"I hope you like fish for dinner. In fact, I should have included that in my advertisement for this position. Must like fish.“ Tom encouraged me to relax on the deck while he found his way to the kitchen and returned carrying a platter of fresh fillets.
"I love fish, particularly the saltwater kinds. I’ve had plenty of walleye and perch up north, but nothing beats fish from the ocean.”
Tom fired up the gas grill and sat on the lounger next to mine. “I’m going to spoil you this summer. Once you've been eating grouper and snapper fresh out of the water here, you won't want anything else. Do you cook at home?”
I cringed. “Do grilled cheese sandwiches count?”
Tom shook his head and reached out to me. He affectionately ran his fingers through my still damp hair. I tilted my head in his direction. "No, they don't count, but you can learn more about cooking this summer. It's not brain surgery, and the basics are a lot easier than writing a book."
I looked forward to learning more about preparing meals. My mom was not a good cook, and we ate out a lot growing up. The main options when we stayed home were usually sandwiches or cold cereal.
I daydreamed about making breakfast first thing in the morning for Tom frying eggs and bacon. I would watch him stumble out of his bedroom wearing only boxer shorts. I tried to chase the image from my head and hold on to thoughts of the professional relationship. My mouth felt dry. I said, “That would be fun to learn."
Tom ran his hand down over my shoulder and then pulled it back. "You sound a little hoarse. I hope you aren’t catching a cold. Plane rides can be horrible for that. Would you like something to drink?"
With a dry croak in my voice, I asked, "What are my choices?"
"Hmmm, water, milk, wine, beer, orange juice, and scotch for sipping later. How about I break out a bottle of chardonnay to drink with our fish?” His dark brown eyes locked with mine again. I nodded yes in response.
When he returned with the bottle, Tom explained that living on the island was like living off the grid in the wilderness in the mountains of California. He said that in Florida sometimes that meant our power from the generator would be more reliable than what residents had in Marathon. We were in control of our own power generation instead of being subject to the whims of weather and the construction crews who had a habit of cutting through important cables. Tom also owned a small desalination unit that could ensure ready supplies of fresh water in emergencies.
While he prepared dinner, I sent text messages to both Stephen and my parents to let them know I’d arrived safely, and I was enjoying myself so far. Stephen sent back:
”Lucky you, I'm hanging out with the brats."
Stephen returned to his hometown for the summer. He was completing preliminary work for his dissertation even though classes weren't yet finished, and his parents offered him free room and board in exchange for help with two nine-year-old twin brothers.
The dinner was simple and delicious. Tom grilled grouper fillets and topped them with homemade mango salsa. He served a salad on the side with key lime pie for dessert. Sitting at an outdoor table eating with such an attractive man in swim trunks and nothing else felt more like summer vacation than a summer work assignment. He appeared to have none of the overbearing ego I expected out of such a successful writer. I asked, "What's on the agenda for tomorrow?"
"Are you in a hurry to get to work? I think we’ll take things on island time. That means no hurries to get started. You had a lot of travel time today, so I expect you'll want to sleep in. Climb out of bed whenever you’re ready. If you do get up early, feel free to go for a swim or explore the island. There's not a lot you haven't seen, but it can be fun to walk the perimeter. Occasionally some nice shells wash up."
Tom gathered up plates and took them to the kitchen. The sun was starting to go down, and he lit torches around the perimeter of the deck when he returned.
“This is such a beautiful place, and I'm still pinching myself to make sure it's all real." A light breeze drifted across the deck, but the air was still warm.
"Let's take our wine and sit in the loungers again." I stood up carrying my glass with me. Sitting down once more, I sighed happily as I leaned back gazing at the boat dock.
I said, “I hope I’m not too nosy when I ask this question. Did you buy the island with money you earned from your books?"
