Secrets on Cedar Key

by Terri DuLong

  “Oh, okay,” I said, surprising myself with the disappointment I felt. “Thank you so much for a great day. The shopping was fun and the lunch was delicious.”

  “It was my pleasure. I’ll keep the paint and border print and just bring them to the shop on Monday,” he said, before leaning over to allow his lips to brush mine.

  Feeling flustered, I reached for the door handle and stammered, “Yes, that’ll be fine. Thanks,” before getting out, heading toward my mother’s front door, and feeling like an awkward teenager returning home from a first date.

  17

  The following Wednesday ended up being one of those days that reminded me of a bad hair day, Murphy’s Law, and the universe being out of alignment all rolled into one.

  It began with me stopping by the coffee café to get an iced latte before opening the yarn shop. In the process of juggling my handbag, a tote bag containing my current knitting project, a copy of the Cedar Key News, and my coffee cup while attempting to unlock the door, the lid popped off the latte, dousing my white blouse with a large, wet, tan stain.

  “Oh, great,” I moaned, making my way inside to drop everything on the counter while managing to hold the coffee cup aloft.

  I glanced down at my blouse and realized that I’d mistakenly put on a black bra rather than a white one at the same time Worth stepped into the shop from next door. I also realized that I was probably a good candidate to win a wet-blouse contest.

  “Everything okay?” he inquired, and I was positive his gaze had settled where my B cups were visible through the transparent wet blouse.

  Grabbing one of the display shawls hanging from a hook, I wrapped it around my upper body as I nodded and mumbled, “Yup. Fine. Everything’s fine. Just spilled some coffee.”

  I heard him say, “Okay. Just checking,” but not before I saw the grin on his face as he turned to go back into the needlepoint shop.

  My mother was coming in to work at noon, so I put in a distress call requesting that she bring me a clean, dry blouse.

  About an hour later, as I was trying to stock yarn and maintain a grip on my shawl, I looked up to see Mr. Carl walk in. Lovely, I thought.

  “Mornin’, Miss Marin. Oh . . . are you not feeling well?” he asked with concern in his voice.

  “I’m fine. Why?”

  He pointed to my shawl. “It’s almost eighty degrees out there. Are you cold?”

  “No, I’m not cold. Spilled some coffee on my blouse earlier. What can I do for you?”

  The confused expression on his face told me he had no idea what I was talking about.

  “Right. My Raylene sent me over. She needs two more balls of that there yarn.”

  “Which yarn?”

  “Um . . . well . . . you know. For the thing she was working on.”

  Yup. It was going to be one of those days.

  “Mr. Carl, Miss Raylene probably has about three projects going. Do you know which one, exactly, she needs the yarn for?”

  The look on his face told me he did not.

  “Okay,” I said. “Let’s start over. Do you happen to know what color the yarn is?”

  He shook his head slowly as he shifted from one foot to the other.

  “Look, just give her a call. You can use the phone right there,” I said, pointing to the one on the counter.

  “Oh, Lord, I couldn’t do that.”

  Was that fear now covering his face?

  “And why not?” I questioned.

  “Raylene would kill me. She’s always telling me that I forget everything.”

  Yup. That was definitely the look of fear.

  “Well, I’m sorry, Mr. Carl. But I just don’t see how . . .”

  I was interrupted as he removed his hand from his pocket and began waving a paper in the air. “I have it! I have it! She wrote down what it was she needed.”

  I reached for the paper and shook my head. I wasn’t sure if I was happier for Mr. Carl or for myself.

  “Right,” I said, walking toward the wall. “Two skeins of baby alpaca with this dye lot number.”

  I rang up the sale and passed him the bag.

  “Thanks so much, Miss Marin. Oh, hey, do you think your new shop will be finished by the time the film company gets here to do the movie?”

  Oh, God, not that again, I thought. But all I said was, “I certainly hope so.”

  He nodded, hollered good-bye, and left.

