Slow Moon Rising (9 page)

We've been going to Cedar Key as a family since before I was born. Dad and Mom went to the annual arts festival not too long after they married, fell in love with the place, bought a house—raised up and sitting right on the marshlands—where the family has since vacationed all summer and during special holidays. Mom took us girls there during those hot, sticky summer months when the days are long and the mosquitoes on the neighboring keys thick as the air. Dad came for the first two weeks and, after that, on most weekends.

By the time I was old enough to really enjoy the island, my sisters were grown. I'd beg Mom to let me take a friend along to keep from being bored. Not too many of the other moms and dads were willing to let their daughters go away for an entire summer, but Avery's parents at least okayed her coming for a couple of weeks at a stretch. Then, after Dad had spent a weekend with us, he'd take Avery home, bringing her back a week or two later for another couple of weeks.

During those times when I didn't have Avery, I had Mom—of course—but she often slept late and I'd never been one for that. Up early, raring to go. Our Cedar Key housekeeper,
Eliana, was always up with me, pulling sticky buns out of the oven, pouring orange juice over ice, just the way I liked it. Sometimes her daughter Rosa would drop by and hang out, but she was nearly as old as Kimberly, so it was more like having a sister there than a friend.

Even though we'd always spent the majority of the Christmas holidays at home, on the twenty-third of December, we'd load the car up with our luggage and the gifts under the tree, and drive the three hours toward our coastal home. The “road to nowhere,” Dad called it. “You can't get there from here,” he'd add with a grin.

The harbor town of Cedar Key rests at the end of Highway 24. If one was to drive to the end of the highway and keep going, they'd end up in the gulf. There's no such thing as “I took a wrong turn and ended up here.” It's really the end of the earth.

I guess that's why Dad and Mom loved it so much. For them, it wasn't reality. It was paradise. They could let their kids roam around and never worry about us, not once. “Keep your eyes open for snakes” was the only admonishment I ever heard.

That and “Be back by supper.”

But that was from Eliana; as cook, she didn't want to see a good meal wasted.

I wondered if that Christmas—the second Christmas without Mom and the first with Anise—would be spent in Cedar Key or at home. After all, Dad hadn't taken his new wife to our “island home” yet, and the holidays might not be the
best time for it. She'd not met Eliana or Rosa or any of the others we'd come to know over the years.

I half hoped he would and half hoped he wouldn't.

A few days after Heather's dramatics in our festive home and my staying-out-late escapade, Dad announced to Anise and me over supper in the dining room that we
were
spending the holiday in Cedar Key. Just like that and just like Dad. An “oh by the way” line that made everything in life just the way he wanted it.

Anise rested her fork ever so gently on her plate, tines turned downward. She drew the linen napkin from her lap, dabbed at the corners of her mouth, and said, “Ross, are you sure?” Her eyes shifted from him to me, back to him.

“Ami, what do you think?” Dad asked, not answering his wife.

I'm pretty sure my mouth fell open just then. I don't remember Dad asking my opinion about much of anything, ever. Other than those months when it was just him and me, and then it was “do you want to go out or eat in,” “cheese or pepperoni” kinds of questions that weren't opinion based but more about level of hunger.

“Ah . . .” I said. Because, quite honestly, in this case I didn't have a solid enough opinion. I only knew that we'd
not
gone the year before and had only visited once or twice—Dad and me—since Mom died. Thoughts of how the place looked—every inch of it decorated by Mom—came to mind. At the house, Anise had only redone the master bedroom—and I don't blame her for that. But the cottage would be a totally different thing. The Windermere house “spoke” of Mom's taste, but the cottage “screamed” it.

“I'll take that as a yes,” Dad said. He dug his fork into the mashed potatoes and slipped them easily between his lips.

“She said no such thing,” Anise said. Her shoulders dropped, then squared again. “Honey,” she said, her voice as calm as the water around Cedar Key after a summer storm, “maybe it's too soon. I haven't even
been
to the beach house yet. I'm sure the house needs a thorough cleaning.”

“That's what I have Eliana for.” Dad practically beamed with the words.

“Dad,” I said, finding my voice. “Wouldn't that be a lot to ask of Eliana during the holidays? I mean, the place has got to be filled with cobwebs and dust. She's surely not up for that
now
.”

I watched him cut into a piece of boneless chicken, bring it to his mouth, and chew. His eyes stayed focused on his plate as though he were thinking over what I'd just said. Maybe taking that whole “Ami's opinion” thing to a new level. I looked at Anise, who looked at me, and then we both looked at Dad.

When he looked up, he seemed surprised by our attention. “What?”

“Did you not hear what Ami said?”