He shook his head. "No, and I understand why you’d think that. Actually, Rusty Door Key has been in my family since before I was born. My grandparents lived most of their lives here in the Keys. They passed the island on to my father. My parents tore down the original little house about twenty years ago and built this. Unfortunately, they are both gone now, but I still feel their presence sometimes. Rusty Door Key was a convenient retreat from the rest of the world for me when the books took off, and I became recognizable from TV interviews and book covers."
Tom's explanation made sense, and his desire to be away from the general public resonated even further later in the evening after we both retired to our bedrooms. The only Internet connection on Rusty Door Key was via satellite through my cell phone. Tom was clear about the Internet situation before I jumped on the plane for Miami. We retired early, and I took it as an opportunity to do some web research about my employer.
I knew that I should have done the research before I traveled south, but I expected only glowing articles about Tom. I blinked twice when I read a newspaper headline from just two weeks ago.
It was a local newspaper out of Key West. The headline read, "Local Author Faces Questions About Past Disappearance." After seeing that it referenced Thomas Albertson, I read the entire article. It discussed an incident dating back to Tom's high school years. One of his close friends, a boy named Richard Elliot, disappeared under mysterious circumstances when they were both juniors in high school. The article identified Tom as the last person known to have seen Richard. The friend's family and Tom's family both lived in Marathon. According to the article, both families were prominent in the community. A search lasted for days, but the friend was never found.
As I read, I wondered why it was news all over again. The disappearance happened more than fifteen years ago. The article answered my question in its last paragraphs. The friend's family, along with many residents of the Keys, watched Tom’s rising fame closely. He was a local celebrity, and estimates of his personal wealth ran into eight figures. Reading between the lines, I guessed that the friend's family was speculating about their chances of cashing in on some portion of the riches.
Efforts to profit from such an untimely disappearance were disturbing, but the original situation itself raised goosebumps on my arms. The article said that authorities questioned Tom multiple times about the disappearance, but every time they asked about it, he claimed to know nothing. My thoughts raced. I assumed that Tom was an honest person, but what if I my instincts were wrong? Am I in any danger?
I tried to clear my head of runaway thoughts. It all happened more than fifteen years ago, and no one found any evidence of wrongdoing on Tom's part. I assumed there were a lot of different ways that a teenager could disappear in the string of islands. The easiest was a simple drowning. If Tom did anything inspired by malice, surely it wasn’t an isolated event. He would have tried something else that would have generated more suspicions.
Another shiver passed through my body as I pulled the sheets up to my chin. I forced myself to remember that I was spending the summer with one of the most attractive men I’d ever met, and he happened to be one of the most successful authors in the world. I was tremendously fortunate, and I needed to keep my thoughts focused on that fact. I finally drifted off to sleep hearing the gentle sound of waves lapping at the sand in the darkness.
3
A Trim
I woke the next morning to the cries of seagulls and the aroma of bacon frying. The delicious scent wafted into my bedroom and overwhelmed the salty air. Glancing at my cell phone, I saw that it was already 9:00 a.m. I hauled myself out of bed
and pulled on khaki shorts and a red T-Shirt.
While inspecting myself in the mirror over the dresser, I dragged a brush through my hair to tame the bedhead, and I tried to shake myself out of the haze of sleepiness. I’d slept like a log and couldn't remember any of my dreams. I’d gone to sleep with some anxiety about the newspaper article, but the glow of a tropical morning made everything lighter and less consequential. Detecting another burst of bacon smells, my stomach started to rumble.
I padded out to the kitchen and saw Tom shirtless in his swim trunks wearing an apron as he flipped the bacon in a skillet on the stove. At least he gave himself some protection from hot splattering grease. He turned his head as I stretched with a mild groan. "Good morning sleepy head." His toothy grin was infectious. "Are you up for some breakfast? I forgot to ask what you like to eat first thing in the morning."
I pulled out a chair from the small kitchen table and sat down. Placing my forehead in my hands, I said, "That smells and looks great, but I need coffee first.”
Tom turned away from the bacon and dropped a K-cup into the coffee maker. "That's coming up right away. How do you like your eggs?"
