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Authors: Terri DuLong

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BOOK: Postcards from Cedar Key
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20
B
y mid-September the gossip and surprise had died down about Corabeth Williams and she carried on as usual. That's one thing about a small town. You don't have to wait very long for the next bit of gossip to surface, and people move on to something else.
I had skeins of yarn spun and ready to deliver to the yarn shop. Just before I headed out, my phone rang and I answered to hear Jill's voice.
“Hey there, girlfriend,” she said. “You must be really settling in because I don't hear from you much anymore.”
Jill was right. In the six months that I'd been living in Cedar Key our phone calls had dwindled to only once every few weeks, when at one time it was almost daily.
I plunked onto the sofa as a wave of guilt came over me. “I know and I'm really sorry. But I've been pretty busy, and then we had the hurricane here and . . .”
Jill laughed. “I'm not scolding you. I just miss you. I saw on the Internet that thankfully you didn't get too much damage on the island.”
“I miss you too, Jill. And no, we were really lucky. A bit of flooding, a couple of trees down, but no major damage.”
“Great. And how's the puzzle coming along? Anything yet on your mother?”
“Not a thing. As you know, I did share my story at the knitting group, but nobody can seem to remember her.”
“And your aunt? Has she been any help?”
“Well, I told you about her accident, so she wasn't able to come here in June. I really don't want to question her on the telephone, but when I spoke to her last week she said her leg is about back to normal and she hinted about coming here for Thanksgiving.”
“That's great. I hope eventually you'll get some answers. Okay, enough chitter-chatter—and Saxton Tate the third? What's the latest update there?”
I laughed. “I like him, Jill. I like him a lot.”
“Hmm, I can hear that in your voice.”
“Actually—” I hesitated before going on. “I really did want to get up to Maine, especially to see Bosco and Belle, but . . . Saxton's asked me to join him next month for a few days in the mountains of Georgia . . . and . . .”
Jill laughed. “You silly girl. Let's see—trip to Maine to see alpacas or romantic getaway with good-looking guy. Duh! Berkley, you don't have to make excuses. Go! Go and have a great time. Besides, I've been giving some thought to getting out of here for Thanksgiving and maybe heading to a little island off the west coast of Florida.”
I sat up straighter and punched my arm into the air. “Yes! Really? You think you might come for Thanksgiving? Oh, Jill, that would be super.”
My friend laughed across the line. “Yup, there's a good possibility that'll happen. So don't give it a second thought. Go to Georgia with Saxton Tate the third—but I'll never forgive you if you don't give me an in-depth report when you return.”
After she hung up, I sat there holding the phone in my hand and smiled. Every woman needed a best friend like Jill—and I was lucky enough to have one.
 
I walked into the yarn shop to see Dora putting a brightly colored scarf around Oliver's neck.
“Well, doesn't he look spiffy,” I said, leaning over to give him a pat. “How're ya doing, Oliver?”
Dora smiled. “Oliver is going to school later today.”
“Oh, another obedience class?”
“No, no. Oliver is actually going to
school
. The Cedar Key School. He's now going to officially be part of the Pages and Paws program.”
“What's that? I'm not familiar with it.”
Dora adjusted the knot on Oliver's scarf. “Oh, it's a new program based on the national one, Reading With Rover. That program originated in Washington State. Well-behaved dogs are brought to schools, libraries, and bookstores so that children can read to the dogs. It builds the child's confidence and fosters a love of reading. Many children find it difficult reading out loud in a classroom, but with a dog next to them listening, it makes it easier. Dogs don't judge if you read slow or have a problem pronouncing a word. I feel it's a very worthwhile program, so I wanted to volunteer and Oliver was accepted.”
“That's wonderful. And I agree, sounds like a great program.” I reached over to give Oliver a pat on his head. “Gee, it makes me almost wish I had a dog.”
“Well, if you're serious, there's sure plenty at the Levy County Humane Society that could use a good home.”
I filed the thought away and changed the subject. “I have some more skeins of yarn here for you,” I said, reaching into my bag.
“Oh, very good. We've run out of your last delivery. They're selling so well, Berkley. Knitters just love hand-spun and hand-dyed yarn.”
I smiled as I watched her arrange the skeins on a table that held a sign proclaiming Y
ARN
B
Y
B
ERKLEY
.
“I'm glad. It's a pleasure doing business with you.” I noticed that Oliver had retreated to his cushion in the corner of the shop. “He's so well behaved, Dora. Did he have to have any special training to be in that reading program?”
