[Christmas Key 01.0] There's Always a Catch

by Stephanie Taylor

  The room is silent.

  “But in order to keep moving forward, we need to at least entertain the idea of progress. In the future I think it’s entirely unlikely that we’ll be able to survive off of pensions and Social Security alone, and it’s my goal to purposefully—and I did say purposefully—guide us towards an increase in tourism and development. We have to find some way to sustain ourselves.”

  A few heads nod in the crowd, though Maria Agnelli is still standing just below the podium, hands on her small hips, looking up at Holly sternly.

  “I got the good news today that a group of fishermen wants to book a weeklong trip to Christmas Key, and they’ll be here in a couple of weeks. That means we’ll have ample opportunity to provide our goods and services to them.” She stops to let this news sink in. “I know we’re accustomed to weekenders and little gatherings of people here and there, but the fact that we’re as far out into the Gulf as we are means that even a trip from Key West is a trek out into the great unknown.”

  “That’s right, lass. If somebody wants to get here, then they damn well better want to get here!” Jimmy Cafferkey says in his Iris-tinged lilt.

  “That’s true, Jimmy. A trip to Christmas Key should be an adventure. And that desire to get here should be met by our eagerness to please those willing to make the trip. Because ultimately,” Holly says, pausing for effect, “they bring us not just money and a more robust economy for the island, but for those of us who don’t make it onto the mainland very often, they also bring with them human connectivity, and a taste of the outside world.”

  Holly stops here, hoping she’s made her case. The room is silent for a moment, and then a loud, slow clap starts in the back of the room. It’s just one person at first, and when Holly scans the room, she sees that it’s Buckhunter. Her initial fear is that he’s being sarcastic after their encounter that morning near her clothesline, but he gives her a crooked, sincere grin to let her know that he really means it.

  Then, like wildfire, the applause spreads. Not to everyone, but to enough of the crowd that Holly realizes how much support she actually has. Tears prick at the back of her eyes. Without meaning to, she gives a laugh that turns into a sob of joy, and her hand comes up to cover her mouth, the light brown freckles that dot the bridge of her nose still visible beneath her shining eyes.

  “Thank you,” she says softly. “Thank you for hearing me out.” Holly takes a moment to compose herself, then turns to Heddie next to her. “I’d also like to hand out a packet of information that I worked up on potential progress and growth for the island. I extended it out a few years so that—hopefully—what I’m proposing will make sense.”

  Heddie stands up from her spot next to Holly’s podium with the stack of packets in her hands. She splits them, handing half to Holly. They pass them down the rows on each side of the room as quickly as possible. The hands of the islanders—weathered, arthritic, plump—flip through the pages of the document curiously, brows furrowed as they begin to scan the packets.

  “Now,” Holly rushes back to the podium, “when we talk about progress, I’d like you to consider the benefit to all of us here on the island. And please keep in mind that in order to both positively impact our economy, and yet still retain control over the changes that might come our way, we need to be really intentional with our advertisements and plans.”

  “I still don’t agree with all of this, Holly,” Maria Agnelli says, sinking down into her chair; she’s holding a balled-up Kleenex in one shaky hand. “But if your grandpa Frank wanted it, then…I guess maybe,” she trails off. “Frank always did take care of us.”

  In proposing that the island throw itself into the fray of advertising, promoting, growing, and catering to change, Holly is well aware that she’s asking many of her neighbors to step outside of their comfort zones. She’s even factored a certain amount of pushback into the equation, and she expects it; she’d be disappointed if everyone rolled over quietly and acquiesced to her proposal without question. Part of the excitement and the challenge for her is convincing everyone else that it’s possible to slowly open the drawbridge and let people in without totally blowing up the walls that surround the village. It’s going to take work, but she’s ready.

  Holly steps down from the podium and stands next to Mrs. Agnelli. She takes Maria’s cool, wrinkled hand into her own.