"Scrambled works great. What time did you get up? I don’t usually sleep this late.“
He was evidently a morning person. His morning activities rolled off his tongue. "Oh, I'm usually up between six and seven. I've been out for a short swim and cleaned up the grill from last night. I worried that all my bustling around would wake you up, so I busied myself with keeping the mangrove in check out by the beach.”
I shook my head. "No, I slept like a rock. I didn’t hear a thing. It’s a comfy bed."
As we talked, the story I read before drifting off to sleep the night before began to worm its way back into my conscious thoughts. I eyed Tom while he brought me the cup of coffee. I saw nothing to indicate that he was a man who could be involved in any kind of heinous crime even if it happened fifteen years ago. He was polite, friendly, and his body language betrayed zero significant concerns or worries about his world.
The door to the outdoors stood open, and every few minutes a light breeze swept through the kitchen. The air was warm, humid, and smelled of the ocean. I found it difficult to believe I would get any productive work completed with the constant calls of the sun and the waves. Rusty Door Key was a place designed for maximum rest and relaxation. The idea of spending hours swimming, chatting with Tom, and trying not to stare too long at his handsome body consumed my thoughts.
He slid the bacon and eggs onto plates and carried them to the table. He untied the apron, pulled it over his head, and placed it on the counter. "I forgot one thing. You can't miss out on fresh-squeezed Florida orange juice for your first morning here. We’re known for that.“
I closed my eyes and lowered my face toward the plate sniffing and inhaling the aroma of the bacon while Tom opened the refrigerator. He took out the orange juice and poured us each a tall glass. After he set my juice next to the steaming cup of coffee, I mumbled, “Thank you.”
"Would you like to take another swim after breakfast? It won't be anything intense. You need some time for the breakfast to digest. By the way, go ahead and eat up. Don't wait for anything to get cold."
I didn't need to be told twice. I eagerly dug into the breakfast. Between bites, I said, "A swim sounds nice. Sometimes I think I'm half fish." I glanced around the room and asked a question that first came to mind the night before. "Is there a story behind that barber chair?"
Tom laughed and leaned back. "You know, probably eighty percent of guests I have over ask about that. It’s one of the first things they notice. I guess old-fashioned barber chairs are a rarity these days."
"Other than in old-fashioned barber shops.” I speared a mouthful of eggs with my fork while I listened.
"It’s sort of a family relic. Believe it or not, my grandfather was a barber down here in the Keys. Back in those days, there weren't that many around down here, and this is one of the original chairs from his shop. It’s possible that Ernest Hemingway once sat there.“ Tom interrupted the story to look at my plate. "Is everything tasting good?"
"Oh, it's perfect."
"All of the men in my family learned how to cut hair. It’s a skill passed down the way other families might pass on carpentry or gardening or favorite recipes. However, neither my father nor I worked as a barber. Now I go to a little salon right off of Route 1 up in Islamorada.” Tom reached up and rubbed his hand over his buzzed head. "Cutting my hair isn't a complicated process. I suppose I could even do it myself here at home.”
"Yeah, when we went for a swim last night, I wondered if I should have gotten mine cut shorter before I came down here. I kept it buzzed when I was on the swim team in high school."
"I've still got the clippers. We could put you in the chair later and take care of that for you. It wouldn't take but a few minutes."
I couldn't put my finger on it, but something about Tom's offer to cut my hair to match his was arousing. I shifted in my seat, grabbed my coffee cup and sipped hoping that my cheeks wouldn't turn red. When I set the cup down, I spoke softly, "Let me think about that." Tom bit into his last strip of bacon and smiled.
When we finished our breakfast, Tom stood up and cleared the plates from the table. "I don't mean to rush, but when you're ready, go change into your trunks. You can shower after the swim. That’s always the best plan if you’re heading for the beach in the morning. Otherwise, your skin itches from the salt for the rest of the day.
