“From Key West all the way back to Miami, where they could get some decent shelter, is about a hundred and fifty miles. So if Key West were the site of a hurricane’s probable landfall, that could mean a hundred and fifty miles of bumper-to-bumper traffic.”
“As a policeman, then, you wouldn’t be allowed to jump in your car and go along with the crowd, would you?”
“No, I’d be obligated to stay. First, I’d have to knock on doors to make sure that everyone knew about the storm. Next, I’d have to arrange some sort of cooperative transportation for those people who had no way out—car pools, maybe. And, finally, I’d have to wait until the last of the traffic had passed through. There are some eighty miles of highway from Key West to where we’re standing in Islamorada. And no doubt some of those frightened, scurrying tourists would have car trouble somewhere in this town.
“I’m afraid, Melissa, that I’d be one of the last to get out.”
“Charming thought,” Melissa added, wryly, in commiseration with Joe’s dismal projection. “Obviously, a monster hurricane would be God’s way to even the score after blessing this place with so many days of warm, delicious weather.”
As she spoke, Melissa wondered, silently, about the level of Joe’s concern over hurricanes. Was it something he dreaded constantly, or just occasionally? Or did he consider it only a remote possibility that really didn’t affect him at all? While she pondered, he answered.
“I’m probably foolish, but I’m probably also like most of the other people who live here. We very rarely think about it, we never talk about it, and deep down inside we have this cocksure confidence that we’re quicker and craftier than any hurricane nature can muster. A little bit of wind and rain, that’s all they are.”
This answer didn’t quite dispel Melissa’s suspicions that something else lurked behind Joe’s statement. It was almost like he was trying to convince himself of his ability to overcome a hurricane. That wince of pain that flickered through his eyes as he spoke about hurricanes seemed to speak to a deep sorrow. Melissa suspected she was about to tread on dangerous ground, but this was the “new” Melissa, and if she was to have an open relationship she was determined that there’d be no secrets.
“Joe, I can’t help but notice that the mention of hurricanes brings some real pain to your eyes. Is there something you’re not telling me?” Melissa grabbed Joe’s hand instinctively, but let her eyes drop to the ground, afraid to watch Joe’s reaction to this question.
Joe shuddered slightly, then pulled Melissa down to sit on a nearby bench. He looked out to sea for a few minutes before he spoke again. “It’s been a while since I have talked about this to anyone, but many years ago, back when I was based at Quantico, I was engaged to a nurse who lived in Cherry Hill, New Jersey, not far from my uncle in Somerdale.
“We had met one summer at a local bar there while I was visiting my uncle, and we just clicked. Before I knew it, we were engaged. We were planning to get married right after my tour of duty was over. Becky was a pediatric nurse, and really dedicated to her patients at Children’s Hospital in Philadelphia. She just didn’t want to leave the area. So we put off the wedding until we could find housing together somewhere near her job.
“Then Hurricane Agnes came. It wasn’t that horrible a storm as hurricanes go, especially in the Northeast. But Becky was traveling to work during the worst part of the storm. The roads were pretty washed out from all the rain and visibility was pretty poor. She was only two miles from the bridge to Philadelphia when a tractor-trailer skidded and lost control, plowing right into her. The police said she never knew what hit her. She died instantly.
“I’ve never really felt the same for anyone since.”
Joe finally turned to look at Melissa, and she saw his eyes filled with tears. She squeezed his hand, and rested her head on his shoulder unable to say anything that seemed appropriate after such a tale.
They sat for a few more moments, and then Joe stood up, pulled Melissa to her feet, and said, “Let’s move on, shall we?” Melissa smiled in relief that the sparkle was back in Joe’s eyes again.
Thus, with worries over hurricane sanity finally put to bed, the next stop on the duo’s itinerary was the beach at nearby Caloosa Cove.
At the far southwestern point of Islamorada, just before the bridge that marked the end of Joe’s official police jurisdiction, was a secluded beach hidden off the ocean side of the highway. To get to it, Joe drove his car down a slight, unpaved incline and over some very bumpy terrain.
