The Last Train to Key West

by Chanel Cleeton

“I don’t know. It’s not—I’m not anyone to them. I just helped her when she was having a hard time.”

  “She called you her friend. She looked at you like you were maybe more than that.”

  A flash of something that sure seems a whole lot like hope mixed with pain crosses his face.

  “She has a husband.”

  “She isn’t with him, though, is she? Does she love him?”

  “I don’t know. How could I ask her something like that?”

  “Are they separated?” I ask.

  Somehow I can’t fathom my big brother, my war hero of a big brother, stealing someone’s wife. Then again, who knows how much has changed.

  “She left him,” John answers.

  “So not wholly married, then.”

  “No, not entirely. He’s on the missing list after the storm. But it’s so crazy down there; that could mean anything. He could be missing, he could be dead, he could be on his way up to Miami.”

  “Then you still have a chance. Worry about one problem at a time. He’s not here right now. You are. The way I see it, if she’d wanted to stay with him, she would have. She chose to leave and make her own way. You should take your shot.”

  His lips curve. “You haven’t changed, have you?”

  “I have, actually. I’m not a girl anymore. And it’s time I fixed my own problems.”

  Thirty-Three

  Sam and I check into the hotel in Miami under false names, as a brother and sister traveling from Connecticut. It’s not the most plausible of disguises considering our meager bags and injuries—we appear exactly as we are, people who have fled a natural disaster and are still stunned by the whole experience, but hopefully, it will be enough to momentarily draw Frank’s people away from our trail if they are looking for us.

  Surely, Frank himself is too important to come down here, too disinterested in our relationship to do more than send a few lackeys down to inquire about my whereabouts. Perhaps he is content with the knowledge that Sam is with me and the flowers were a mere formality.

  The not knowing is the worst part.

  We shuffle to our rooms in silence. There is so much unresolved with Sam, so much we were unable to discuss. If Frank came for me now, would Sam protect me? Can I trust him?

  We stop in front of a pair of rooms.

  “This is us,” Sam says, opening the door to my room first. “Do you want me to check it for you?”

  “Please.”

  He pulls a gun from the waistband of his trousers.

  I follow him into the room and close the door behind us, leaning back against the wall. Sam sets down our bags on the ground and flicks on the light. He goes through the room with military precision, his body tense, weapon in hand. When he’s finished checking the bathroom, the closet, he lowers the weapon.

  “You should be safe here for the night. I’ll be next door if you need me.”

  “You’re worried Frank is coming after me, aren’t you?”

  “I don’t know. The flowers—”

  “They scared me,” I admit, even as much as it pains me. I’ve always prided myself on my ability to survive, on my strength, and I hate that Frank Morgan has taken a piece of that away from me.

  “I know. We don’t have enough to arrest him,” Sam says. “Frank isn’t a stupid man. He’s spent years cultivating the right connections within the government. There are rumors that he has contacts within the Bureau, which wouldn’t surprise me. Other agents have tried to build cases against him and found nothing but trouble and death for their efforts.”

  “Do you think he’s figured out that you’re working for the government? That you’re with the FBI?”

  “I don’t know. Part of the reason I was chosen for this mission is because I wasn’t known in New York circles. I’ve spent most of my career in Florida, a bit in Cuba. But Frank doesn’t strike me as a particularly trusting man, so I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s done some digging.”

  “There has to be something to get me out of this. Something he’s done that will put him behind bars.”

  “He’s very careful about the people closest to him. He buys their loyalty through a combination of fear and greed. The lower-level grunts are too unreliable. They don’t have any proof, any real connection to him.”

  “I’m one of the people closest to him. Who is more privy to personal information than a wife?”

  “You are not marrying Frank Morgan.”

  “Because he’s a criminal?” I ask, my heart pounding.

  Tell me I’m not alone in this. Tell me you want me, too, that this was never only a job to you, that you wanted me when we first met on the train, that—

  A muscle tics in his jaw. “No, not just because he’s a criminal.”

  “Why?”

  “You know why.”

  “You’ve never said it,” I reply. “How could I know?”

  “Because you’re mine.”

  It’s no louder than a whisper, but in this quiet hotel room, against the hammering of my heart, it might as well be a shout.

  “I don’t want to be alone tonight,” I say, taking an unsteady step toward him.

  I stop when I’m close enough to wrap my arms around his neck, pulling his head down toward me until our mouths are a hairbreadth apart.

  “Do you trust me?” he asks.

  I do.

  “As much as I trust anyone. Are you going to kiss me? Properly?”

  Sam’s answer is the brush of his lips against mine, his arms around my waist, holding me tightly against his hard frame. He kisses with a gentleness that’s wholly unexpected, as though we are learning each other, easing into the embrace.

  “I’ve done this before,” I say against his mouth.

  I think I know him well enough by this point to not worry about his reaction, to not expect judgment. But at the same time, men are so funny about these things that the truth is, I don’t know what he’ll say.

  “Me too,” he replies with a wry grin, moving his hands up my back until he arrives at the top of my dress. “This is going to complicate everything,” he warns, undoing the first button.