“As I’m sure you’ve noticed, fresh water is a valuable commodity around here, so I try hard to conserve. All of the issues we have here on the islands about balancing the use of resources, particularly the water, helped lead me in the direction of writing the Together In the End series."
"Oh, don't worry. I can handle all of that." I glanced at the barber chair once more before envisioning myself seated waiting for Tom with clippers in his hand. I returned to the bedroom to shuck off my shorts and exchange them for my trunks. I slipped the red flip flops onto my feet and slathered my face and torso with sunscreen.
Tom glanced at me mischievously as I walked back into the kitchen. He shouted, "The old man's gonna beat you to the beach!" and he took out running. I stared in shock for a moment before running after him. Tom’s dips into the spirit of a playful boy made me smile. I proved to be less of a match on land than I was in the water. He beat me to the edge of the water by at least three long strides.
As my feet hit the warm water, I stopped and put my hands on my knees breathing hard for a moment. “I guess I'm not much of a runner." Tom lifted each foot in turn and tossed the flip-flops to dry land. I followed his example while he turned and ran a few more yards into the water before plunging forward head first. I felt like I was back in high school horsing around with some of my team buddies.
Just as I caught up with a few long strokes through the water, he laughed and splashed at me. I splashed back at him, and soon we were wrestling each other in the water. He was strong and scrappy. Within seconds, I found my head dunked under, and I struggled attempting to pull his knees out from under him. He gripped my hair in his fist and pulled my head up out of the water. I gasped for air while he snickered at me with a smug expression. "Who's the tough guy, Joel?"
I caught him by surprise and reached down with a long arm for the back of his knee. I was successful at tugging his leg out from under him. He let go of my hair, and his arms windmilled before he fell backward with a loud splash. My triumphant exploitation of his mistake only stoked Tom’s will to emerge victorious in the end. We wrestled each other until I found my head pushed under the salty water for an even longer period.
While I fought to pull my head back into the open air, the fate of Tom's high school buddy flashed into my mind. Did they play a little too rough? The edge of panic crept into my battle for oxygen. Tom sensed that I wasn’t having fun and let go. I stood up in the shallow water gasping for breath and brushing my hair back.
He be
nt over with his hands on his knees. “It's okay. Don't worry. I won't drown you. It's only a little roughhousing between men. I'm sure your swim teammates gave a good-looking guy like you a hard time once in a while."
I felt my chest rising and falling as my lungs filled with air again. I didn't want to worry about anything with Tom, and most of the time I was having a lot of fun. I wished I’d never seen the newspaper article.
Concern crept across Tom’s face when I didn’t respond. “Are you sure everything’s okay?"
I brushed the question off. "Yeah, I'm fine. You took me by surprise. I guess that was part of the point.”
"You've probably been tucked away too long in that stifling university. I'm not a stuffy professor. Let's swim." He turned away and dove into the deeper water.
Following Tom was already an instinctual response. I chose to ignore the thoughts about the newspaper article and focused instead on the tropical sunshine and seawater. The weather was perfect. The sun beat down on my shoulders while I swam swinging my arms forward in perfect arcs.
When Tom stopped and began to tread water, he turned to me. "Don't swim much beyond here. I came out here to show you the boundary. The water gets deeper fast from here on out, and you can hit a fierce undertow. Waves rarely kill. It’s the undertow that snatches the unsuspecting.“ The waves slapped harder at my shoulders as if attempting to punctuate his comment.
We were west of the island. Tom said, "If you don't swim out beyond this point and stay between here and the island, you should be fine. There's nothing to fear, but I do have one firm rule."
The waves lapped near my mouth, and I battled to keep my head above them. "Yes?"
"I don't want you swimming out here without letting me know that you've gone. If I’m still asleep in the morning or taking a nap, leave me a written note. It's purely a safety rule. Got that?" I nodded. The rule was pure common sense, and I wanted to make it to the end of the summer safe and sound.
My Summer Page 3
