Second Chance at Hope

by Joanna Campbell Slan

  “Cara is absolutely right,” said Honora.

  “I’m afraid my first doc will be angry with me. I called him to say I was getting a second opinion, and his nurse chewed me out.”

  “Those people have a lot of nerve,” I said.

  “You have to do what’s best for your health and the health of your baby. Remember that your doctor has hundreds of other patients, but you only have one baby to worry about.” Honora took Skye by the hand and squeezed it.

  “You’re right, Honora,” Skye said as she lifted her chin. “I hadn’t thought of it that way. If my old ob/gyn is angry, that’s his problem not mine. My baby is my first priority.”

  “Keep repeating that,” suggested MJ as she dangled her keys. “Your baby, your first priority. She or he will never have a better advocate than you.”

  “Well said.” I wanted to consider the matter finished, but then a thought sprang into my mind. “But even so. Skye, why didn’t you tell Lou where you were going when you left the deli? Seems like an ideal situation.”

  “Because I miscarried before. It could happen again. No need to tell him until I know for sure that I get to keep this baby.” But Skye didn’t look us in the eyes.

  “You shouldn’t lose it unless you get kicked in the tummy again,” MJ said.

  Trust her to be blunt to the point of hurtful.

  Skye lifted one shoulder and let it drop. “Okay, I’ll say it: I’m scared. I’m worried about Lou’s reaction. I didn’t mention the pregnancy when he was at Pumpernickel’s because I didn’t want him going all weird on me out in public.”

  “He might get weird, but eventually, he’s going to be thrilled,” said MJ. “Maybe not at first, because most men aren’t thrilled at first. Promise me you won’t let his first reaction ruin this for both of you. Because he will be happy. Sooner or later. Although not right away. Just give it time. Men are much more delicate than we are. Much more prone to worrying and feeling skittish.”

  Skye refused to look at us, and that made me more worried. Did she have a valid reason to think Lou would be unhappy? Or was she simply feeling hormonal? Was it something as simple as the normal nervous jitters every woman gets with a first baby?

  “I need to use the restroom before we go to the doctor’s,” said Skye. “Be right back.”

  “Your advice about Lou getting weird was perfect,” I said to MJ. “That was very wise of you.”

  “Wisdom born of pain,” said MJ. “It’s the kind of smarts you’d rather not have, believe me. Experience is a cruel teacher.”

  “I didn’t know you’d ever been pregnant.” The words were out of my mouth before I had a chance to stop them. Honora quickly turned away, pretending not to have overhead. The toilet flushed and Skye rejoined us.

  MJ’s eyes skewered me and her voice was cold. “Just because I don’t have a child doesn’t mean I wasn’t ever pregnant.”

  ~*~

  At closing time, Skye and MJ still hadn’t returned. A red sunset burned up the horizon, reducing a nearby palm tree to a black silhouette. My mind got hooked on that old saying, “Red sky at night; Sailors delight. Red sky in the morning; Sailors take warning.” But it didn’t seem correct. Not tonight. Especially given how ominous the atmosphere had turned. The natural world was churning, twisting, and gearing up for a big change. Splatters of rain tapped on the display window. The wind picked up, blowing loose palm fronds end over end down the street. A thin plastic grocery bag did a slow waltz until it caught in the mandevilla bushes in the glazed pots at the store’s front door. Before I flipped the sign to CLOSED I reached down and grabbed the bag.

  “I wish that they were back from the ob/gyn’s office,” I said to Honora.

  “I’m sure that if there was a problem, MJ would have phoned.” Honora unfurled her plastic rain bonnet. With great care, she tucked it over her straw boater. “Don’t fret so, Cara dear. There’s EveLynn. I’m off. Have a good evening, dear.”

  I followed our usual closing routine, but as I covered Kookie’s cage, he said, “Kookie loves Skye. Where is Skye? Kookie loves her.”

  A lump formed in my throat. When we adopted Kookie, the big white cockatoo had been in mourning for his original mistress. Pete, the vet, hadn’t expected Kookie to recover from his grief, but the bird had, thanks to Skye’s loving ministrations. I’d never heard Kookie call out to Skye. It touched me that the bird was worried about his new mistress. I’m still afraid of birds—it’s a leftover reaction from a childhood trauma—but Kookie and I have signed a peace treaty. As he called out for my friend, he bowed his head, a sign he wanted me to rub it. Warily, I extended my hand and did as the bird requested. He muttered happy silly endearments as I told him, “Skye is coming back. Skye loves Kookie. It’s okay, big guy.”

