Chasing Sunsets Part 27

"You're right. Of course."

"Right now, you are shocked and hurt. I understand that. But think about it, read up on it, and you won't be."

"I promise, Anise. I won't say anything to hurt Dad."

"He loves you so much, Kimberly."

"I know. He loves us all." I thought of Heather. "Anise, what about Heather, then? If he knows the truth about Mom, why not Heather?"

"I honestly don't know. He just can't seem to bring himself to think about it. I think he believes if he ignores it, this time it will go away."

"But it won't."

"No. Andre called earlier. He's coming over later this afternoon to talk to your father."

"Do you think Dad will listen? Really listen?"

Again, Anise didn't answer right away. "Just pray that he does, okay? And I promise I'll call you later and let you know."

After I hung up with Anise, I called Chase and Cody and spoke to them both. Chase asked me again not to say anything to their father, and I told him, again, that I would not. "It's okay," I told Chase. "I'm turning over a new leaf where your dad is concerned. I may not like what he does, but I know now I can't stop him." I pressed my lips together. "As long as I know you're all right."

"I'm good, Mom."

"And that you know, son, that his behavior-going to the beach with women for the entire weekend and, I a.s.sume, staying in the same hotel room-is not what G.o.d ordains for a man and woman. s.e.x requires commitment, and that commitment is marriage."

"I know that too, Mom."

"I just don't want you to follow his example," I said. "Not in that way. He's a hard worker and he has always provided for us, but . . ."

"I know."

I laughed. "There's something else I want to talk to you about, but it'll wait. For now, let me talk with Cody."

Cody was a bundle of news. He told me about working with his grandfather, about his grandmother's cooking, about meeting a new friend in the neighborhood where they lived. "He just moved here and he's my age and he's really nice."

My heart smiled. "I'm glad, Code. I want you to enjoy yourself."

"Dad said he's going to take us to the beach next weekend." He lowered his voice then and said, "I suppose you know he went without us this weekend."

I couldn't help but laugh. "I know," I said. "But I'm not going to make it into something."

"Whew," I heard him say. "That's good to know."

I laughed again. "Code, I have to go now. Tell your brother and your grandparents that I love them all and I'll see you in a few weeks."

"One down, four to go," he expressed exuberantly.

"That's my little man," I said, and then told him again how much I loved him. "Oh, by the way. Tell Chase be on the lookout on Facebook for a new friend request."

"You?" his voice squealed. I listened as he repeated my statement to his brother between giggles.

Chase moaned. "If she feels she must . . ."

I thought it best we end the conversation there.

I was dressed in a floral, cotton scoop-neck summer dress and white flat sandals and ready to see the Cedar Key cemetery-a place I'd not been to or even thought of in years-and to dine at the Island Room.

Steven gave an appropriate wolf whistle when I opened the door and he'd sized me up a little. I grinned as I curtseyed. "I'd do the same to you," I told him, "if I knew how to whistle."

"How can you not know how to whistle?" he asked as I stepped past him and to the front porch. "And may I add how wonderful you smell?"

I rolled my eyes. "I bet you say that to all your dates."

Before I could take another step, he kissed me with such ardor I thought my knees would buckle.

"Wow," I said between deep breaths.

"Did I take your breath away?" he asked. I could have absolutely swooned at the lilt in his voice.

"I daresay."

"Good," he countered. "Because you've certainly taken away mine."

We stared at each other without blinking. I pressed my lips together to still my emotions. My yearning for Steven as a seventeen-year-old had been one thing; the desire for him now-both of us having been married-was something else. "Steven," I whispered.

"Me too," he said, reading my mind. "We'd better leave right now."

I wanted to check on Patsy one more time before we left and said so. He agreed. With a kiss to both our cheeks, she told us "children" to have a wonderful evening and not to worry one "iota" about her.

A few minutes later, we were driving between palms, live oaks shimmering with moss, and spiny century plants. A few of the palms had died, their fronds hung gray and still. The setting sun winked along the strings of silvery-gray moss and the wind played lightly with them all. Just ahead, the Cedar Key water tower-displaying pride in the Cedar Key Sharks-rose above the foliage and leaned to the right as though it had seen one too many storms. As we rounded the deep bend on Whiddon, Cedar Key School on our right, I leaned toward Steven. My seat belt held me in place and I asked, "Remember when we never wore these things and I sat practically under your armpit?" I pulled at the seat belt.

He smiled at me but jutted his chin to my side of the road. "There's the old day-in and day-out of my childhood," he said. "Lots of memories there."

"I bet."

We drove on in silence, past a bridge where young boys stood fishing alongside old pelicans, past small fishermen's houses with shady front porches sitting proud along a ca.n.a.l. Behind them, well-tended boats tied to shanty-style docks rocked in the blue water. Across the narrow road, larger vacation homes, most left vacant for the hot summer months, stood regal and blocked the rays of the setting sun. I pulled my sungla.s.ses down my nose an inch and kept my gaze toward the front driver's window, watching the colors of the sky as it appeared between them in the nearing sunset. It was like watching an old film, each frame flickering to the next. "We're near your home," I said as I pushed the shades back up. "Your mom and dad's, I mean."

"We are."

"Maybe we can go by to see them sometime."

