluck dishes.” Holly pushed herself away from the cart and to
ok two steps back to the curb. Jake looked her up and down from behind the lenses of his sunglasses, admiring her long, tanned legs and white Converse sneakers.
“I’ve heard,” Jake said, half of his mouth turning up in a smile. “Okay, I’ll check on her. But what should I do if she’s refusing to put on a black dress, or if she’s already three sheets to the wind?”
“If anything is wrong, just call me.” Holly turned and jogged back up the steps to the B&B, yanking open the door and disappearing inside as Jake drove away.
Jake parked in front of Mrs. Agnelli’s bungalow, switching off the cart’s power. He pulled the park brake and slid his sunglasses into the holder above his visor. Mrs. Agnelli’s small yard was neatly mowed, and the house was painted a cheery yellow. At the door, the bell set off a series of loud noises inside that sounded like wind chimes.
“I’m coming, I’m coming,” Maria Agnelli said. The patter of her bare feet against tile floors marked her approach. “Ciao, Jake!” she said happily, unlatching her screen door to let him in. “Welcome!”
“Hi, Mrs. Agnelli,” he said, bending down to scratch her small, yapping dog under the chin. The dog jumped excitedly, her shaggy white fur flopping over her eyes.
“This is Noodle,” she said, pointing at the dog. “She’s old and a real pain in the ass sometimes.” Mrs. Agnelli shook her head, one hand fisted on her bony hip. “But my husband loved this dog.”
“Aw, she’s cute,” Jake said, watching as the dog whipped itself into a near frenzy.
“You want coffee?” Mrs. Agnelli looked up at him, eyebrows raised. “I’ve got coffee. Or a soda if you’d rather.” Her face melted into a more mischievous grin. “Or I’ve got wine—you want a glass of vino, Officer? Today is my wake, you know,” she said, letting the screen door slam shut as she made her way to the kitchen.
“I know. And I think I’ll save my wine drinking for the big event, Mrs. Agnelli. But thanks anyway.”
“Eh,” she said, setting the half-full bottle of wine back on her counter. “You young people. Always thinking you’ll be able to do things later.” Her hand drifted through the air, its knuckles knobbed and gnarled like the knots on a tree. “You’ll get married later, you’ll have babies later, you’ll drink wine later,” she said in a sing-song voice. “Well, let me tell you a secret, Jake: sometimes there is no later. You’re going about your business one day, and then boom—you’re at your own wake. It’s all over. There is no more later.” Her tone was mournful, her eyes faraway.
Jake frowned. “But Mrs. Agnelli, this isn’t your real wake—you aren’t actually gone, you know.”
She snapped out of her reverie. “That’s true, Jake.” Mrs. Agnelli nodded slowly, her lips working like she was trying to keep a set of dentures in her mouth as she thought about his statement. “I’m not gone yet, but ever since my husband passed—may he rest in peace—I feel like I should be.” She reached over to where Jake’s hand rested on the back of her kitchen chair and placed her wrinkled hand over his, squeezing it tightly. “Enjoy being young and full of life, will you? Don’t let it pass you by.”
Jake looked down at her. “I’ll do my best.”
“Good.” Mrs. Agnelli patted his hand and let go. “Now, I know you’ll be going home after my wake with someone else,” she said, pausing to wiggle her eyebrows suggestively, “but I was hoping you’d at least be my date to the event.”
Jake almost laughed out loud. “What? Your date? Do people take dates to their own wakes?”
“Why not?” she asked innocently. “I’ve got a sexy black dress and half a bottle of Chanel No. 5 that I’ve been using for special occasions only. Now all I need is a man to escort me to the chapel and to hold my wineglass while I accept condolences and well wishes from my friends.”
The idea of Mrs. Agnelli receiving both condolences and well wishes on the occasion of her own fake passing amused Jake, as did the image of himself following her around with a glass of wine in hand. So he said yes. Yes, he’d pick her up at four in his golf cart. Yes, he’d wear black dress pants and a button-up shirt and be Mrs. Agnelli’s date. He’d been saying yes to lots of crazy things recently, so how far out there was it to escort an eighty-four-year old woman to her own wake?
“See you this afternoon,” Jake promised her, letting her give him a peck on the cheek.
“And bring flowers,” Mrs. Agnelli said. “I like a man who shows up with flowers.”
Chapter Thirteen
Jake found a patch of wildflowers in the wooded area of the island. He parked his cart and picked a handful of skyflowers and blue sage, bunching them together until he had a bouquet to give to Mrs. Agnelli. The sunlight broke through the thick palms, touching the dark hair on Jake’s head and then flickering away again like fireflies with the changing light.