“Well, he had to have extensive obedience training. We had to make sure that he was socialized, especially with children, and he passed all the tests. And of course, all of his injections have to be up to date, and the vet gave me a certificate to give to the school. Today is just a trial run. We're going over so Oliver can meet some of the children and we'll see how they interact. If this goes well, then he'll be put on a schedule for once a week and be with a child that will read to him.”
“I'm really impressed. This is a win-win program. I can see where it would boost a child's confidence with reading, but I'm sure the dogs involved will also feel productive. I wonder if Saxton is aware of this program. Lola is also very well behaved.”
“Oh, you should mention it to him. It's a fairly new program, so they're looking for more volunteers.”
“I will. Well, time to open my shop. Have fun this afternoon at the school.”
 
Just before I was going to close the shop for lunch, the chimes rang on the door and I looked up to see an unfamiliar woman walk in. Tall, slim, and dressed like a fashion model out of a sixties
Vogue
magazine, this woman without a doubt
had
to be Maybelle Brewster. She wore a stylish two-piece beige linen suit with jacket and skirt, beige pumps, celery green lace gloves that matched the filmy scarf cleverly wound around her neck, and a small pillbox hat perched atop her perfectly coifed white hair. This may have been Maybelle Brewster, but there was no way she could be around eighty, as Saxton had said. This woman was utterly stunning and could easily have passed for somebody in her sixties.
“Hello. I'm sorry I haven't gotten in here sooner,” she said, extending her gloved hand.
Gloves and a hat—accessories that had been abandoned by the time I was born. She reminded me of the old-fashioned magazines my grandmother used to have around the house.
“I'm Maybelle Brewster and a friend of Saxton's. Any friend of Saxton's is a friend of mine, so I wanted to finally get in here and welcome you to the island.”
I smiled as a whiff of Chanel No 5 drifted toward me. No doubt about it—Maybelle Brewster was a relic of a fashion era that no longer existed.
“How nice of you. It's a pleasure to meet you, and thank you for the welcome. Saxton told me about you the night of the hurricane. I'm glad you didn't have any damage at your house.”
“Oh, Safe Harbor has been very blessed. When I bought that house back in the sixties, somebody told me the house was positioned perfectly to avoid any flooding or damage, and all these years later that still holds true. I'm right on the water, but I've always been safe there. So what did Saxton tell you about me?”
She lifted her head a fraction as a smile crossed her face.
“Oh . . . just that the locals checked on you during storms because the airport bridge could flood and they wanted to be sure you were okay.”
She nodded. “Yes, I'm very fortunate to be surrounded by such caring and genuine people. You mean to tell me that Saxton didn't reveal what my career was before I came to Cedar Key?”
I laughed. “Ah, yes, he did happen to mention that you had been a Copa Girl.”
Her laugh joined mine as she waved a gloved hand in the air. “It seems to be my claim to fame here on the island, but I'm sure you're too young to know what a Copa Girl was.”
“Oh, but that's not true,” I gushed. “My grandmother had saved a lot of magazines from the fifties and sixties, and I used to love to pore over them when I was a teen. The girls who danced and sang at the Copacabana were quite famous. I had always longed to wear some of those costumes and jewelry, and I wondered what it must have felt like to be so sophisticated and alluring.”
Maybelle nodded as her expression turned serious and a faraway look came into her eyes. “Yes, those were very exciting days, they were. But the fame didn't come without a price.” She cleared her voice. “Now then, I'd like three pieces of chocolate, please.”
Three? Seemed like she rationed herself with chocolate the same way that Saxton did.
“Certainly,” I said, reaching for a plastic glove and small box. “Which would you like?”
She pointed to the truffles from Angell and Phelps and explained, “I could devour pounds of chocolate, so I'm very careful. My weight, you know.”
I shot a quick glance at her still-perfect figure and wondered if at age eighty I'd still be concerned with a scale and my dress size.
Ringing up the sale, I passed the box across the counter. “Thank you so much. I hope you'll enjoy them.”
“Oh, I plan to savor them. It was so nice meeting you, Berkley.”
She turned to leave and then paused. “So you were enchanted with the Copa Girls, were you?”
I nodded.
“Well, then, perhaps you'd like to come out to Safe Harbor sometime. You might enjoy seeing some of my old costumes and photographs. Bring Saxton with you. We'll have tea.”
And with that, she left the shop.
21
T
he following week Saxton called to invite me to lunch at the Red Onion in Gainesville.
“Oh, I'd love to,” I told him. “But is there any chance I could make a quick stop at Yarnworks?”