  The bird’s plaintive cry echoed in my head all the way to Jupiter Island. The sound of the rain, the howl of the wind, the gray of the sky compounded my worries. Hanging behind me was the brightly colored Lilly Pulitzer dress, swaying inside the plastic drycleaner’s bag.

  Despite the rain, Jack beelined past Poppy’s truck and pranced to my front door. Luna allowed me to tuck her under my blouse to keep her head dry.

  The odd voices of a video game greeted me before I even turned the key. So did the pungent smell of fish. A frying pan, dirty dishes, half-filled glasses, empty cola cans, and various pieces of cutlery littered my kitchen counter. Living alone, I’d become unaccustomed to messes like this, but I reminded myself this was actually more normal than my usual tidiness. In the living room, Sid and Tommy shouted encouragements to Poppy as he attempted to navigate his character through a fight with a baron.

  “Mom! We’re playing League of Legends. Poppy is catching on pretty good for an old geezer.” Tommy popped up to give me a quick peck on the cheek.

  Empty Domino’s Pizza boxes littered my makeshift coffee table of two wine boxes turned upside down. Sid beamed a happy smile toward me, the first I’d seen in a long while. After a quick change into jeans and a “Life Is Good” tee, I fed Jack. The jeers in the next room suggested that Poppy’s character had died. He ambled into the kitchen. “Sorry about the mess. We was down at the beach and having a good time until that there rain drenched us.”

  That meant that Sid was managing his crutches better. A good sign indeed. While Jack gobbled down a dish of food, I told Poppy about my afternoon.

  “Thank goodness that banker knew you.”

  I agreed. “Let’s face it: There’s no substitute for personal relationships. Even in this age of computer connections. But the weirdest part of my day was Claudia’s visit.”

  I told him what Claudia had said.

  “I figured that Danielle musta told Binky that she wanted that dress for my granddaughter. When she heard who you were, Binky must have been hoping you’d take a message to me, and that I’d figure out what’s what. And I woulda a lot faster if—”

  “Okay. All right. Could we just move on?”

  “Your dog need to go out? It’s almost dark. I was planning to drive to the south end of the island and watch for a signal.”

  “If you really think she’s in danger, why not call the island police?”

  “It ain’t Binky that I’m worried about. She can take care of herself.” He stopped himself, as he searched for the right words. “Binky has had special training.”

  “In what? Bridge?” I hooted with laughter.

  “Granddaughter, don’t you know anything? The CIA was born on Jupiter Island. Binky and her husband were two of their first recruits.”

  CHAPTER 42

  For a place only a half-mile wide and less than ten miles long, this island harbors more than its share of secrets. At first, I thought that Poppy was kidding me about Jupiter Island being the birthplace of the CIA. Rather than contradict my grandfather, I grabbed my dog and his leash. The boys scarcely looked up when I told them that Poppy and I were going for a quick drive.

  “Okay, you have a lot of explaining to do,” I said as my grandfathe
r pulled out of my driveway. The rain had slowed to a drizzle. My lightweight waterproof jacket rested on my lap, but I was loathe to put it on. In the closed quarters of the truck, the coat would function like a sauna. “How on earth is it remotely possible that the CIA started here? It’s a government agency. By definition, one might surmise it would have been born in Washington, D.C.”

  “Yup, and one might be wrong. Back in 1931, the Reed family owned the whole island. Joseph and Parmelia Pryor Reed were friends with Prescott Bush, George Walker, Robert Lovett, and the Harriman family. A bunch of ‘em had been members of Yale’s Skull and Bones Society. All of ‘em came here to visit or had residences nearby. After the war—”

  “Which war?”

  “What do you mean, Which war?”

  “There’s World War I, World War II, Korea, Vietnam, Iraq, and—”

  “We’ll never learn, will we? After World War II,” said my grandfather with a sniff of derision, “Lovett testified about how useful the FBI had been in creating false documents. What they’d done had been important. He argued that we ought, as a nation, to pick up where we’d left off with the OSS.”

  “And what is the OSS?”