He thought about Ariella Rodriguez as he picked, and about her funeral. There was no festivity to the occasion, no sense of celebration and amusement, it had been a heart-wrenching event with the rawness of her loss as its underpinnings. He’d been under doctor’s orders at that point to take a medication that dulled his senses, and he’d passed through the event like a weightless apparition, giving his condolences to her family and carrying around the shame and anger he felt at not being able to save her. Funerals had a negative connotation in Jake’s mind, but he was relieved that the feeling surrounding Mrs. Agnelli’s wake was one of joy, not of unbearable loss.
At exactly four o’clock, Jake and Mrs. Agnelli pulled up to the rustic, weathered chapel on the sand, its white wood battered by the salt spray from the nearby sea. It seemed like every cart on the island was parked along the unpaved street they called Holly Lane, and Jake offered his elbow to the guest of honor, carefully leading her across the sand in her sensible, low-heeled shoes.
A gentle breeze blew down Holly Lane, lifting the edge of Maria Agnelli’s black chiffon dress, and she clutched the bouquet of wildflowers to her chest with one hand, the other hand holding Jake’s strong arm.
The doors to the chapel stood open in the September sunlight, a hazy glow mingling with the sand that the soft breeze kicked up around them.
“Do you think there’ll be dancing?” Mrs. Agnelli asked, holding on more tightly to his elbow as they climbed the few steps up to the tiny church. Jake had never seen dancing at a funeral before, but then he’d never been paid to help turtles find the ocean until he came to this island, so who knew?
“Maybe,” he said, patting the hand she’d rested on his forearm.
Inside, the entire island was waiting. “Maria! Come, sit!” people called out, inviting her to take a seat at the front of the chapel. Jake walked her to the front pew, depositing her gently onto a smooth wooden bench. His eyes immediately sought out Holly.
He scanned the crowd for a moment, wondering whether he should sit next to Mrs. Agnelli, given that he was her official escort and driver. As he found Holly’s smiling face, he felt a tug at his right hand; Mrs. Agnelli looked up at him with a knowing smile.
“Go sit with her, tesoro, she’s waiting for you.” Mrs. Agnelli let go of his hand and turned to the triplets beside her. A warm feeling flooded through Jake; no one but his grandmother called him darling in Italian, and it nearly brought tears to his eyes. And Mrs. Agnelli was right: Holly was waiting for him.
“May I sit here?” Jake asked formally, holding out a hand to point to the empty spot in the pew beside Holly. She blinked a few times.
“Yes, of course.” Holly slid over to make room, her black purse resting on her knees.
“You look beautiful,” Jake said into her ear as he got situated on the bench. And she did. Her black, knee-length dress was sleeveless, and her black sandals had low heels and little bows near the toes.
“Thank you.” Holly stared straight ahead. The heat from her skin radiated around her like a halo, and Jake brushed his knuckles against her knee accidentally-on-purpose as he tugged on the fabric of his black pants.
Tall, gruff Cap Duncan stood up to
lead the service, his voice booming out in the small church. He gave a beautiful speech about Maria Agnelli’s life, about how she’d survived WWII and moved to the States, and about the nine children she and her late husband, Alfie, had raised together in New York.
The islanders took turns at the podium after that, each person sharing a story about Mrs. Agnelli and her life on Christmas Key that alternately brought laughter and tears. Jake hadn’t even been there for any of it, but the stories were so colorful and so full of love that he felt as though he’d really lived through it all. Mrs. Agnelli sat alert throughout the service, her shoulders straight, white hair curled and combed perfectly. She dabbed at her eyes and rocked with laughter—sometimes simultaneously—as her friends spoke about her.
A huge gust of wind picked up outside as Jimmy Cafferkey was speaking, and it blew through the chapel’s open doors, rustling the papers on the small podium that acted as a pulpit, and whipping through the ladies’ hair. Everyone turned in surprise as the chapel’s doors swung loose on their hinges, closing and then opening again when the wind exited the building. A startled laugh spread through the crowd, and Jimmy continued.
In two short weeks Jake had come to love the island like he’d been there for years. He loved waking up to the smell of the ocean nearby, and he loved seeing the friendly faces on Main Street as he climbed behind the wheel of his cart, coffee in hand each morning. He glanced at Holly, watching her profile as she listened to Jimmy Cafferkey intently. The promise of her friendship (and, if he was being honest with himself, the desire to see if there was something more there) thrilled him. He’d been over Natalie long before she showed up at his going-away party, but seeing her again had reconfirmed the need for him to truly move on.
Jake's Story: A Christmas Key Novella Page 6
