Chasing Sunsets Part 6

"Perfect. When you get back from Cedar Key, we'll go shopping for our trip to Atlanta."

Already a plan. I liked it. Spa days, shopping, traveling to Atlanta, the ballet. And, of course, Cedar Key. Somehow I'd get through these five weeks. "Sounds good."

We said our good-byes. Ten minutes later, I was sound asleep.

The television remained on.

By 10:00 Tuesday morning I had loaded the car with luggage filled with enough clothes and other necessities to keep me covered for two weeks-just in case things didn't go as well as I'd hoped-a cooler full of food that might go bad before I returned, and a large bag of dog food I'd purchased the day before.

"Come on, Max," I called into the house from the garage door.

Faithful Max strolled into the mud room, smiling. He paused momentarily, then-seeing the car's back door left open for him-darted past me. He positioned his seventy-seven pounds of muscle and golden fur onto the seat, then peered through the front windshield, looking anxious. Where we going, Mom? Where we going?

The drive to Cedar Key-though I had not made it in years-had not changed. The trip to the island had always been nearly as wonderful as the being there. When I was a child, the farther away from the city Dad drove, the happier I became. Life was good in Cedar Key. Mom relaxed more. Lethargic in a princess-amongst-the-pillows kind of way. Dad slipped easily into his role as her Prince Charming. They laughed a lot. Kissed a lot. Loved each other and their children with wild abandon. My sisters and I played with little conflict amongst ourselves. Rosa was there too. Always. She and her mother added a new dimension to our relationships with one another.

Dad and I always woke first. We'd meet in the kitchen. Dad would pour two mugs of coffee and one of hot cocoa. He'd tell me, "Grab a seat, Boo. I'll run this up to your mother and be right back."

I pictured Mom propped in bed, dressed in her pink cotton Eileen West nightgown, waiting for her prince to return. After Diana became Princess of Wales, I pictured Mom wearing one of the beautiful tiaras I'd seen the British beauty wearing in photographs and on television. If it was good enough for the future queen of England, it was good enough for my mother.

Picturing Mom was all I was allowed to do; we weren't allowed in the master bedroom until after Mom had gotten ready for the day. Dad cautioned us to be "extra special quiet" in the mornings so Mom could take her after-coffee nap. After becoming a mother, I wondered how my mother managed to have four children, play at the beach most all afternoon and late into the night, wake at eight to Dad's coffee, then slip under the covers to nap until ten or eleven o'clock. Even after Ami came along, it was more Jayme-Leigh who took care of the baby than Mom. A premonition, perhaps, of my sister's future as a pediatrician.

Children were one of the two pa.s.sions Jayme-Leigh has always possessed. Not her own children, of course, but rather those belonging to others. Her relationship with Ami mirrored that of Heather's and mine. In a unique sort of way, our family of six lived divided by twos. Mom and Dad, Jayme-Leigh and Ami, Heather and me.

But in Cedar Key, we added Eliana and Rosa.

Eliana. A woman of Hispanic heritage who lived in a modest house near the cemetery and worked hard at keeping other people's houses beautiful. A woman with a quick laugh and eyes that twinkled when she spoke. A woman totally dedicated to my mother and father.

It was Eliana, I now realized as I turned onto SR 24-that long stretch of two-lane blacktop leading from civilization to the island of my young summers-who provided Mom the time to play with her husband and children and to sleep until nearly noon. It was Eliana who cooked and cleaned and made sure our clothes were washed and dried and pressed crisp. It was Eliana who stayed late after supper to load the dishwasher and wipe the counters, and it was Eliana who, early the next morning, unloaded the dishes and returned them to their proper places in the cabinets. So different from Nell, who came twice a week when we were at home. Nell helped Mom; Eliana was a mom.

And then there was Rosa, the little tagalong child dressed in our hand-me-downs, who played with the Claybourne children as though there were no differences between us. Rosa . . . I wondered now where she might be living, what she was doing, and how life had turned out for her.

I watched the sun slide toward the horizon in the west. The foliage, thick on both sides of the road, allowed sunlight to wink between the quaking leaves of the soaring trees and the sleek green vines that wrapped around the trunks and branches and then slithered between them like snakes in the gra.s.s.

It was a tunnel that led to the marshlands of another world.

Cedar Key.

I turned off the highway and onto the b.u.mpy dirt road leading to the house. Green vines and trees had given way to miles of marshes, which then gave way to ancient live oaks. Their branches dripped with the silvery-gray strands of Spanish moss so thick they formed shimmering veils behind which the houses stood between the road and the water. As my father had done with his car on the weekends and summers of my youth, I turned my Honda along the short driveway leading to the house. I shoved the gearshift to park and sighed.

I had returned to Cedar Key.

"Come on, Max," I said.

If his panting was any indication, Max was more than happy to exit the backseat.

After liberating the dog, I grabbed my medium-sized suitcase from the trunk. Even though the suitcase had wheels, the ground was thick with sand and crushed sh.e.l.ls, so I heaved it up then walked to the z-shaped cypress board stairs. I took the steps one at a time until I'd reached the front door, which was actually at the side of the house. Max was not far behind me.

"Ready to see our home?" I asked him. I dropped the suitcase between us, then added, "Well, for the next few days anyway." I fished the key my father had given me from the deep pocket of my capri pants, slid it into the keyhole, and flipped it to the right.

The door to our temporary home opened. Max bounded in as though he'd been coming here every summer of his seven years.