  “The Office of Strategic Services. Only, the military didn’t like that idea one bit. General Douglas MacArthur gave it a big thumbs down, but then he and Truman didn’t always see eye-to-eye, so maybe his opinion just gave Lovett’s brain-child a good push down the birth canal. His pal Averill Harriman was also a resident on the island, and Harriman was ‘ambassador at large’ to Europe at the time. Harriman, like a lot of us, wondered if psychological defense was an area we needed to understand better as a nation. After all, how did a bunch of jackbooted thugs take over a civilized culture like the Germans? It surely had to be all that psychological mumbo-jumbo, because it defied common decency and good sense. Of course, Harriman and Lovett played golf with Prescott Bush, who employed Joseph Reed. Reed had been a specialist during the war in codes and espionage, so it ain’t surprising he was right there agreeing how we needed a secret agency inside our government. That’s Bush, the father of George H. W. Bush. When they weren’t on the golf course, they were—”

  “Poppy, you’ve totally lost me.”

  “Might be for the best. What you don’t know can’t hurt you if you’re attending some swanky event here on the island,” he said, taking a quick right onto Laurel before bumping us over the railroad tracks. After we turned the corner at Old Dixie, he pulled his truck onto the side of the road.

  I couldn’t imagine attending a “swanky event on the island,” but I was happy for Poppy to stop yammering on about people whose names I could barely recall from history class. The fine mist turned the black asphalt into an imprecise re-flection of our surroundings. I found it difficult to see, and I figured that Poppy did, too.

  “I hope you realized that we passed the turn for Binky’s place awhile back.”

  “I know that. Remember, how Binky said that Samuel was on the south end of the island? She was telling me to come this-a way. Yonder is the highest spot on the south side. Good thing you got your legs covered, because there ain’t no clear pathway. Put on that windbreaker of yours. We need to scramble up this hill and wait.”

  “In the rain?”

  “You afraid you’ll melt?”

  “Not hardly.”

  “Then quit acting like you’re some delicate flower.”

  “What about Jack?” I held my little buddy tightly.

  “It’ll be a fine adventure for him. I’ll stuff him inside my shirt.”

  Jack was surprisingly amenable to the arrangement. Poppy buttoned up, pulled on a waxed jacket that zipped up. Only the Chihuahua’s head stuck out. As I watched, Poppy pulled two ultra-thin silver squares from under the driver’s seat. “Space age technology. Jack knew what he was doing.”

  “Jack? My Jack?”

  “Kennedy.”

  Climbing at a 45-degree angle isn’t easy in daylight. Climbing it in the dark with a light rain falling is not something I’d do for fun. A full moon lit up the ground now and then, when the cloud cover shifted. Otherwise, I might not have made it. Poppy reached back to help me several times.

  “Ouch!” I yelled as I set my hand palm side down on a cactus plant. Poppy held the beam of a small flashlight toward my skin while I extracted two large thorns. Opuntias, or prickly pears, are native to Florida. I’d actually transplanted a few small ones into containers on my porch. There I admired their beautiful oval shapes and yellow blossoms. Here, under my skin, I didn’t think much of them. The thorns stung like crazy.

  At the top, our efforts were rewarded by the view, which took my breath away. Silver moonbeams glinted on the Intracoastal, sending a tinsel strand our way. Smaller dimples of light winked as the water rippled. The muffled clanging of boats against the docks drifted our way, as did the rumble of sporadic car tires traveling along Old Dixie. In the distance, a dog barked.

  “What now?” I asked.

  “We wait.” Poppy handed me Jack and unfurled one of the silver blankets. The thin square covered a surprising amount of ground. After we plonked down on it, he opened up the second square and tossed it over our heads to form a makeshift tent.

  “Come here, young un.” Poppy slung an arm around my shoulders so I could lean into him. In the silence and the dark, secure in the watchful presence of my grandfather, a sense of peace came over me.

  I dozed off with my head resting against Poppy’s shoulder. Jack curled up in my lap. I probably only had been sleeping for twenty minutes when a sudden movement of his body jerked me into consciousness. He rose to his feet with surprising nimbleness. Jack stared out into the darkness and whimpered.

  “There she blows,” Poppy said.

  The flashes seemed indistinct to me, but my grandfather watched intently.

  “That’s a message?”

  “You bet your bippy, it is. Like riding a bike. Reading and sending Morse code comes right back to you.”