  About an hour later I looked up from the needlepoint catalogs I’d been browsing to see a woman enter the shop. Nobody I knew and most likely a tourist. And one that looked out of place wearing a designer dress and stiletto heels and carrying a Coach handbag.

  “Hello,” I said. “May I help you?”

  Ignoring both my greeting and my question, she walked to the cubbyholes filled with yarn, examining each one, and then waved a manicured hand in the air.

  “Is this all the yarn you carry?”

  We were normally told by tourists that we had an excellent selection.

  “What exactly are you looking for?” I asked.

  “Cashmere,” she said in a tone that made me feel like I should have known that. “Don’t you carry cashmere?”

  I got up and walked to the bottom shelf. “We do have a few skeins down here,” I said, removing one in a shade of pale pink. “But because it’s so pricey, there aren’t many requests for cashmere.”

  “Really?” she said, surprise covering her face. “Well, that color will never do. My dog is a male and wouldn’t be caught dead wearing pink.”

  “Your dog?” She was joking, right?

  “Yes, I want the cashmere to make a sweater for Lucifer. We live in a cold climate and he needs to be kept warm.”

  Nope, she wasn’t joking, and I could feel the beginning of a headache across my forehead.

  “Hmm, well, I’m sorry,” I told her. “I guess the best we could do would be an alpaca or wool.”

  She walked toward the door, shaking her head. “No. That won’t work. He’s allergic to those.”

  And with that, she was gone. What on earth was she even doing on Cedar Key? Did she not realize that we’re just a small fishing village without all the upscale amenities found in large cities? And did she not know that this was precisely how we liked it?

  By the time my mother arrived with my clean blouse, I was more than ready to escape to lunch for an hour. I had brought a smoothie that I’d prepared that morning and decided to sip it as I drove around the island on the golf cart getting some fresh air. I found myself taking a left at Whiddon and heading out toward the airport. Pulling off the road, I sat and stared at the Gulf in front of me. A perfect late October day. Sun shining, no humidity, and the kind of weather many people in the North move to Florida for. I let out a deep sigh as my mind wandered to the recent conversation with my mother about my call to Fiona.

  After I told her everything we’d discussed, she was quiet for a few moments and then said, “So this girl is going to be alone for the holidays?” making me feel like the child she would reprimand when I didn’t want to share toys with a friend. I told her I really had no idea what Fiona had planned for the holidays and left it at that. But I wondered when it had become my responsibility to find out what she was doing for Thanksgiving and Christmas.

  I released the brake on the golf cart, got back on the street, and took a right farther down, following the dead-end road to the end and Maybelle’s cottage. Getting out, I opened the black wrought-iron gate attached to the fence enclosing the small side yard. Walking to the back, I stared out at Safe Harbor as ibis and blue heron circled farther out above the water. I felt enveloped by peacefulness, a tranquility that I hadn’t felt in a long time. Taking in deep breaths and releasing them, I then noticed the dragonflies—a swarm of them hovering above bushes close to the shore. After a few minutes, I turned toward the house, hoping to peek in some windows, but all of the blinds were drawn tight. Getting back on the golf cart, I turned it around to head back to the yarn shop, gave a la
st look to the house, and knew without a doubt that I was meant to live there.

  By the time late afternoon arrived, my headache had subsided and I was feeling better than I had that morning.

  My mother had run down to the post office to collect the mail and I’d just finished waiting on a customer when Worth walked into the room.

  “Busy?” he asked. “Have you got a second?”

  “Sure. What’s up?”

  “Well . . . I really hate to have to tell you this, but . . . I’m afraid we’ve run into a problem.”

  “The ceiling light?”

  “No. Actually the light arrived this morning. I’m afraid it’s a bit of a larger problem than a light.”

  I could feel a knot forming in the pit of my stomach but remained silent.

  “It’s . . . ah . . . the ceiling. I cut into it a little while ago, prepping it so we could get the light installed . . . and . . .”

  “And?”