He stared straight ahead. "They'd like that."

I pressed the folds of my dress with the palms of my hands. "Have you told them about me yet? About seeing me again?"

"Not yet." He glanced over at me. "What about you? Have you told your father?"

"Yes, I have."

He chuckled. "And what, may I inquire, was his reaction to that bit of good news?"

I shrugged. "Just to be careful."

"And will you? Be careful?"

"Will you?"

This time it was Steven who pulled his sungla.s.ses down the length of his nose, stared at me, and said, "Touche."

He slowed the Jeep and turned the wheel right. We glided into the cemetery; he parked across from the long walkway leading into and along the water's edge. Perfect, I thought, for strolling on nights like these.

After Steven got out of the car and had rustled something out of the back floorboard, he opened the pa.s.senger's door for me. I slid out and breathed in deeply; the evening air was thick and humming with mosquitoes. I held out my right hand, palm up.

"What's that for?" he asked.

I looked to the case dangling from a strap held by his left hand. "What's that for?" I returned.

He pinked. "You know me too well." He raised the case, unzipped it, and pulled out a can of insect repellant.

I took three steps forward, stood with my feet a good twenty-four inches apart, and my arms extended. "Hit me with your best shot," I said.

He did.

"You have ruined the scent of my body lotion," I said with a pout.

"Yeah, well, that body lotion will draw those mosquitoes faster than the evening breeze brings the smell of clams and fish."

Done with soaking me in my chemical bath, he turned the can on himself. When he'd finished, I said, "Next?"

He c.o.c.ked his head. "What does that mean?"

"The camera. Because I know it's in there."

He stared at me for a while, then swung the case toward me. I took out the camera and pressed the on b.u.t.ton. The lens cap popped off; it dangled from the string holding it to the body.

"Let's walk down the walkway," I suggested.

Steven shook his head. "Not tonight. Come on . . ." He guided me through the cement gates of the cemetery.

"And to our left, ladies and gentlemen," I said, my voice sounding like that of a tour guide, "is a memorial to 'Miss Bessie' Gibbs-owner of the Island Hotel, city commissioner, city judge, mayor, and organizer of the Cedar Key Arts Festival."

Steven stopped. "Now how did you remember that?"

I turned to him. "Some boy I once knew took me on a tour of the cemetery, and that's what he said."

Steven's lips swept over mine. "Did he tell you the whole story?" he asked against them. "About how she brought new life to the hotel and to the town? About how some say her ghost still haunts the place? Hers and about a dozen more?"

"He did." My words danced between our lips.

"What else did he tell you?"

I blinked, raised my eyes to his as I said, "If I remember correctly, right over there by the broken headstones and the rickety fence, and under the shade of a pine tree, he told me he loved me."

Steven pulled his sungla.s.ses from his face before pushing mine to the crown of my head. As he wrapped his arms around me and pulled me to himself, he whispered, "Then let me say it again. I love you, Kimberly-Boo."

27.

Reality set in.

Somewhere after an incredible dinner beside the dark blue water at the Island Room (the fettuccini crab carbonara was to die for, and I said so with every bite) and a scrumptious dessert with coffee at the Island Hotel's romantic restaurant, my heart sank closer to a too-full stomach.

"A penny for your thoughts," Steven said in the Jeep's quiet darkness. We were halfway home. I'd spent the short trip staring out into the clear black night, gazing up at the stars, and thinking.

I looked across the seat. Steven-illuminated both by the moonlight and street lamps-looked straight ahead, concentrating on the narrow road of SR 24. "Steven." I spoke slowly. "Maybe all of this . . . maybe we're moving too fast."

Steven chuckled. "You're right. Twenty-four years is moving way too fast."

I smiled, but I knew if he could see my face it would register only sadness. "I mean . . . you know what I mean. I've not been here even a week."

He glanced my way then turned his attention back to the road. "A lot sure has happened in five short days."

I couldn't argue with that.

I looked out the windshield, saw the road leading to the house come into view, and sighed. We kept silent until Steven turned into the driveway and shut off the engine. Wordlessly, he opened his door, came around to my side, and opened mine. He offered his hand and I took it, and when my feet rested upon the gravel, he didn't let go.

"Let's go sit on the deck," he said. "I have some things to say."

I'd left the porch lights on; they shone dimly on the lawn. The lapping of water against the gra.s.ses and the song of cicadas drew us to the place where my father used to sit and wait for his girls to unpack and ready themselves for swimming. So much since then had changed . . . so much life had pa.s.sed. Even still, if I tried, I could imagine the four of us squealing in delight, Mom's voice speaking her maternal orders, Dad's laughter . . . The Adirondacks had been repainted a few times, yet within them rested old memories waiting for new ones to be made.

Steven turned the chairs away from the water and facing each other. "Sit," he said.

I did and then he followed.

He reached over and took my hands. His thumbs traced a circle near the base of mine; with each round I felt a little of my resolve floating into the balmy air. His eyes were intent; they shimmered as he spoke. "You probably don't know this, but I called you once."

"What do you mean?" I kept my voice barely above a whisper. I had to. The knot had returned.

"After Brigitte. After I knew she wasn't coming back."

"Where? Where did you call me?"

"The only number I had. I called your mom and dad's house."