  “I’m not afraid of complicated,” I murmur, kissing his neck.

  “That makes one of us, then.” He removes another button. And another.

  My dress falls to the floor.

  The thing that surprised me most about the lazy afternoons lounging naked on the couch with Billy while his parents were off somewhere else, those stolen afternoons, was how it was possible to learn a part of someone—to know a sliver of them—the expanse of freckles on their back, the sound of their sighs, the shudder of their body against yours—but for so much else to be a mystery. I thought the physical intimacy we shared all those years ago was like a key that would help me gain admittance to a locked room where all the interesting stuff was held, when in reality, it was a different room altogether—uninteresting and drab with a lumpy couch and a poor view of the road.

  I am not ready to share every part of myself with Sam, and in this moment, I am grateful for the separation between sex and intimacy, the ability to choose the parts I give of myself to another, the freedom of it.

  We tumble into bed together, hands fumbling, our remaining articles of clothing falling to the floor, limbs entangled, my laughter filling the air.

  “You’re stunning,” Sam whispers up at me.

  I smile, shifting so I straddle him. “I’m happy,” I reply as my mouth finds his.

  It’s different than it was before with Billy. Maybe there is something to be said for being with an older man, a man who has seen the world and knows himself. Or perhaps, it’s because I’m different this time.

  Despite this madness with Frank, for the first time in my life, I’m in control of my future. For the first time in as long as I can remember, I feel strong.

 
; * * *

  —

  “What I said earlier—about being close to Frank.” I gaze up at the ceiling, my head resting in the crook of Sam’s arm. “What if we used that to our advantage? I could gather information for you. I could—”

  “Absolutely not. I meant what I said earlier. I’m not going to let you get close to Frank Morgan to help me put him behind bars. It’s too dangerous. He’s too dangerous.”

  I prop myself up on my elbow, peering down at Sam lying on his back in bed.

  “‘Let’ me?”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “I don’t, actually. Frank Morgan is my problem. My father borrowed money from him. A man like him isn’t going to go away. It’s my responsibility to see he isn’t a threat to my family.”

  “This isn’t a game. He isn’t some college boy you can manage with a hint of your cleavage and some blushes. He’s a monster. Anyone who gets in his way, he eliminates. When he threatens them, he goes after their families. Their children. Maybe you haven’t seen that side of him yet, but that just means you haven’t seen it yet, because if you get in his way, if you interfere with his business, if you threaten him, he will kill you.”

  “And what will he do to you, then? If he’s as powerful as you say, then he won’t be above going after a federal agent. Especially after that federal agent double-crossed him and ended up in bed with his fiancée.”

  “I mentioned it would be complicated.”

  “But do you regret it?” I ask him.

  “Not at all.”

  Thirty-Four

  SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 8, 1935

  Helen

  In the two days after his visit, I consider Matthew’s suggestion that I rebuild the Sunrise Inn, turning the notion around and around in my mind long after my tears have dried.

  The area will likely be uninhabitable for a while. Even with the insurance money and Matthew’s help, the task of rebuilding the inn will be great indeed. I watched Aunt Alice run the business when I visited her over the summer as a young girl, but she had a manner of making it appear easy when I’ve no doubt it was anything but.

  I know nothing of running a business, nothing of bringing in lodgers. The prudent thing would be to use the insurance money to get a fresh start elsewhere; after all, if Tom is still alive, he’ll eventually make his way to Islamorada to look for us.

  But in spite of all of my reservations, my mind keeps drifting to what I would do if it were mine, the color I’d paint the shutters, how I’d sit with Lucy on the front porch and gaze out at the sea, telling her all about her great-aunt Alice; the inn is Lucy’s birthright, too. And perhaps, it’s not just the two of us sitting on that wide porch. Maybe if I’m being completely honest with myself, as much as it terrifies me, I see John there, too.

  Impossible dreams.

  There are moments when I see a hint of emotion in his eyes, when I hear the affection in his voice, and I wonder if it’s possible that I’m not the only one who could picture us as more than friends.

  But I am another man’s wife, and there are so many things John and I have never spoken of, so many things I’m not ready to face.

  On Sunday, they finally release me and Lucy from the hospital, and we accompany John to a ceremony for the veterans who died in the storm. His sister Elizabeth and her friend Sam come with us.

  The closer we get to the park where the memorial service is to be held, the quieter John becomes, and I take his hand, lacing my fingers through his, trying to pass some of my strength on to him. It seems supremely unfair that these were the survivors of the Great War, the men who came home and should have lived out their remaining days lauded as heroes. Instead, they went from one tragedy to the next.

  How much can people withstand until they break?

  We don’t speak as we approach the crowd standing near the entrances to Bayfront Park. There are veterans lined up together, but John doesn’t move to join them. Instead, his grip on me tightens, as though he’s afraid I’ll let go, as if he doesn’t belong with them.

  Sam and Elizabeth stand behind us, giving John his space, and when I turn around, I spy their fingers linked.