  “There’s been some major water damage in that ceiling, which leads me to think there’s probably a leak in the roof. So that will have to be repaired and then . . . a whole new ceiling put in. All the wiring will have to be checked, too, and then, of course, everything will have to be inspected.”

  I stood there, biting my lip, shaking my head, and desperately trying not to cry. Closing my eyes, I took a deep breath and whispered, “How long? How long will all of this take?”

  I heard Worth clear his throat, and my eyes flew open.

  “Well, I’m not certain.” He ran his hand through his hair, a gesture I’d never seen him do before and which led me to believe he was nervous. “But, in all honesty, it won’t be done in time for you to open before Christmas. November first is Friday. I don’t even have anybody lined up to do the roof. I can do the ceiling, but I’ll need some help with it and Kyle doesn’t have enough experience. I’m so sorry, Marin. I know how much you were counting on all of this to be finished by early December.”

  We both turned toward the door as my mother walked in, saw the expressions on our faces, and said, “What’s wrong?”

  I grabbed my handbag, my knitting tote, and the keys to the golf cart. Walking to the door, I said, “Worth will tell you. I need to go home a little early,” and as I stepped outside onto the pavement, I knew exactly what I needed to do.

  18

  I got home a little after four-thirty, poured myself a glass of wine, let Oliver out in the yard, and sat on the lounge thinking. By the time I finished my wine, my decision had been made and I headed inside to the computer.

  Thirty minutes later I grabbed the papers that the printer spit out at me and took a deep breath. What the hell had I just done? I couldn’t recall having ever made such a spontaneous decision, and yet the papers in my hand proved that I had done just that.

  I glanced down to see copies of electronic tickets for a flight to Paris, France, on November 25, three days before Thanksgiving, with a return flight two weeks later. I felt a smile crossing my face as I experienced a mixture of excitement and uncertainty. It was then that I heard my mother coming in the back door. She’ll probably think I’m nuts, was my first thought.

  “Marin. I’m home,” she called from the kitchen.

  Damn. I felt every bit the sixteen-year-old about to face punishment for some incredibly stupid deed.

  “Hi,” I mumbled, walking into the room.

  My mother turned around as she removed a casserole from the fridge. “Are you okay? I’m so sorry about the delay at the shop, but Worth has a few calls out to find somebody to do the roof.”

  I watched as my mother tapped the pad on the stove to preheat the oven.

  “Yeah, I’m okay. I guess I overreacted on the setback.”

  “I know you’re disappointed, Marin, but what with Thanksgiving and Christmas just around the corner, you’ll be busy, and before you know it all the work will be done and you can open. Worth is pretty sure everything will be completed by early January.”

  “Right. Well . . . I won’t be here for Thanksgiving. The boys aren’t coming and this is the first year without Andrew and I don’t think I can bear to pretend I’m even interested in celebrating this holiday. You’ll be going to Sydney’s, so I don’t feel like I’m deserting you, and, well . . . I just booked myself a flight to Paris. I leave out of Gainesville to Atlanta, where I’ll catch an Air France flight direct to Charles de Gaulle. I’ll be gone for two weeks, and . . .” I knew I was babbling and couldn’t help myself, and I also couldn’t control the tears that were now streaming down my face.

  “Oh, Marin,” I heard my mother say as she scooped me into her arms. “Good for you.”

  “Good for me?” I hadn’t quite expected to hear her say those words.

  She gave me a tight squeeze before stepping back to reach up and wipe the tears on my face. “Yes. You’re a fifty-six-year-old woman. You’ve had a very difficult year. You’ve been under a lot of stress. You need to get away and clear your head. I think going to Paris is a wonderful idea. You’ve wanted to return there since your college days. Believe me, life is too short not to do what makes you happy. So let’s celebrate with a glass of wine.”

  I sat at the table and watched as my mother poured two glasses of pinot grigio, passed one to me, and lifted hers in the air. “Here’s to Paris and a whole new adventure.”

  I touched the rim of her glass and smiled before taking a sip. It was in that moment that it really hit me. I was going back to Paris! It wasn’t a daydream. It wasn’t a wish. It was reality—and I had made it happen.