“It looks like sand we’re riding on,” Melissa offered, as she bounced slightly on her seat and literally had to hold onto her sunhat with one hand, “but it’s not very soft.”
“Just a few more yards,” Joe laughed. “This is a far cry from the beaches in New Jersey. The islands in South Florida were formed from hard coral. There’s no soft sand.”
When Joe stopped the car, close to the water’s edge, Melissa was captivated immediately by the picturesque view. Spread out before them was a dictionary definition of the word “magnificent.” A wide expanse of pure white beach was accented by calm, minute ripples of seawater that sparkled before them, from right to left as far as the eye could see and straight out to the cloudless horizon.
The beach was deserted except for the tiny, sandpiper-like birds who didn’t fly much but who hustled along on feet moving so fast that only a blur was visible. There were hundreds of these birds, and they seemed to change directions in groups, as if they were miniature soldiers practicing their marches on a military parade ground.
Huge palm trees provided occasional shade from the eighty-five degree sunshine. The trees, most of which bore clusters of greenish coconuts poised far above ground level, no doubt began their lives by bursting through the shallow dirt before snaking skyward like so many crooked secondary roadways.
Sprinkled haphazardly throughout the beach were wild, purplishhued hibiscus bushes that helped paint a truly tropical scene.
Surprisingly, there were no waves at all breaking in the surf.
“The approaching swells slice through the coral reef long before reaching the shoreline,” Joe noted. “The offshore water is always calm here, as if it were one big, gigantic swimming pool.”
Melissa was the first one to leave the car. As part of a magnetic reaction to the closeness of the sea, she slipped out of her tee shirt and slacks, revealing a red-and-blue, flowered bikini that was a shade more conservative than racy.
“Let’s try the water,” she beamed, holding her hands to her hips and waiting as Joe started a mild struggle to kick off his trousers.
From the way Joe kept shifting his gaze from Melissa to his clothes and back again, she was sure that her suddenly undraped, thin, shapely figure was definitely to his liking.
Joe’s strong, athletic build was also a turn-on. Melissa liked his rippling, muscular body and the way a clump of grayish-black hairs contrasted with his deep, dark tan. This salt-and-pepper hair pattern seemed to be in coordination, naturally, with his white-and-black striped trunks.
Melissa started to trot, gingerly, toward the water’s edge, but she stopped abruptly after the bottoms of her feet encountered hundreds of tiny, painful shells.
As if on cue, Joe reached out to hold her hand.
“Whatever you do, don’t walk on the blue things that look like broken balloons,” he advised. “They’re a form of jellyfish that can give you a nasty sting.”
“There are shells everywhere,” Melissa exclaimed, pointing toward the ground. “And they’re so small.”
She reached down to pick up a handful of crushed coral, filled with shells, and marveled further at what she observed.
“Look, Joe, I must have at least a dozen of them in my hand. They’re all different colors, and some are smaller than contact lenses. But I can tell that all of them are definitely conch shells. Miniature conch shells. I’ve collected a few of the bigger ones at beaches up north, usually right after a storm has hit, but I’ve never see
n any this small. The ones I have at home are about the size of baseballs.”
“Later on we’ll make it a point to collect some of the nicer ones—to add to your collection,” Joe smiled, as he led the way into the water. “We’ll get big shells, small shells, and shells that you’ll need a microscope to enjoy. The really big ones found here in the Keys—those that measure maybe twelve inches across—are used for horns. A skilled native of the ‘Conch Republic’—as Key Westers like to call themselves—can blow into a dried conch shell and make a sound like a tugboat horn. And it doesn’t require strong lung power, just the ability to hold your lips a certain way when blowing through the shell.
“By the way, have you ever eaten any conch?”
“Yes, I have. The last time I visited the Keys I had some. And I remember that conch chowder tastes great, much better than clam chowder.”
While they stood at wading level, gleefully splashing each other for several minutes, Joe told Melissa the story of the horse conchs and the queen conchs.