  Military planes fly overhead, dropping hundreds of roses from the sky. There are speeches, and prayers, and the whole thing is terribly formal. With each moment that passes, John tenses more and more, tugging at his clothes, shifting from side to side, his body practically vibrating with barely contained energy, as though he would bolt at any moment if he could.

  When it’s all over, he turns without a word to anyone else, striding quickly toward the park’s exit, past his sister and Sam. I follow behind him, Lucy tucked in my arms.

  John stops before the street, his jaw clenched.

  “I shouldn’t have asked you to come today. I thought I could handle it, thought it was the right thing to do, but that spectacle—” A blistering curse falls from his lips. “They should have evacuated them earlier. Why didn’t they? They didn’t even give them a chance. What’s the point of honoring their death when you threw them away in life? You should have seen the condition those camps were in, the way we lived. This is all a big farce, and it doesn’t mean a damned thing.” He grimaces, tugging at the collar of his shirt. “I couldn’t breathe back there. I kept seeing the faces of all of those men, imagining what their final moments must have been like, how they were given hope, thinking help was coming, only to be disappointed once again.”

  I shift Lucy to my side and step forward, wrapping my arm around John.

  He stiffens for an instant, and then he relaxes into the hug, some of the tension leaving his body. We stay like that for a long time, the breeze blowing around us, the mourners come to pay their respects walking past us.

  When Lucy begins to fuss, I pull back from the embrace.

  John lets out a deep breath, and another, his cheeks pink. There’s a gleam in his eyes when he looks down at me, emotions swimming there, and once again I imagine I see the same emotions that I feel inside: confusion, fear, want.

  It’s too soon. I am a married woman. There’s Lucy, and the whole world has been upended, and most importantly, I have already been disappointed by a man once. How can I survive another disappointment?

  I take another step back, cradling Lucy against my chest.

  John grimaces. “I shouldn’t have—”

  “No, I was the one who—” I take a deep breath. It’s ridiculous to be embarrassed in front of this man, considering how many intimacies we’ve shared over the past week, but I am embarrassed. What if he thinks I’m searching for a man to take care of me now that I have left Tom? Who would want to be saddled with another man’s wife? Another man’s child?

  I swallow. “What will you do now?”

  “I don’t know. There’s talk they’re going to ship the vets left at the camps on the Keys up here. Have them join the Civilian Conservation Corps. Send them to one of those camps now.”

  My mouth goes dry, a tingle starting at the base of my spine, heat wafting over me. I knew, of course, that his presence was temporary.

  “So you’ll go with them, then?”

  “I hadn’t—No—No, I don’t want to join the CCC. I’m done with the government. With the military. I can’t stay after all of this.” He’s silent for a moment. “Where will you go?”

  I try for a shaky smile. “There’s some insurance money from Aunt Alice. Matthew—the man who worked at the inn—told me about it. There’s the land around the inn, too. She owned that. He wants me to rebuild. The inn was her whole life. It seems like a way to honor her memory, but at the same time, I don’t know anything about running an inn. Probably smarter to take the money and get a fresh start somewhere.”

  “You sell yourself too short. You’re good at welcoming people. Making them feel at home. You had that way about you at Ruby’s, always putting people at ease. You would be wonderful at it
.”

  I flush. “Thank you.”

  “Are you worried about your husband finding you?” he asks. “Is that holding you back?”

  “He’s still listed as missing,” I reply. “I talked to Ruby—no one’s seen him in Key West since Labor Day weekend. Maybe he’s safe somewhere; maybe he’s gone. I suppose all I can do is hope he’ll never turn up.

  “If not the camps, where will you go?” I ask John.

  “Home. New York.”

  “Your family needs you.”

  “I’ve been gone too long. Seeing Elizabeth reminded me of that. My father and brother left a mess behind when they died, and it isn’t fair that she should shoulder that burden alone.”

  “Will you stay there permanently?”

  “I don’t know,” he replies.

  I take a deep, shaky breath, tears threatening.

  “I suppose this is good-bye, then.”

  He nods, his jaw clenched, his gaze fixed on some point over my shoulder. “Are you going to stay in a hotel tonight?”

  “Yes. Tomorrow, I’ll visit Matthew at his sister’s house in Miami to see about rebuilding.”

  “Do you need anything?”

  “No, you’ve done enough. It’s time Lucy and I took care of ourselves. Will you be all right?”

  “I will,” he replies. “Thank you. This past week has been—”

  His voice breaks off.

  I cannot cry.

  I extend my hand to him. “I will never be able to thank you enough for all you’ve done for us. The kindness you’ve shown us.”

  He doesn’t take my hand, but instead leans forward, his lips brushing my cheek.

  I still.

  It’s his words, though, that unravel me.

  “You asked me once what I did when I came down to Key West so often. I came to Ruby’s. I came to see you.”

  And then, the last confession—

  “I don’t even like key lime pie.”

  He leans down and kisses the top of Lucy’s head, caressing her blond hair, and when he stares back up at me, tears swim in his eyes.