A Second Chance in Paradise (4 page)

Chapter 4

On my first morning in the Keys, I awoke at dawn’s first light. Certainly the incessant hum of the air-conditioner had something to do with it as did a rogue cricket that was holed up somewhere inside the trailer. Feeling much better than I did when closing my eyes the night before, I slid into yesterday’s jeans and barefooted it outside.

L
istening to the unfamiliar quiet, I stood on the small dewy lawn surveying things again. Maybe thirty yards from where I stood, the flat surface of Wreckers Channel mirrored the early morning’s pink blushing sky. Way out near the middle, a large tarpon rolled, exposing its thick, silvery body and slapping the water’s surface with its broad tail before disappearing back into the depths. I was ecstatic spotting the awesome fish. I couldn’t wait to do battle with one of those so-called “silver kings.”  I’d read in outdoor magazines how once hooked, they sometimes spend more time jumping out of the water then they do in it. Another tarpon surfaced then, a smaller one, making its own light as the new sun reflected off its armor of silver dollar scales. To the right, out past the US 1 bridge on the eastern side of the island, a white sport fishing boat – a cabin job, slowly made its way out into the Atlantic. There was no way I could have known the boat was named “The Island Belle” and that Buster; Pa Bell’s son, was at the helm.

With a fair amount of renewed
excitement, I stepped over to the van and started unloading it. First I pulled out the two, green suitcases I’d had since my stint with the Air Force twenty years earlier. I hadn’t used them much since my discharge because real vacations had always been an unattainable luxury to me and Wendy. For most of those years, the luggage sat in a corner of our garage.

Next
I unloaded my arsenal of fishing outfits, carefully watching the rod tips as I carried them into the trailer. I had everything from ultra-lights to monster-taming winches which, when filled properly, held close to half a mile of heavy line. I was obsessed with fishing and always loved how its calming effect could transform in a flash to heart-pounding, adrenaline pumping excitement. Fishing was as unpredictable as my mood swings. It could both thrill you and disappoint you when a trophy fish hurls its body out of the water, displaying all its magnificence; only to snap the line with one mighty shake of its head. Yes, fishing was one of the two joys I’d never tired of. Unfortunately, the other joy had tired of me.

Hands in
my pockets, I took a few steps toward the shoreline. It felt good to walk again, to stretch my legs after being crammed in the van for so long. Like the trailer I was staying in, the one next door was shaded by dense palms. It sat at the very end of the semicircular formation and was the closest to the water’s edge. There was a light on inside, and the delicious aroma of freshly-brewed coffee wafted from its open windows. The single-wide mobile home had a screened porch on the side, and there was a faded-blue VW Bug, probably older than my van, parked next to it. I had just glanced at the sandy tracks its tires had worn in the sparse grass when I heard the porch door swing open. Quickly rolling my eyes to the right I saw a woman step outside. She was absolutely stunning.

High
-waisted and slender she had on a lightweight denim shirt knotted beneath her breasts, white denim shorts, and no shoes. Smiling now she said in a low voice, as if whispering a secret and being careful not to wake anyone, “Hey, I’ll bet you could use some coffee.”

I
stopped in my tracks, took a quick glance around and said, “Well, I ah ... sure! Why not? I’d really like that, if it isn’t any trouble.”

A
pproaching her now I said, “By the way, what exactly does someone who could use some coffee look like?  I mean, are there telltale signs?”  My response seemed kind of weak as it left my tongue, but it was the best I could muster under the circumstances. This beautiful woman had taken me completely off guard.

She let out a low g
iggle; then said, “There are no telltale signs, but this island isn’t the Big Apple and news travels fast. Sissy told me last night that you arrived in the afternoon and rented Mr. Doyle’s trailer next door. Come on in.” 

And I did. We
went into the porch and the totally-unpretentious woman extended her right hand saying, “Julie, Julie Albright, how do you do?”  She smiled again, and close as I was I saw two rows of the straightest, whitest teeth I’d ever seen. I picked up her offering and gently shook it a time or two. Not normally “a hand man,” I still couldn’t help but notice the one I was holding was elegant. Her fingers were long, feminine fingers with perfectly manicured nails. But that didn’t surprise me. Even dressed down the way she was, everything about her was graceful.

I managed to say, “
I’m Sonny Raines, nice to meet you.” But it wasn’t easy. Her deep brown, sensuous eyes, ever so sleek at the corners, simply took me hostage. And even though I’d never met this woman she somehow seemed familiar. It was uncanny.

“
Well, Sonny Raines,” she said now, glancing up at the clear morning sky, “is it going to be
sunny
today or will it
rain
?”

