Postcards from Cedar Key

by Terri DuLong

  “So it’s nice that you have your aunt and Grace,” I said.

  “Well, Grace and I weren’t really close until I moved to Cedar Key, but yes, I’m glad we reconnected. How about your father? Has he also passed away?”

  I took another sip of wine while trying to decide how much to reveal. “My parents were never married. They met at college and then he went off to Vietnam, where he was killed shortly after I was born.”

  “Oh, so you never knew him? How about his family?”

  I shook my head. “No, I never met him, and my mother was never in touch with his family. They lived in Houston.”

  “Well, I can understand how you feel about having roots. Have you thought about getting in touch with your aunt?”

  “Yeah, especially after my mother died. Maybe eventually I will.”

  When I returned to my apartment a couple of hours later, I glanced at the desk drawer that held the postcards, but I didn’t remove them. I already knew what they said.

  So after giving Sigmund some attention I began my bedtime ritual of preparing the coffeemaker for the following morning, arranging the clothes I would wear across the chair, brushing my teeth, and placing a glass of ice water on my bedside table. My routine never varied, and yes, I knew that the last thing I did was probably the opposite of most people—I switched on the lamp beside my bed, casting light inside the room. As I drifted off to sleep two thoughts crossed my mind: Saxton Tate III would be coming to the chocolate shop the following day, and perhaps the time had arrived to contact my aunt, Stella Baldwin.

  4

  True to his word, Saxton did stop by the shop to replenish his chocolate. I was waiting on two women when he sauntered through the door. The word saunter seemed to fit him perfectly because nothing about Saxton Tate III seemed rushed or swift. The man definitely had a laid-back demeanor. He also had a dashing quality about him that the plaid tam on his head emphasized. I watched out of the corner of my eye as he stood near the table where the gems were arranged.

  “Thanks,” I told the women after ringing up their sale.

  Saxton nodded at them as they left the shop and then turned toward me with a smile.

  “It looks like you’re being kept busy,” he said.

  “Yeah, it’s been steady all weekend, which is good. What can I get for you today?”

  His eyes focused on the glass case as he tilted his head for a better look. After a few moments’ deliberation he said, “I think I’ll try two of your Cedar Key clam chocolates and two of the truffles, please.”

  I reached for a small box and began filling it with his request. “Are there a lot of people out and about on Second Street?” I asked.

  “Oh, I’d say a fair amount. Poor Lucas just had a run-in with one of them across the street.”

  “An unhappy tourist?” I rang up the sale and slipped the box into a bag.

  “No, no. Not a tourist at all—a local. Not sure if you’ve met Raylene Samuels yet. Very set in her ways, and she was in the bookshop complaining about Lucas carrying the newest release by Lacey Weston.”

  Although I’d never read her books, I knew she was a top seller in the genre of erotica. “Really? What was her problem?”

  Saxton let out a chuckle. “Seems she was on her soapbox telling him that as a good Christian woman she didn’t appreciate his shop stocking those kinds of books. Told him she considered it smut.”

  “I wonder why it bothers her so much. There are plenty of other books in there for her to read.”

  Saxton reached for the bag I passed him. “That’s pretty much what Lucas told her. He explained that as a bookshop owner, censorship isn’t part of his job. Lacey Weston’s books sell, which means the author has readers.”

  I nodded. “Yeah, I’ve never read them myself, but . . . live and let live, I always say. It’s too bad she gave Lucas a hard time about it.”

  “From what I hear, Raylene does this on a regular basis. Even though she knows she has no chance of getting those books banned. Like it’s her moral duty to try.”

  We both looked toward the door as the wind chimes tinkled.

  A woman walked into the shop. She was medium height, short salt and pepper hair, appeared to be early seventies, with a distinct frown on her face and somebody I’d never seen before.

  Saxton surprised me when he said, “Miss Raylene. How’re you today?”