  “I hope you all trust me when I tell you that eco-tourism is the wave of the future. The natural beauty of our island, combined with our proximity to the Dry Tortugas, means we can advertise our little piece of paradise as the ultimate destination for fishing, snorkeling, hiking, camping, biking, etcetera.”

  “And drinking,” Joe Sacamano pipes up. “Don’t forget that we’re a premiere drinking destination!”

  “Here, here!” Jimmy Cafferkey seconds.

  “Yes, with two bars and only a hundred and thirteen full-time residents, we probably have more bars per capita than any other city in the country,” Holly laughs. “But, if you look over the information I’ve given you, you’ll see that I’ve included an advertising plan as well as a budget, and I’d like to call for a vote to approve the plan.”

  “I’ll vote right now, Mayor,” Joe Sacamano says, holding the side of his reading glasses as he skims the packet. “This looks like a solid plan to me.”

  “Thanks, Joe—I appreciate that. Ballots are due by five o’clock this afternoon. If you have any questions, I’ll be in my office at the B&B. Meeting adjourned.”

  Holly wraps things up, nodding at her neighbors as she gathers the leftover packets to take back to her office. “Thanks, Heddie,” she says to the tall, striking woman.

  “Yes, love, you are very welcome,” Heddie says in her German accent. “I will type everything up and get it to you.” Heddie’s movements are slow and graceful—it’s clear to see her as the German film star she once was, though she always brushes that particular topic away with feigned irritation if anyone brings it up.

  “You’re a gem, Heddie,” Holly says. “Old Blue Eyes was a dummy to let you go.”

  “Oje, stoppen necken,” Heddie says in her native tongue, smoothing her already perfect hair across her scalp as she tucks her handbag under one arm. “Don’t be ridiculous.” The rumor on the island is that Heddie counts Frank Sinatra among her many former beaux, but it’s a piece of gossip that remains unconfirmed by Heddie herself.

  “Nice plan,” Jake says, interrupting Holly’s thoughts as she watches the islanders interact around her. In his hands he’s holding the black baseball cap with POLICE embroidered across the front in white thread. His holster dangles from his hip. “By the way,” he whispers, leaning in confidentially, “the purple bikini was a good choice. It was always one of my favorites.”

  Holly feels the blood rushing to her head, spreading across her face and leaving two pink stains on her cheeks.

  With a winning smile, Jake tugs his hat on over his short-cropped black hair and gives her a parting nod.

  It’s just like Jake to antagonize her with a speeding ticket and then, a few hours later, flirt with her about her bikini. She feels that familiar heat between them as it spreads through her body, and her eyes trail over his strong back and tanned neck as he walks out of the dining room.

  Memories of Jake kicking her feet out from under her in her bedroom and knocking her backwards onto the bed with a shriek of surprise spring to mind. He’s always been one for the sneak attack, landing on top of her like a tiger pouncing on its prey, ready to tangle as she laughs happily beneath him. It had been fun, their island romance, and a part of her wants to fall back into their easy relationship and the way things were before he ruined everything with the proposal. If only she could forget all of his talk about leaving the island, then they could smooth things over and go back to the way it used to be.

  The memory of Jake’s frosty attitude as he handed her the traffic ticket is already fading from her mind as she assesses his firm backside and weighs it against the cost of rekindlin
g their flame. It might be worth it, and she can probably forgive him for saying that living on the island with so many retirees is as dull as dishwater. Besides, who cares about their ridiculous showdown on Main Street that morning? It isn’t like she was ever going to pay that damn ticket anyway.

  Chapter 4

  “Maybe we should walk a little slower?” Maria Agnelli pleads. Mrs. Agnelli pumps her arms furiously alongside Glen, Gwen, Gen, and Holly, trying to keep up with the younger women. Every Thursday, they take an early morning stroll along the beach that wraps around the west side of the island. Up ahead, it connects with a wooden-planked boardwalk called Pinecone Path. The islanders refer to this stretch of white sand and palm trees as Snowflake Banks, and the ladies meet there bright and early each week to get their walk in before the summer humidity ratchets the temperature up to unbearable levels.

  “Sure, Maria,” says Gen. “We can slow down.”