“Verrry funny! You picked right up on that. Obviously you’ve had some coffee already. It’s
Sonny with and o and there’s an e near the end of Raines. Believe me, when I was a kid I took more than my share of ribbing about that.”

“I’m just kidding, Sonny. H
ave a seat and I’ll bring out the coffee. How do you take it?”

“
Just a little cream is fine.” 

“You bet! Have a seat. I’ll be right out.”

I lowered myself into one of the two rattan swivel rockers on the porch and looked out toward the placid waters of Wreckers Channel again. Two huge birds, almost as tall as full grown men, fascinated me as they strutted side by side along the beach. But that only lasted a moment or two. Soon the sound of a spoon clinking in cups brought my attention back to the woman inside the trailer – this Julie Albright. I couldn’t get over how striking she was, even without makeup on. When we had talked a minute earlier, I’d actually seen my own reflection in her long, lustrous black hair, and the way it hung from a perfect part atop her head, sixties style, it only accentuating the gorgeous features in her delicate face. As for her skin, wow, slightly tanned and flawless it was drawn tightly over well-toned limbs.

When she
came out with two cups of steaming hot coffee and put them on the lobster trap/table between the chairs, I noticed a green aluminum ashtray sitting there. I asked her, “Do you mind if I smoke?” She only waved me off and smiled. I took a cigarette out, lit it, and she sat down.

Looking out at my van parked just beyond her VW, s
he then said, “Looking at all those Love Bugs smeared all over your grill it’s obvious you just got down here.”

“
Yup, like Sissy told you, I just arrived yesterday. I was headed for Key West, but they said on the radio there were no rooms available – with the holiday weekend and all.” 

I took a sip of the
strong coffee, and she said, “More and more people are coming down every year. How long are
you
planning to stay?”

“
I’m not sure yet, maybe permanently, maybe not. It depends on how things go. I’ve got to see if I can find work and get situated.” 

I then saw J
ulie take a quick glance my left hand. After that she raised her eyes to my face, appraising it for the second time. Feeling self-conscious, I caught myself fidgeting in my chair like a nervous schoolboy. I straightened up in my chair a bit then took another sip of coffee.

I hated myself for acting that way and was sure she’d picked up on it. I also knew she was
trying to make me feel more relaxed when, as if genuinely interested, she asked, “What part of New York are you from?”

“
I grew up in Queens, but I’ve been out on Long Island for fifteen or sixteen years. You’re not from New York? I can’t detect an accent.”

She pivoted her head gently, said, “
No,” then looked dreamily into the cup she’d been holding. It was strange. She didn’t say anything else for a moment. She looked at that coffee as if she could see her past in the hot, brown liquid.

“
I grew up in Ft. Lauderdale,” she finally said, “but I did live in Manhattan for four years ... on East 89th. That was a while back. Great place, no matter what people from other parts of the country might say. I had a real fun time there.” She paused again, looking out at the channel for a few seconds before continuing, “But something came up, and I decided it was time to leave New York.” 

Her mysterious dark eyes
now seemed as though they were watching events from her past life take place all over again. I knew by the way she was winding a strand of long black hair around her slender finger that those events had not been pleasant. But she brought herself back to the here and now. And she asked me, “What brings you to paradise, Sonny Raines?”

I took a sip from my cup and then
shrugged, “Just ... just tired of the stress, the winters, the rush-rush pace, and the exorbitant living costs. I’m hoping to simplify things – scale down, live as cheaply as possible. I’m not much for conventionalism. I detested the regimented lifestyle I’d been living.”

Julie
Albright probably knew by the way I looked out at the water as I spoke that there was more to it than I was letting on to. That there was probably a woman involved. She probably figured that I was yet another casualty of the matrimonial wars. But she didn’t try to delve. She let me off the hook by asking, “More coffee?”

“No thanks. I’m good. If you don’t mind me asking, h
ow long have you been down here ... in the Keys?”

“Nine years now –
right here in this trailer. When I left New York I went back to Lauderdale for six or seven years. It had changed so much since I grew up there. Throngs of people; crime running rampant, you know what they say ... you can never go back. I wanted to find someplace quiet. Soooo,” she said while looking beyond the turquoise channel to the uninhabited green shoreline of Flagler Key, “I came down to the Keys and found Wreckers. It was and still is perfect for me.”

“
Why not Key West?  Why a secluded place like this?  Don’t get me wrong, it’s beautiful, but it is really quiet.”

“
Let’s just say I became disillusioned with people. I wanted to be pretty much left alone. If I want to be around crowds, I can always drive south a few minutes. There are always hordes of people on Duval Street. Anyway, I work in right there in Key West, part time, two days a week. That’s enough for me.”