  She briefly glanced in his direction before bringing her eyes back to the case filled with chocolate. “Since you just saw me across the street at the bookshop, you should know I’m upset.”

  Oh, no . . . was this woman here in an attempt to ban my chocolate along with erotica? Chocolate sometimes caused the word decadent to come to mind.

  “What’s that?” she asked, pointing an arthritic finger toward my clams.

  “My signature chocolates. Dark chocolate in the shape of clams. Here,” I said, putting on a plastic glove and reaching into the case. “Would you like a sample?” With the sour look on this woman’s face she looked like she could use a bit of sweetening.

  Saxton and I watched as she plopped it into her mouth. “It’s good,” she said, but her tone indicated surprise. “I’ll take a half pound of those. I’m Raylene Samuels, and you are . . . ?”

  “Berkley Whitmore. It’s nice to meet you,” I told her as I filled a box. “You live here on the island?”

  “I do. Born and raised here. Like my daddy always said, when ya live in paradise, why on earth would ya wanna leave?”

  I smiled. “Why indeed?”

  I rang up the sale and passed the box to her. “I hope you’ll enjoy them.”

  “Me too,” was all she said before turning around and leaving.

  Saxton’s deep laughter filled the shop as he shook his head. “She’s a piece of work, isn’t she?”

  I joined his laughter. “I have to agree with you on that. Gosh, she seems like an angry person. I wonder if the poor woman knows how to smile.”

  “Like the old farmer used to say, people are like crops. You have to weed them out. Well, I better get going. It was nice seeing you again, Berkley. I’ll be back on Tuesday for my refill.”

  A wave of disappointment swept through me. “Oh, I’m closed on Mondays and Tuesdays.”

  “Well, then, in that case you’d better give me two more of the truffles to tide me over.”

  After paying me, he said, “You know . . . I enjoy talking to you. Any chance you’d be interested in joining me sometime for coffee or a drink? I know you haven’t met many people in town yet, and it might do you good to get away from your shop for a while.”

  That would be nice. Very nice, actually. “You could be right,” was all I said, waiting for him to take the lead.

  “Great. Why don’t you meet me Tuesday evening over at the Black Dog on Dock Street? They have good wine and beer and a nice deck where I like to sit with Lola. She’s my best friend—a little white terrier mix—and she adores Otis, the namesake for the Black Dog. Why don’t we say around seven o’clock?”

  “That sounds like fun, and I look forward to meeting Lola.”

  I watched him walk out the door but instead of thinking about fun, I found myself wondering if I really wanted to get involved in another aimless relationship. While I’d always enjoyed having a male companion, before long I would feel smothered or not able to tolerate various quirks he’d have. Either that or my own quirks would drive him away, which always led to a parting. Too late to think about this now, since I’d already accepted Saxton’s invitation.

  After I’d had dinner and cleaned up I sat on the sofa with Sigmund curled beside me, trying to figure out exactly what I’d say to Aunt Stella when I called her.

  I needed information to piece together the answers I was looking for. I wasn’t at all sure that my mother’s sister could assist me, but she was the only family member left that might be able to. People are strange about relinquishing family information, even when the members involved are no longer here, so I didn’t want he
r to think the main reason for my call was precisely that.

  I got up, poured myself a glass of iced tea, and wiped up the droplets on the counter as I continued to formulate my thoughts. Twenty minutes later I was dialing my aunt’s phone number in Atlanta.

  “Berkley,” I heard her say with more friendliness than I’d expected. “How nice to hear from you. How are things in Salem?”

  I explained about my relocation to Cedar Key and listened intently to see if the name of the town would cause recognition in her voice. It did not.

  “Where exactly in Florida is that?” she questioned, leading me to believe that she probably wasn’t aware that my mother had come here forty years before.

  “Off the west coast. North central Florida, about an hour from Gainesville.”