Saxton laughed. “That's like taking coals to Newcastle, but sure. Something you need and can't find at Yarning Together?”
“Actually, I'd like to get back to needlepoint for a while. I love my knitting, but it's nice to work on something different every now and again. I haven't done needlepoint in years and I know they carry it at Yarnworks.”
“Sure. That's fine, and I'll pick you up about noon.”
 
“Thanks for waiting while I ran into the yarn shop,” I told him as we enjoyed a Cobb salad. “I know I'll like doing the needlepoint butterfly that I bought.”
“Good. Well . . . I wanted to tell you . . . I've heard from Resa.”
My head popped up to gauge his expression, which appeared to be neutral. “Oh, that's wonderful. Isn't it?”
He took a sip of ice water and then nodded. “I think so. The letter was rather generic. She is married, as I thought. Her husband is Jake. Dr. Jake Campbell, to be precise. He's a pediatrician in Seattle. They have no children, and Resa works for a software company.”
“Oh, that's it? Well, it sounds like she's doing well. Did she mention anything about getting together with you?”
“Just briefly said she's giving it some thought. She'll get back to me.”
I could hear the disappointment in his tone. “Well, that makes sense. You have to understand you haven't been in contact in, what? Thirty years? I'm sure she has a lot to think about. But I think it's a good sign that she answered your letter.”
“You do?” His voice sounded hopeful.
I nodded. “Yes, definitely. If she didn't want to bother with you at all, she wouldn't have replied back. That would have been the end of it. But she's probably taking it slow and trying to decide where to go from here. Do you plan to write her back?”
“I think I will. The last book that I wrote—I dedicated it to her. Maybe I'll send her an autographed copy.”
“Great idea. I would think that would please her. I mean, after all, her father is a well-known, successful author.”
“Yeah, and a man who stayed out of touch. But you're right. I'll give her the time that she needs. At least this was a start.”
“Exactly,” I said and hoped his relationship with his daughter could be what he hoped for.
 
Mr. Carl was my first customer when I opened the shop, and I noticed that he seemed to have an extra zip in his step when he walked in. In addition to that, his blue eyes had an increased sparkle.
“What's up, Mr. Carl?” I asked as I arranged the crystals on the table in a more orderly fashion.
“Beautiful morning, isn't it?” A huge smile covered his face. “Yes, indeedy, I love these cooler September mornings.”
I had a feeling something more than the weather had brought about his burst of happiness.
“I think I'll take a box of your best chocolates. And . . . could you wrap them up real pretty like? Maybe put a bow on top?”
“Certainly,” I said. “A gift for somebody?”
“Yes, it is,” and I heard the pleasure in his voice. “It's for Miss Raylene. I got around to asking her out—on a date. And she accepted.”
I smiled as I began filling a box with truffles. “That's wonderful. Where are you taking her?”
“A fancy Italian restaurant in Gainesville. Do you think she'll like that?”
I pulled a piece of gold wrapping paper off the roll and nodded. “Oh, I'm sure she will. And with the chocolates, she'll be one happy woman.”
“I sure hope so. Oh, and could you give me a pound of your chocolate clams too. No need to wrap those. They're for me. It's those chocolates, ya know.”
I turned around to face him as I wrapped the box with white ribbon. “What do you mean?”
“Well, ever since I started eating those chocolates of yours—well, each day I seemed to get more confident with Miss Raylene, and finally . . . the other day, at the Senior Lunch, I just blurted it out. Came right out and told her I had a fondness for her and I'd like to accompany her to a lunch in Gainesville. And she said she'd love to. Now, doesn't that just beat all? It has to be your chocolate. I'm certain of it.”
I smiled as I placed the bow on top of the package. “Hmm, so you think my chocolate has magical qualities?”
“I don't know much about magic or any of that. All I do know is that after a few months of eating that chocolate, why, I'm a whole new man.”
I placed both boxes into a bag, rang up the sale, and passed them across the counter.
“Well, I'm very happy for you, Mr. Carl. When is this date scheduled for?”
“I'm picking Miss Raylene up Saturday morning about eleven. And I plan to give her the chocolates then. Do you think I should also get her a bouquet of flowers? Or would that be overdoing it?”
“Why don't you see how the date goes, and if it goes well, maybe have some flowers delivered to her. To thank her for a nice time.”
He nodded his head emphatically. “Great idea. Thank you so much, Miss Berkley. You've been a big help to me and I appreciate it.”
“My pleasure. Just be sure to give me a follow-up on that date,” I told him as he turned to leave.