“
I can appreciate that,” I said, now watching a Great Blue Heron snare a finger mullet out on the flats. The long-legged bird flipped the wriggling fish a few times until he finally caught it headfirst in his dagger-like bill, enabling him to ingest it.

At that point, not wanting to wear out my welcome, I
stood up and thanked Julie for the coffee. I also told her that since I’d be on the key at least until Monday I was sure I’d be seeing her again.

L
ooking a bit let down as she rose to her feet, she said, “I hope so.” But then her tone perked up and I thought she sounded a bit hopeful when she added, “Say ... why don’t you stop by Barnacle Bell’s tonight?  There’s going to be live music and there should be a good
crowd
.”  She accentuated the word “crowd” with a wide smile then continued, “You could meet some of the folks that live here.”

“Barnacle Bell’s? That’s the
place out on the highway next to the store, right?”

“
Yes.”

“I don’t know, I’
m going down to Key West this afternoon to do a little sightseeing. If I get back in time, I just might stop in. Thanks again ... Julie.” Somehow her name felt good as it rolled off my tongue.

“
Good bye, Sonny. I hope to see you tonight.”

I may have told her that I
might
be stopping into Pa Bell’s place for drink, but I knew darn well that I’d be there for sure.

After my initial meeting with Julie Albright
, I walked around Wrecker’s Key for a while. I strolled along the beach for maybe ten minutes, until it ended and the channel opened up to the expansive waters of Florida Bay and the Gulf of Mexico beyond that. Where the white sand ended, skirting an area thick with Brazilian Peppers and Red Mangroves, I took off my sneakers and sloshed my way through the muck of a tidal flat that had been exposed by a receding tide. After trekking through that stuff for maybe fifty yards, I stepped back onto dry land and saw something through a jungle of thick brush and trees. There was a house back in there. The coolest, most rustic, two-story house I’d ever seen. It was built “Conch” style – that Bahamian and New England mixture of architecture that is so prevalent in the Florida Keys. I didn’t know it at the time, but more than a hundred and fifty years earlier Thadeus Bell himself had built the home with boards he’d salvaged from a Bahamian wreck out near Looe Key one January morning during a blue nor’easter.

The home was
the only permanent building on the key, other than the one housing the little convenience store and bar out on US 1. A wide veranda encircled the entire place and the back of it faced a dock and the pristine waters of the bay. Two dormers were on either side of its large sloping roof, and a cupola was mounted on at its peak. The home was surrounded by a spotty, sun-parched lawn; the result of yet another soon-to-end, “dry season.”  In front of the place, beneath two huge Poinciana trees bursting with flaming-red flowers, there was an oversized bell resting on the lawn – an antique ship’s bell made of solid brass. From where I stood I had to squint, but I could see that something had been written on it. The faded white letters that had been painted on it said, “The Bells.”

Standing there, surrounded by the early morning calls
being made by many strange, unseen birds
and
something rustling in the nearby palmettos, I felt like an intruder. And I did not like it. Pa Bell had seemed like a decent guy when I’d met him the day before, but nobody likes a relative stranger snooping around his place, Quickly but quietly, I headed back toward the water. This time winding my way through a different maze of trees, each and every one of them with Strangler Figs snaked around their trunks –  robbing them of nourishment, slowly starving them.

When I finally reached the beach again
, I paused after noticing two rippling circles on the glass-like surface of the water. The top halves of two tailfins were in the center of them thirty yards away, waving gently above the transparent water. That was all I could see with the wide, blue sky reflecting brightly on the surface, but I knew exactly what kind of fish they were. A pair of bonefish; the “gray ghosts” of the tropical flats, were foraging for crustaceans amongst the eel grass that carpeted the shallow water. That’s why their tails had protruded from the surface. I’d read about them many times in fishing magazines. They are one of the most coveted game fish in the sport fishing world, and now that I was in the Keys, I’d soon be getting a chance to fish for them. It’s incomprehensible to an angler who has never hooked one of these speedsters, but a bonefish weighing just six or seven pounds can strip two-hundred yards line from a reel in one blazing run.

“
Damn!” I whispered aloud, not wanting to spook the wary fish, “Why didn’t I bring a light spinning outfit?”

But I wouldn’t have had a chance even if I had brought a rod with me. Something o
ut on the flat spooked the two bonefish. Maybe it was a leopard ray or a cruising shark, but either way both of the fish were gone in a flash. Surely they had headed to deeper, more protective water.