  “And it’s an island? I’m sure it’s delightful. It’s really nice that you’re continuing to carry on the family tradition with the chocolate shop. I’m afraid other than eating chocolates I had no desire to be involved in the business. But your mother and grandmother always loved it.” She paused for a moment. “You know, Berkley, I’ve always felt bad that you and I never got to know each other better. Maybe you’d like to come and visit me sometime. . . .”

  She left the sentence hanging, but I heard an almost wistful tone. Stella Baldwin was the last link. The one who could probably explain so many things about her sister to me, and I had an idea.

  “This is my first weekend being open and I really can’t take any time off for a while, but if you’re free I’d love to have you come and visit me here. It’s a beautiful island surrounded by Mother Nature.”

  “Really?” I heard the surprise in my aunt’s voice.

  “Yeah, you’re alone now and maybe you’d enjoy a getaway. The only problem is that my place is pretty small. I only have a one-bedroom apartment.”

  “Hmm, that might be fun. I wonder how long a drive it is from Atlanta. Don’t worry about putting me up. I’m sure I could find a place to stay . . . but I have a little Yorkie and I couldn’t bear to put Addi in a kennel, so that might be a problem.”

  “I think it’s about six or seven hours from Atlanta to Cedar Key. I know the Faraway Inn is pet friendly, and it’s a great location in the historic district, right across the street from a small beach and a great view.”

  “Well, let me think about it, Berkley, and see when I could come. I have quite a few social commitments between now and June, but I’ll get on the Internet and check out that place for lodging. I’ll get back to you as soon as I figure out some dates.”

  “That would be great,” I told her.

  After hanging up the phone, I walked into the living room and glanced toward my desk. The urn stared back at me. I wondered what my mother would think about her sister paying me a visit. But more important, I wondered if that sister would be able to put together some pieces of my puzzle.

  5

  It was a nice feeling to wake up Monday morning and know I didn’t have to be downstairs in the chocolate shop. After I had breakfast and got Sigmund fed, I sat at the table and looked over my list for the day. Yes, I’m a list maker. According to some people, I’m rather compulsive about this—but these lists, along with Post-its, help me to stay on track throughout the day and accomplish everything that I hope to.

  I glanced at the notebook paper: Visit yarn shop and see about supplying yarn to Dora. Stop by coffee café looking for locals to engage in conversation. Finish spinning yarn for customers. Check on supply of chocolate clams. Call Angell and Phelps to order more Honeybees.

  I let out a sigh before gulping the last of my coffee and glanced at the clock on the wall. Eight-thirty. Probably too early to do a few of these things, since most shops in town didn’t open till ten. But I could get some spinning finished.

  Walking into the living room I flipped on the CD player and settled into the chair behind my spinning wheel. I loved spinning not only because I enjoyed the feel of the fiber coming to life in my hands, but also because it afforded me time to just let my mind wander.

  Although I had originally only come to Cedar Key to gain information, I had to admit I liked the town and the people that I’d met so far. But I guess I was one of those people that could easily relocate and feel comfortable in my new surroundings. I attributed this to the fact that at age five I had to leave behind my nursery school, my friends, and the only house I’d ever known and make the move from Maine to Massachusetts. Looking back now, it seemed that all of it happened almost overnight. One minute we were living in a small town in Maine and the next thing I knew, my mother was gone and my grandmother was telling me the two of us were moving.

  Leaning over to adjust the fiber on the bobbin, I tried to recall exactly what I had been told before my mother left. But much of it was such a blur. What bothered me the most that summer was that my mother hadn’t even said good-bye. That I still remembered. I recalled getting up one morning, looking for her in the kitchen, where she normally was before I left for school, and she wasn’t there. My grandmother was making my breakfast and told me that my mother had to go away for a little while, but we had an adventure ahead because we were moving. I’m not sure any of it made sense to my five-year-old mind. Hell, it still didn’t make sense. And beyond that, the only other thing that I could recall was that I didn’t go to school that day or the rest of the week, because by the following week my grandmother and I were on our way to a new life in Salem, Massachusetts.