  “My God,” I said. “I’m really going to do it. Are you sure you don’t mind me leaving you over Thanksgiving?”

  My mother waved a hand in the air. “Don’t be silly, Marin. As you said, I’m not going to be alone. I’ll be with Sydney and the family. So not another thought about that. I think you really need this trip. It’ll be good for you. Now, where did you book yourself to stay?”

  I let out a laugh. “Oh, I didn’t get that far. I only booked the flight.”

  “Hmm, well, don’t let it go too long. Even though Thanksgiving is an American holiday, the hotels might be pretty full.”

  I nodded. “I’ll get back on the computer after supper and see what I can find.”

  “What was the date again? Will you be here for Maybelle’s memorial service?”

  “Definitely. I don’t leave till the twenty-fifth, and besides, I really want to talk to Victoria about the sale of the house.”

  My mother remained silent. What was it about that house? Why was she supportive about my trip to Paris but not about purchasing Maybelle’s former residence?

  “You really don’t want me buying that house, do you?”

  I watched as she got up to place the casserole in the oven and waited for her answer.

  After a few moments she joined me at the table, took a sip of her wine, and said, “It’s just that there are so many other houses on the island for sale. That house will probably need some refurbishing, and it’s out at the tip of the island. Wouldn’t you prefer something closer to the downtown area, maybe in the historic district?”

  “But it’s such a pretty location. Right on the water. And besides, I plan to purchase my own golf cart, so I can be downtown in a matter of minutes.”

  My mother nodded and let out a sigh. “You’re probably right, and it’s your decision after all. By the way, I haven’t had much of a chance to talk to you. Did you get the paint and border print purchased over the weekend?”

  I had a feeling my mother wanted to change the subject. “Yes. Worth has it. I did get it on Saturday when we went to Home Depot. We went to his house for lunch after. What a gorgeous home he has, but so large for one person.”

  “That’s right. I had heard his wife passed away quite a few years ago. Such a nice man. He was quite concerned about you this afternoon.”

  “About me?”

  “Yes. He felt just terrible about the ceiling and the delay.”

  The disappointme
nt that I’d felt earlier had lightened with my decision to go to Paris.

  “Gosh, it wasn’t his fault. Not at all.”

  “That’s true, but I think it bothered him that it was just one more thing to give you frustration. He’s a nice man, Marin.”

  She had just said that. I moved my fingers around the stem of the wineglass.

  “What? Are you playing matchmaker?” I let out a forced chuckle and glanced up to see a smile cross my mother’s face.

  “And would that be so bad?” she asked, with a hint of humor in her tone.

  “Well . . . I don’t know. I mean . . . Andrew has only been gone for eight months, and . . .”

  “Marin, there’s no time frame on grieving, and it isn’t up to anybody but you to determine what that time frame is. You’re never going to forget Andrew. He was your husband, the father of your two sons. You spent twenty-six years together. You have a history and nothing can erase that. But it also doesn’t mean that you can’t enjoy the company . . . or even love . . . of another man during your lifetime. I just want you to know this. Don’t live by other people’s standards. Live with what you know is right for you. Like making the decision to fly to Paris.”

  She was right. It had been so long since I was on my own, capable and free to make my own decisions, that I’d forgotten what an exhilarating feeling it could be. I thought about the dragonflies I’d seen in Maybelle’s yard. How they seemed to follow their instincts, how they seemed to seize the day, enjoying life to its fullest.

  “My biggest wish for you,” she continued, “would be that when you’re my age, you have no regrets.”

  I couldn’t recall hearing my mother ever say that, and before I could stop myself, I blurted, “Do you have any?”

  It was a few moments before she answered, and I caught the expression of sadness that briefly came across her face before she let out a deep sigh. “I have a few, but I’ve come to realize that with age we learn forgiveness. Not just of others, but of ourselves. Youth can be notorious for causing us to be judgmental, but most of the time the years have a way of softening that judgment.”