“Not too many northerners know the difference between the two types of conchs. The shells look the same, but the queens are vegetarians, eating algae and the greens that grow on the ocean floor. The horse conchs, however, are carnivorous. And the one thing the horse conchs feed on, believe it or not, are the queen conchs. They sneak behind the queen conchs like this,” Joe whispered, as he deftly swooped up Melissa, with ease, into his strong arms, “and then they wait for them to come out of their shells before they gobble ’em up.”
With that, he ran backwards for a few steps farther into the surf, gently releasing Melissa’s body. Then he fell into a backstroke in the deeper water.
When Melissa came up for air, her hair now straight and her face completely soaked, she was laughing hysterically.
“My oldest sister was the last one who did that to me,” she screamed, the warm sun reflecting its light off her cheeks, “and that was when I was six years old.”
In all, Melissa and Joe spent about twenty more minutes in the water—swimming, wading, and playfully splashing about. Then they returned, wet and exhausted, to the blanket they had spread on the beach, near Joe’s car. While they sat, looking out at the surf and drying off quickly in the now much warmer sun, Joe pointed in the distance to a small spot of coastline off to the left, about a mile down the beach.
“When the sun’s right, you can see my trailer from here.”
“What trailer?”
“Aha, that’s a typical city dweller. My trailer is where I live.”
“You mean you live in a mobile home?”
“It may be possible to make it a mobile home again, but I’ve never moved it. There are so many palm trees and hibiscus bushes growing alongside and through the outside walls that it’s probably rooted in the coral by now. It might even be hurricane proof.”
“I’ve noticed quite a few mobile homes between here and the southern side of Miami, especially around Key Largo. But I don’t recall ever being inside one. What are they like?”
“Mine is crowded with furniture, to be honest, but kind of cozy. It’s a nice place for me. Doesn’t take much effort to clean. It’s a little bigger than most trailers, called a ‘double-wide.’ I have a small bedroom, an even tinier living room, and, despite what you city slickers might think, indoor plumbing. I also have a sign in one of the windows that says ‘Beware of Dog,’ but there’s no dog. I live alone, just Joe Carlton, no girlfriend, no wife.
“So, tell me, what kind of a place do you have in Philadelphia?”
“I own a large-sized twin. It’s a corner property in a city neighborhood. I’ve been living there for almost six years now, and I’ve grown accustomed to the place. When Brady left, I thought the house would be like a museum, with empty spaces that I’d never use. It didn’t turn out that way, though. His old den is filled up with houseplants now. And I’ve turned the spare bedroom into my own private library.
“So, instead of piling up my old paperback books into some corner and then throwing them out after they’ve attracted a few layers of dust, I now have a place to keep them. I don’t have to feel guilty any more about tossing a book into a trashcan.
“Thanks to Brady, there’s no longer a mortgage to pay, and the taxes are cheap. It’s only a ten-minute drive to my library. I have some friends who live near me and others who live in the center of town. And the block I live on has quite a few families. Even though I, personally, have never entertained any thoughts about raising kids of my own, the families, I must admit, give it a certain stability that I find more comfortable than Philly’s downtown area.
“I’m still attracted to the cultural events in the center of town, the shows, the restaurants, and just the overall ambiance. Usually, once or twice a week, I’ll travel the thirty minutes to center city Philadelphia to meet a friend for an evening’s entertainment.”
The now blazing Islamorada sun, which was no doubt pushing the temperature near the ninety degree mark, provided for a quick dryingoff period. Within minutes, sporting dry bathing suits, Melissa and Joe began to walk, hand-in-hand, near the water’s edge.
Joe had fetched a small plastic bag from the trunk of his car, and Melissa was using it to hold the most beautiful of tiny conch shells that she was picking up—at an almost constant pace.
During their half-hour walk along the beach, Melissa and Joe spent as much time gazing into each other’s eyes as they did looking at the scenery. After collecting maybe a hundred different conch shells, they started their drive back toward the center of Islamorada.