I stood by the door and watched him cross the street to the coffee café. Such a sweet man. And if he wanted to believe that it was my chocolate that had boosted his confidence, who was I to disagree?
The ringing phone pulled me out of my thoughts, and I answered to hear Flora's voice.
“Hey, Berkley. Do you have any plans for lunch today?”
“None at all. Why?”
“Because I'd like you to come over. I'm fixing up some soft-shell crabs. They just molted last night, so they're nice and fresh. I was up most of the night with them.”
You have to babysit crabs? “Sure,” I told her. “I can be over about noon.”
A few hours later I walked up State Road 24 to Flora's house overlooking the bayou.
She opened the door with a warm welcome. “Come on in,” she said as the aroma of garlic filled my senses.
Flora led the way through the small house out to a screen-enclosed porch with a great view of the salt marshes and water.
“How pretty,” I said, taking a seat on one of the patio chairs.
“Yeah, I was always glad we could raise our kids in such a great spot. And now my grandson runs the soft-shell crab business that my husband started years ago.”
There's a lot to be said for family continuity,
I thought, and I felt proud that I was carrying on Gran's tradition with the chocolate shop.
I glanced down into the yard and saw tanks of water. “Is that for the crabs?” I asked.
Flora nodded. “That's where we keep them while they're getting ready to shed their shells. You need to grab them within three or four hours before the new shell hardens. That's why I was up with them all night. Once they back out of their shell, I remove them from the tank and they go into the freezer or refrigerator. How about a glass of sweet tea?”
“Sounds great,” I said, standing up to get a better look at the glass tanks below me.
Flora poured from the plastic pitcher on the table.
“Thanks,” I said, and took a sip. “Delicious.” I might be a Yankee girl, but I'd quickly come to love the sweet tea the South was noted for. “This is quite a business you have going here.”
“Oh, it was much larger during my husband's time. But my grandson gets enough of the crabs to sell to local restaurants, and we enjoy eating them too. Let me get our lunch,” she said, heading back into the house.
“Can I help?”
“No, I'm all set,” she hollered over her shoulder, and returned a minute later carrying a tray.
Flora placed a dish in front of me with crabs that had been sautéed in butter and garlic.
“And help yourself to some salad,” she said, indicating the bowl before she sat down to join me.
I took a bite of the crab and smiled. “Oh, gosh, this is really delicious!”
Flora nodded. “Nothing quite as good as soft-shell crabs.”
Neither of us spoke for a few moments as we enjoyed the delicacy.
“So, any luck finding something out about your mother?” she asked.
I took a bite of salad and shook my head. “I'm afraid not. Nobody seems to remember her being here. I did find out from one of the postcards she sent to my grandmother that she was working here though. She only mentioned a job, but didn't say exactly what she was doing.”
Flora wiped her mouth with a napkin. “Hmm, there have never been that many jobs available on the island. Well, there's fishing and now clamming, but back in the seventies . . . beyond that, a young woman would have worked in one of the shops, done cleaning or maybe waitressing.”
“I suppose she could have done any of those things, but wouldn't you think somebody would remember her?”
“Those employees came and went. And if it was just a summer job, all the more reason not to recall a person.” Flora refilled her glass with sweet tea. “I do hope you'll find your answers, Berkley. Must have you feeling a bit lost to have a missing piece to your family history.”
“Thanks, and yeah, it would be nice to finally understand why my mother came here.”
“Any updates from Grace and Lucas? Are Chloe and Maude still planning to go to Paris?”
“Suellen heard from Grace the other day, and they're doing fine. They're down in the south of France for a couple weeks, traveling to different towns. Chloe changed her mind on going. Apparently her son is no longer working there. He got transferred to San Francisco, and Maude said they'd have to get somebody to look after the two dogs if they went, so they're not going. Both of them seemed fine with staying put here.”
Flora laughed. “Yeah, Cedar Key has a way of doing that. Making one want to stay put.”
I knew after finishing the crab and salad that I'd be having a light supper. This was confirmed when Flora brought out a funnel cake on a plate.
“Oh, that looks wonderful,” I said, gazing at the puffed fried cake topped with confectioners' sugar. “Do you really use a funnel to make that?”
“We do. So the batter can't be too thick, because it has to fill the funnel, and then you release it into the oil in the skillet.”
I took a bite and let out a groan. “This is
so
good, Flora.”
“I'll give you a copy of the recipe before you leave.”
Just a small thing, I know. Offering to share a recipe—but also another small expression of being accepted on the island.
BOOK: Postcards from Cedar Key
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