  This morning Pucci leads the pack, bounding ahead of them and digging his nose into the cool sand every thirty or forty yards before coming up with a snout that looks as if it’s covered in powdered sugar.

  Glen, Gwen, and Gen—better known as “the triplets” to everyone on the island—have their hair pulled back in identical sun-bleached blonde French braids. As is their lifelong habit, they each wear a particular color scheme that they follow closely in all matters concerning fashion. As juvenile as it sounds, it helps everyone else to tell them apart. Without knowing that Glen wears primary colors, Gwen favors black, white, and pastels, and Gen almost always wears tropical colors like pink, turquoise, or orange, it’s nearly impossible to know who you’re talking to. All three of the triplets smile and laugh like life is one huge party, lighting up like human sun flares the minute someone engages them in conversation, and not a single one of them has ever met a stranger. Without fail, they entertain all of the island’s visitors with stories and chitchat, their identical voices and laughter weaving together in a pleasing tapestry.

  The sisters are all lean and robust at the age of sixty-seven, with strong, tanned limbs, and wicked senses of humor. It’s hard to believe that they’re only twenty years younger than Maria Agnelli, and that Holly is almost forty years younger than the triplets.

  “I saw that sexy police officer ex-husband of yours undressing you with his eyes at the meeting yesterday,” Mrs. Agnelli says, poking Holly in the side.

  “We were never actually married, Mrs. Agnelli.” She’s pointed this out to Mrs. Agnelli at least a hundred times.

  “Oh, right,” Mrs. Agnelli says with a frown. “You were just shacking up. I can’t believe you were dumb enough to let that gorgeous man go. Remind me again what the hell you did that for?” She pulls a wadded ball of Kleenex out of the pocket of her walking shorts, wiping at her wrinkled brow.

  The triplets all turn to Holly with expectation. They’re walking five abreast on the broad expanse of firm white sand. The sun flicks hotly through the palm trees, dropping hints of the scorching heat it will bring once it rises high enough in the sky to crest the trees.

  “Ahhh, well.” Holly chews on her lower lip. “I guess we just didn’t see eye-to-eye on some of the bigger issues in our relationship.” The triplets nod in understanding. Gen pulls a small bottle of water from her fuchsia fanny pack.

  “Oh, right. The sex.” Mrs. Agnelli nods knowingly. “But honey, you don’t have to always enjoy it, sometimes you just have to do it.”

  Gen Miller chokes on her water.

  “Oh, I think you should enjoy it,” Gwen says dreamily. “It can be really lovely.”

  “We never really had any problems in that area of our relationship,” Holly admits. There is a moment of hesitation when she realizes that she’s about to have a sex talk with Mrs. Agnelli and the triplets, but she pushes it aside. (After all, there’s no doubt that a group of women who’ve lived for a combined total of two hundred and eighty-seven years have a thing or two to share with her about life, love, and sex.) “But he wanted me to marry him, and I can’t do that.”

  The women stare at her wordlessly. They’re of a generation that believes in marriage and family above all else; a woman who sees a handsome husband as a hindrance rather than an end game is a foreign thing to them. Maria Agnelli shakes her head with disapproval, clicking her tongue as she does.

  “I can’t see why I have to give up everything I want—everything I’ve worked for—just to please him,” Holly says. “I know he doesn’t love this island the way that I do, and if I marry him, next thing I know I’ll be pregnant and distracted. Or he’ll rope me into moving somewhere else for his career,” she says, throwing air quotes around the last words.

  “You told him all of this?” Gwen asks, re-tucking her mint green tank top into her white shorts.

  “Yeah, I told him. He swears it wouldn’t be like that, but I can’t afford to lose sight of my vision for this island.” Holly shrugs.

  The group slows their power-walk, holding onto one another for support as they catch their collective breath and admire the silhouettes of the tall palm trees against the pink and blue morning sky.