During the rest of
the walk back to the trailer, my mind kept returning to Julie Albright. It seemed so unusual that such an attractive lady acted so sincere right from the beginning. I’d met my share of good-lookers and most of them seemed somewhat catty. I often got the impression that to them, toying with men was sport, just like fishing was to me. But this Julie was different. She seemed so genuine. When we had been only minutes into our conversation, I somehow felt as though I’d known her for years. I didn’t have to play any roles. She’d made an impression on me for sure – an admirable one. But that was something I really wasn’t ready for. Not as early on in the healing process as I was.

* * * * *

That afternoon
I took my long-awaited drive down to Key West. It had been seventeen years since Wendy and I had gone to “the southernmost city” on our honeymoon. This time around I was returning alone. All I had with me were the conflicting, melancholic memories of happier times and those of my defeated marriage. I didn’t know if this trip was going to bolster the bitterness I’d felt during the months since our breakup or supplant it with rekindled pain.

Only twenty minutes after leaving Wrecker’s
, I pulled into Key West on US 1 – the only road leading on or off the six-square-mile island. And as soon as I got there, what’s the first thing I see? A Holiday Inn! Looking through the windshield the way I was, it was right smack in front of me – the very same motel where Wendy I spent five blissful days all those years ago.

“Oh, great,” I muttered to myself, grinding my molars, shaking my head ever so slowly, “just what I need to see the minute I get here. This sure as hell isn’t going to do anything to raise my spirits.”

Fortunately, when I turned right onto North Roosevelt Boulevard, my mind was quickly drawn to something else. Standing just to my left, on a grassy median that separated the traffic lanes, was an obese, barefoot man dressed in dirty khaki shorts and nothing else. With dark lifeless eyes and hair hanging past his shoulders the unfortunate soul had layers of deeply tanned fat, drooping down from his sweaty paunch like a deflated truck tire. Obviously homeless, he was clutching a cardboard sign announcing that he’d work for food. Below that “Vietnam Vet” was spelled out.

After passing him
I tried to envision how Key West might have looked more than fifty years earlier when Ernest Hemingway lived there. I’d always been fascinated by the Hemingway legend, reading everything about “the man” I could get my hands on. It didn’t matter who wrote about him; Carlos Baker, Hem’s ex-wives, his children, friends or anybody else, I would read it. My interest was that great, and now that I was actually back in Key West, I was heading directly to 907 Whitehead Street, the Hemingway home/museum.

S
teering carefully down narrow busy streets, I had to dodge all kinds of obstacles. There were colorfully-dressed pedestrians; tourists zipping around on pink mopeds, and locals on tired, old bicycles, peddling along as if they hadn’t a care in the world. Turning the wheel this way and that I still managed glances at all the quaint Conch houses surrounding me. Some had cupolas on top of their roofs and most had handmade gingerbread trim. Momentarily fixing my eyes on one of the old wooden structures I recalled something I’d once read. The book said that many of these homes had actually been built in the Bahamas. They were brought to Key West in sections, by ship. Once they arrived their walls were reassembled – held together with the customary wooden pegs rather than nails.

In just a matter of minutes I was standing by the double front doors of the Hemingway home, paying the admission fee along with a small group of camera-wielding tourists. Like a flock of ducklings trailing their mother, we went from room to room, first floor to second, obediently following and listening to our tour guide. A small, frail, older
man with wide, red suspenders holding up his britches he was very knowledgeable and did a great job making our visit a truly enjoyable one. And wow, did he know a lot about the famous author who once lived there. At one point in the tour, when our guide was taking questions, I was tempted to ask him if he knew what size underwear Papa Hemingway wore. I was all but certain he could have told me. But I didn’t ask. We were about two-thirds the way through the house when a dark funk suddenly drifted over my good spirits.

When we were leaving one bedroom to go to another I got the shock of my life. Standing at the very back of the group, I turned one last time to look at the two open doors leading out to a veranda. I remembered back to when I went there with Wendy, and she said how she absolutely loved them. How she would have given anything to spend just one night of our honeymoon in that room. Now, standing there, looking out at that veranda, I could have sworn I saw a vision of my ex-wife. Dressed in a floor-length white gown – looking more beautiful than ever – she was leaning with her lower back against the veranda’s black, iron railing. She was looking directly at me, with that fantastic smile of hers.

Not believing what I was seeing, I turned my head and eyes to the side, squinted real hard then rolled my eyes to their corners, looking back over there. She was gone.

My heart started to pound. I swallowed hard then realized that all the hair on my arms was standing straight up.

Oh my god, what in the hell is wrong with me? I’ve got to get out of here – right now!

Without saying a word to anybody, I turned away and headed straight for the stairway. Quietly but quickly I made my way down the stairs and out the door.