  We stood there. The mist and rain had turned into a fog that expanded the halo of the streetlights. During my brief nap, the world had become more phantasmagoric, more indistinct and unreal. The scent of wet cotton drifted up from my jeans. It mingled with the fragrance of greenery we had crushed under our feet, causing it to die with a small gasp of sadness at being trampled.

  Was it possible I was dreaming? How on earth had I wound up standing here with my grandfather on the top of a hill in Hobe Sound watching for a coded message? Any minute, I expected him to slap me on the back and say, “Just fooling with you.”

  But one glance told me he was deadly serious. His jaw was set hard as he took a tiny pair of binoculars from his back pocket. My grandfather had a knack for whipping out the most unusual equipment at the exact right moment. Was there a Q in his life?

  That thought propelled me down a dark rabbit hole of intrigue.

  If there was a Q, did that make my grandfather an elderly James Bond?

  A brisk shake of my head helped me clear my thinking. Such a scenario simply wasn’t possible. My grandfather was a grouchy, prickly, mechanic who had diabetes.

  After a long sequence of flashing lights, Poppy handed me the binoculars. Pulling that tiny flashlight from yet another pocket, he used his free hand to cover and uncover the beam repeatedly.

  That brought on a second spate of flashes. I picked up Jack and tucked him inside my windbreaker.

  “Are you two really, like, talking to each other?”

  “Well, I ain’t sharing my grocery list. Of course we are. What the blazes do you think we’re doing out here if we ain’t communicating?”

  I adjusted the dog inside my jacket. Jack had been a surprisingly good trooper about this whole ordeal, probably because it had tired him out. Jack crawls into my bed at eight and that’s it, that’s all for him. He’s a very sound sleeper. “If you’re communicating, what is she saying? Is that her sending the messages?”

  “Of course it is. Who else would it be? The rest o
f her bridge club? She done told me there were two hostiles. Now only one. He’s holding her and her grandson hostage. Waiting for a shipment of humans. Slaves. Some for the sex trade, some for domestics.”

  I whipped out my phone and punched in 911, but before the operator answered, my grandfather grabbed the gizmo away from me.

  “Are you out of your cotton-picking mind?”

  “No, are you? We need to call the cops and get them to her house fast!” I lunged for the phone, but Poppy has incredibly long arms. To keep the iPhone out of my grasp, he held it over his head.

  “Don’t be stupid, girl!”

  “Me, stupid? Thanks heaps, Poppy. She’s calling for help, and you’re just standing here in the middle of nowhere, but I’m stupid?”

  His sigh suggested I was dumber than yesterday’s toast. “Calm down, missy. Let me finish talking with her and then I’ll explain it to you.”

  I fumed while he played with his flashlight. “What if you get her message wrong?”

  “I won’t.” A few more exchanges passed between Binky and Poppy. My legs ached from the climb. The damp wicked into my clothes. When dialing 911, I’d felt a lightning bolt of energy, but now I slowly succumbed to exhaustion.

  “Come on,” said my grandfather, putting an arm around my waist. “Let’s get back to the truck, and I’ll fill you in on the details.”

  CHAPTER 43

  “Binky ain’t worried about herself,” Poppy said. “She’s fine. But Evans, her grandson, has asthma. He’s scared witless. She wants him out of the middle of this.” My grandfather shifted into drive and pulled gently onto Old Dixie.

  “Evans was supposed to give Tommy a ride here, but he left campus early,” I said.

  “Yup. He’s got asthma, so Binky’s a little nervous about him.”

  “Then are you sure we shouldn’t call the cops? Someone has to rescue that boy! What if he has an asthma attack?”

  “Sending in the cavalry right now would blow any chance of rounding up them smugglers and putting them behind bars. See, if the cops swarm Binky’s house, they’ll take down the ringleader. When they do that, he’ll miss a check-in, and the smugglers will know their cover has been compromised. They won’t land here. If they don’t land here, their human cargo won’t get rescued—and those creeps’ll probably go free. But if we can wait until they land, and surround them the minute that boat pulls up to the dock, there’s a better than decent chance they’ll squeal on everyone involved. That would give us a chance to shut down an entire ring of human traffickers.” He glanced at me. “Them’s the two hardest decisions you got to make when doing intelligence work. Whether to shut down an operation early and lose valuable intel or wait too late and cause too much damage.”