  Holly bends forward to touch her toes, leaning into the stretch. It feels good to just pause and breathe. She gets so busy running the B&B and dreaming about the future that she sometimes forgets to slow down. It’s a daily challenge for her to stop thinking about the outside world (Do they have any upcoming bookings at the B&B? Has she remembered to post the previous night’s stunning sunset on Instagram with just the right hashtags?) and simply enjoy the coming and going of the tides.

  Pucci runs back with a stick in his mouth for his mistress, dropping it at her feet and looking up at her with hopeful brown eyes; Holly grabs the stick and winds up, hurling it as far and as fast as she can toward the water. Pucci takes off like he’s been shot from a cannon, cutting through the surf as he wades out to find his prize.

  “Jake swears I can run things on Christmas Key no matter what, but I know that when you get married, the baby talk starts, and before you know it: boom—all you’re doing is changing diapers and fighting about money.”

  “Oh, being pregnant is wonderful, Holly! And motherhood changes you in all the right ways,” Gwen says, reaching down to take the dripping wet stick that Holly’s dog has retrieved from the water. Gwen throws it for him, though not as far as Holly had. “I was completely done having babies by twenty-eight; I had all four boys by then,” Gwen says.

  “That could be because you and Edgar were so busy having such a lovely time in the bedroom,” Glen teases her sister.

  “Well, Holly, you could have given him as much as he wanted anyway,” Mrs. Agnelli says, “and then just washed out your na-na with vinegar until you were ready for babies.”

  “Maria! That doesn’t work!” Glen protests. “That’s just an old wive’s tale.”

  “It worked for me—I never got pregnant when I didn’t want to,” Mrs. Agnelli says indignantly. “And I never told Alfie no when he asked for it.”

  “But Maria,” says Gen, “you have nine kids. Who needed vinegar? You didn’t have to worry about getting pregnant, because you were already pregnant!”

  “Oh. Right.” Mrs. Agnelli looks out at the water. “Well, then maybe it was my sister Theresa who did the old vinegar trick…” she trails off, staring at the silvery waves that lap the shore in the morning sunlight.

  “Honey, your sister Theresa is an eighty-year-old nun. The only thing she used vinegar for was to scrub the pews after mass.” Glen puts her arm around Mrs. Agnelli’s shoulders, giving her a squeeze.

  “Listen, Holly, if you’re not ready for babies, then you’re not ready,” Gen says, looping her freckled arm through Holly’s smooth, tan one. “But,” she says gently, “don’t let the fact that your own mother didn’t get it right determine whether or not you become a mother yourself.”

  “You’re right—I know you’re right—but I can’t picture it. Any of it. At least not right now.” Holly pauses. “Breaking up with Jake felt like the
right thing to do; I just wish I didn’t feel like throwing myself into his arms every time I see him. We have a good time together, and he’s so sweet and patient. He puts up with me, and he’s really sexy—”

  “Yep, you got that one right,” Maria Agnelli chimes in.

  “I know…so what do you think? Was I out of my mind to break it off?”

  The triplets exchange looks before Gwen speaks. “Honey, you probably made the right choice in the long run, no matter how much it hurts now.”

  “You shouldn’t have to postpone your dreams for any man, no matter how handsome he is,” Glen adds.

  Mrs. Agnelli walks over to Holly and puts both hands on her arms to pull her closer. “Holly Jean Baxter,” she says, her voice firm and her eyes serious. “You go ahead and wait on babies until whenever you’re ready.” Holly looks down at Mrs. Agnelli, expecting some sort of Yoda-like proclamation from the woman who has something to say about everything. “But in the meantime, honey,” she says, “use the vinegar trick.”

  Chapter 5

  When Holly’s grandparents moved her over to Christmas Key as a toddler, it was still a wild and untamed piece of land. They brought a wilderness guide along with them to pull their boat up to shore and keep it there as they explored their newly-purchased island. It was nothing but a figment of Frank Baxter’s imagination at that point—just a humid, teeming pile of flora and fauna anchored to the ocean floor, holding fast as the endless currents of turquoise ebbed and flowed around it. In that, he’d seen infinite potential.