They stopped for a snack along the way at a roadside luncheonette that featured Cuban cuisine. The menu in the restaurant window, aside from listing various delicacies spelled out in Spanish, also proclaimed “Regular Meals, Regular Dinners,” which, Melissa discovered, meant hot dogs and hamburgers.
The morning exercise had given them strong appetites. Eating quickly, they seemed to inhale their burgers and fries. Joe topped off the meal with a Cuban-style fried banana. Melissa declined.
“Whatever you do during your stay in the Keys,” Joe advised, “don’t give in to any urges to buy coconuts or key limes. If you want to take some freshly grown samples home with you, I know exactly where to look for free food. I can guide you to the best-tasting, wildest-growing coconuts, key limes, and even grapefruit—which, by the way, is still in season.”
Joe then drove Melissa to another small beach called Witch’s Point, on the north side of the island. After stripping to their bathing suits again and wading out to waist level, they stopped, looked into each other’s eyes, ever so briefly, and then reached out, simultaneously, to embrace one another. Their glistening, warmly wet bodies remained fused together for several minutes while their lips consummated an impassioned kiss.
When they finally broke, they began pecking again almost immediately, lip to lip, before returning again to a deep, full-fledged, wraparound kiss.
Melissa felt only minor excitement initially, except for the comforting strength of Joe’s arms and the quivering motion of the muscles in his lips. Further into the second kiss, however, when his tongue massaged hers, Melissa’s mind was triggered into fantasy, drifting off into short, rocket blasts of thought scattered among remembrances of the popping of champagne corks, autumn leaves at their golden finest, and sunrise on a clear mountain lake.
When they released each other, turned, and headed back toward Joe’s car, Melissa flooded her brain waves with a strong wish that this idyllic day, so full of promise, would never end—as if it were the ultimate twenty-four hour period that could never be equaled, and anything that dared to come afterward would be doomed as anticlimactic.
On the drive back to Melissa’s room, Joe apologized for having to return so quickly to his police work. He was scheduled to start a double shift later that evening.
“I’d love to spend the rest of the day—and the night—with you,” he admitted. “But I really must work sixteen straight hours beginning at six o’clock tonight.
Then I get a few hours off to sleep before working another shift—from tomorrow afternoon to tomorrow night. I’d like to make a suggestion, though, that I think you might like.”
“Try me.”
“Day after tomorrow we trek on down to Key West for two days. We’ll do some sightseeing along the way, find a place to stay in the southernmost town in the continental United States, then toot around the historic sites the following day.
“Are you game?”
“That’s the best offer I’ve had in years.”
Chapter 5
Three deliverymen came to Mary Ann’s door on Friday afternoon.
When she unwrapped the bouquet of roses and carnations, it was as if she’d turned on a light to illuminate the semi-darkness of her kitchen. Flowers that were brightly colored and aromatic had always fascinated Mary Ann. She loved to smell them, having pressed her nose to thousands of petals ever since childhood.
Just last year, she had planted petunias, snapdragons, and portulacas outside her apartment, next to the walkway, but a group of neighborhood boys had trampled on some of the young growths and had uprooted others.
The additional gifts from Paul that awaited Mary Ann included a bottle of Chanel No. 5 and a terry cloth bathrobe.
“A lady must always have a robe,” Paul had recently told her, after she’d admitted to not owning one.
Paul and Mary Ann were planning a weekend tour of nearby Delaware, stopping at museums and perhaps spending an evening at the racetrack near Wilmington.
“My last out-of-town trip was back in October,” Mary Ann told Paul. “I took the girls on a bus ride to New York City, and then we got on a boat to visit the Statue of Liberty.
“I’ll never forget the look on Melissa’s face after I gave her the money to pay for our lunch at that little restaurant in Manhattan. I was already out on the sidewalk with the rest of the girls, waiting for her, when she ran up to us and said, ‘Mommy, the man at the cash register must have gotten me mixed up with somebody else. He didn’t take my money, and he gave me $17. He said it was my change.’”
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