  I finished spinning the skein of yarn and realized it was now ten-fifteen. One more skein to go and I’d be able to ship the order to my customer in Chicago. But now it was time to get out and about and see what information I might be able to gather.

  I walked into the coffee café to find it pretty crowded. Suellen spied me from behind the counter and gave a wave.

  “Hey,” I said, walking toward her. “Looks like business is booming here.”

  She swiped a strand of hair from her forehead and nodded. “Yeah, this time of morning it’s always busy. The locals come in to visit and exchange gossip. What can I get you?”

  A pound of gossip from somebody recalling a Jeanette Whitmore who stayed here for a summer forty years ago would be great, I thought, but said, “A regular coffee, twenty ounce, and one of those delicious blueberry muffins.”

  I chose a table next to four women who were having an animated discussion about books.

  “So you have read her books?” I heard one woman ask with astonishment.

  “Yes, I have, and why shouldn’t I? I’m over twenty-one by a few years,” she said, which brought a chuckle from the other women.

  I glanced over to see that the woman speaking appeared to be in her early eighties, and I smiled. From what I could gather, I had a feeling that the erotica author Lacey Weston was once again the subject of conversation on the island.

  “Well, yes, Flora, I agree,” another woman said. “I guess I was just surprised since you normally read nonfiction books.”

  “Variety is the spice of life,” the older woman replied, and looked over at me. “Do you like to read?”

  “I do,” I said. “Very much so.”

  “Visiting here?” she asked.

  “No, I recently moved here. I’m Berkley Whitmore and the owner of the chocolate shop across the street.”

  The older woman’s face lit up. “Right. I’d been meaning to get over there, and I see you’re closed today. Well, I’m Flora Mathews, and this here is Corabeth, Liz, and Betty. We’ve been friends for years.”

  Four potential sources of information. “So you grew up together? Right here on the island?”

  Flora nodded. “We sure did, and you know that building where your shop is? I used to own that a long time ago.”

  A definite source of information.

  “Pull up a chair,” she said. “Come and join us. We’re having a discussion about erotica.”

  Corabeth laughed and shook her head as I moved my chair to their table.

  “Not exactly abo
ut erotica,” she said. “We’re discussing books.”

  “Did you ever read that author, Lacey Weston?” Flora questioned.

  “No, I haven’t, but it has nothing to do with the fact that it’s erotica. I generally lean more toward women’s fiction or mysteries.”

  The women nodded. “Same here,” said Betty. “Not sure if you’ve met her yet, but Raylene Samuels has her knickers in a twist about the bookshop selling this author’s work. She’s a member of our book club but very particular about our choices. If Raylene doesn’t like the book chosen, she doesn’t attend the meeting, and that’s fine with us. But she’s badgering poor Lucas at the bookshop not to carry Weston’s books, which is flat-out ridiculous.”

  “Exactly,” Liz said. “We respect her right not to read certain books, and there’s no penalty for missing a meeting, so she should give the rest of the reading public that same respect. But not Raylene—oh, no. Even though none of Weston’s books have ever been one of our book club selections, she’s taken it upon herself to try and enforce censorship.”

  I nodded. “I did hear something about this the other day, but I was told that she didn’t get through to Lucas about not carrying the books.”

  “That’s right,” Corabeth said. “The man is in business to sell books, and obviously Weston’s books sell. He has no desire to censor readers’ choices.”

  “I hear you’re living in one of the apartments upstairs,” Flora said, changing the subject. “That makes it convenient with your shop.”

  “Yes, it really does. I love the apartment and I love having Chloe right down the hall. Did you have a shop there when you owned the building?”

  Flora shook her head. “Oh, my, no. My family has been in the soft-shell crab business since before I was born. My grandson runs the business now. You like soft-shell crab?”

  “I love it,” I told her.