“I heard her.” He peered at me while cutting away at another section of his chicken. “Sweetheart, Eliana has been keeping the place clean on a weekly basis since the day your mother and I hired her. What would make you think she'd stopped? Because Mom died?”

Something inside me fell. My heart stopped and my stomach grew heavy. I put my fork on my plate, horizontally, the way Mom had shown me to do when I was done with my
meal. I took a deep breath, dropped my napkin by my plate, then scooped up both as I stood. “I'm not hungry,” I said.

“Ami, sit down,” Dad said.

“Ross . . .”

I froze as Dad shot a warning look at Anise. “No.” Then back to me. “Ami, sit down. We don't storm away from this table. Never have before and we're not going to start now.” When I didn't move, he added, “Sit down and tell me what's wrong.”

I pushed my chair with the back of my legs and stepped around it. “I'm just not hungry,” I said, keeping my voice steadier than I felt.

Even though I was calling on more bravado with my father than I'd ever used before—or perhaps because of it—the room started to spin. I bent forward, dropping my handful of dishes and linen to the massive table where we always sat for supper. My hands pressed hard against the tablecloth and the wood beneath it. I squeezed my eyes shut, then opened them again.

Both Dad and Anise were beside me. “You're pushing too hard,” she was saying while Dad eased stemware toward me. “Drink something, Ami,” he said. “Here.”

I took the glass and sat. Dad's arm eased me back into the chair; his hand stayed on my shoulder as I took a sip of cool water. I blew out a breath, then another until everything around me settled. Anise returned to her place, but Dad sat in the vacant chair next to me. “You all right, sweetheart?”

I nodded. Looked at him. “Dad . . .” I calculated my words. “Dad, can I ask you a question?”

“Haven't you always been able to do that?”

I smiled weakly. “Dad, what do you know about the seven stages of grief?”

“You mean the five stages?”

“There are some who say there are seven,” Anise interjected.

We both looked at her.

“When
my
mother died, Ami, I did a lot of research. I'm honestly not sure I went through all of the seven or even the five, but I understand the theory.”

“Do you think you are going through stages of grief, Ami? Even now?” Dad asked.

I jerked my face toward his. “Even now? Dad, it's
only
been a year.”

“I know how long it's been, Ami.”

I felt my chest grow tight. “I'm sorry, Anise. No disrespect intended, but . . . Dad, you may have been able to get on with your life seven months after Mom died, but the rest of us haven't.”

Anger became a color in my father's face. “Young lady, you listen to me.” His eyes cut toward Anise. “Stay or go for this, Anise. Your choice.”

Her brow rose. “I have no reason to leave unless you ask me to.”

“If you're going to yell at me,” I said, “then I want her to stay.”

Dad's hands flew up in the air, then back down. “I have no reason to yell at you. When have I ever yelled at you?”

Had he meant other than right then?

I started to cry. It wasn't what I wanted to do. Not what I had planned to do. In my heart, I'd hoped to be able to broach the subject with Dad, to tell him about Mom and
her words to me just before she'd died. He was my father, for crying out loud. Why should I be afraid to talk to him about something so important? One word from him either way—a yes or a no—and I would know if Mom had been out of her mind or sane as me.

Unless
I
was crazy.

“Ami, do you think you need to see a counselor?” Anise's sweet voice floated across the room. “I'm sure your father would see to it that you get the finest. Wouldn't you, Ross?”

“If that's what she needs.”

I closed my eyes and sighed. “No. I don't need a counselor. I think I just need to get beyond this time in my life. Focus more on my dancing.” I forced a smile and sent it toward my father. “So . . . a Cedar Key Christmas? Do you think Heather will go for it?”

“Why of course,” Dad said. The smile on his face told me he was pleased we were past the subject of grief and counselors. “She'll see things my way; I'm sure of it.”

Heather decided that weekend was the perfect time for us to do some Christmas shopping. She called me on Friday morning—I was on my way to school—to inform me she'd pick me up at five, we'd grab dinner somewhere, and then hit the mall. I reminded her I had practice at the studio.

“Ditch it this once,” she said.

“Heather, I can't ditch it. The showcase is next Saturday.”

“Then what are you doing tomorrow?”

I turned into the Dr. Phillips high school grounds, my car practically driving itself toward my assigned parking spot
with the large panther paw print painted just above the number. “I have practice, Heather.”

“All day and all night?”

Well . . . no.

“We're going from ten until three, I think. But I really should stick around and help close up.”

“Someone else can do that this time. You and I need to get off by ourselves. This is actually perfect. Andre is off; he can be here with the kids.”

Honestly, sometimes the way my sister ordered the lives of everyone around her was unnerving.

“All right then,” I said. “Do you want to pick me up at the house or do you want me to come there?”

“No, I do not want to come to the house. Not after . . . ugh. Never mind. I won't get into that with you right now.”