I turned to look out over the landscape as I inhaled the salty air. The blended fragrances of fish and gra.s.s sent memories rushing through me faster than I could reel them in. In that moment I knew more than I'd known up until then that there were things here-within this house and on this island-that I was not ready to meet. Recollections of my parents, my sisters, and of our lives as they dovetailed. Thoughts of my mother and me traipsing along the Gulf coastline, photographing scenes of wildlife and people and the places they lived and worked and played. Memories of Dad, young and tan, relaxing-albeit in the scorching sunlight.

I leaned against the door frame and turned fully toward the water, watching the sleek gra.s.ses bend with the breeze. An osprey's nest perched high above the ground was empty. A few yards away, gulls flapped their gray and white wings over the movement of blue and green below. They formed unique angles and they called me to the water's edge.

I whistled for Max, who quickly joined me on the landing. I closed the door and we bounded down the stairs then walked to the platform where, just a few nights before, I'd dreamed of my father sitting, waiting for me to join him before we went to the city park.

I sat in one of the Adirondack chairs-the same one Dad had rested in-crossed one leg over the other, leaned back, and closed my eyes. The sun warmed the left side of my face and my skin grew clammy under the afternoon's wet heat. Without opening my eyes, I raked my hands through the length of my blonde hair, forcing the roots up. Sweat beaded along my scalp as I twisted the strands until they formed a makeshift bun. When a breeze brushed across the back of my neck, I leaned back again. At my feet, Max plopped down with a sigh.

For a moment I imagined my sons had made the trip with me and that they were, right now, upstairs unpacking their suitcases, shedding their travel clothes, and then shoving their long, tan legs into swimming trunks. Any minute they would come skipping down the stairs, their voices reaching me long before they did. They'd call my name, "Mom!" and then they would insist I get up and take them to the park now. Max would beat all of us to the car.

But a dream was all it was. All it could be.

Anise had turned the bedroom Dad and Mom had used into a guest room, then created a master bedroom out of the room my sisters and I had shared. No longer was the room dominated by a king-sized bed draped in white linen. The mounds of fluffy pillows my mother had rested herself upon were also gone. Mom's sense of Victorian-meets-beach had been wiped away. It now reflected Anise's back-to-nature touch.

The old master now had twin beds with headboards of ornate black wrought iron. The wall behind them was draped with flax-colored curtains, though no window was there. The matching bed quilts were scalloped and white and had detailed vermicelli st.i.tches outlining coastal shapes. The pattern of the bed skirts was of large flax and white check, and the pillows matched them. The windows were hidden behind wood-grain plantation shutters, which I threw open wide as soon as I entered the room. I stood for a while staring out at the sky, watching it turn deep shades of red and orange as the sun took its rest for the day. I leaned against the sill and tilted my head to the right to see large pink clouds forming above. Cotton-candy skies, Mom had always called evenings like these.

"Max," I said to the one who had just made himself quite comfortable on one of the beds, "tomorrow we'll go watch the sunset." I looked at him. His tongue was hanging from his mouth as he smiled at me. "Sometimes, I swear you know exactly what I'm talking about."

He barked.

I sat on the opposite bed from him. "You see, Max," I went on, "this island is so special that if you look one way in the morning, you can watch the sun come up. But if you look the other way in the evenings, you can watch it go down."

With that he bounded off the bed and out of the room.

7.

Summer 1987 "Come on . . ."

"I can't."

"You mean you won't."

I shook my head. The blonde hair that fell straight on both sides of my face tickled my shoulders in the late afternoon sunlight. I stood a few feet from the Gulf's sh.o.r.eline, brushed the wet sand from the tops of my slender tanned legs and then from my hands. "Obviously, you don't know my parents, Steven Granger. If my father caught me out at 6:00 in the morning watching the sunrise with you, he'd kill both of us."

Steven grinned, white teeth appearing whiter against the bronze skin of his face. "Then tell him. I've got nothing to be ashamed of." He winked. "Do you?"

I crossed my arms, felt the warmth of them against the bare skin of my midriff, and my cheeks flamed. "No," I said looking down. At my feet was the crumpled canary-yellow cover-up that matched the bikini I'd begged Mom for before we came to Cedar Key for summer vacation. Mom thought the bathing suit a little too risque, but I insisted it was the style and that we'd not find anything different anywhere else. "Besides," I'd said, "it's just a suit, Mom. It's not like I have guys pawing me or anything."

But in my heart, I knew whom I bought it for and just whom I hoped would take notice. And so far, it had worked. Steven's eyes never left me when we were together . . . and he made sure we were together as much as possible. Even on days when he'd have done better to have worked with his dad.

Steven bent down to retrieve the cover-up, shook it loose of sand, and then handed it to me. The same sun that warmed me shimmered on the dark blond hair-cut in feathery soft layers-of the boy standing before me. "Need any help putting this on?"

I kept my eyes locked on his. "No, I do not," I said. Then, slipping the gauzy material over my head, I said, "I'm not a child that you have to dress, you know."

"I'd say."

I smiled at him before we turned to walk toward the gra.s.sy knoll rising above the beach where 2nd Street crossed in front of City Park. Behind us the voices of children and adults playing and laughing faded into the sound of gulls cawing. Steven and I were in a world of our own. We took slow steps, occasionally b.u.mped shoulders, cast longing gazes, and then finally clasped our hands together. "So, what'll it be?" he asked. "Just say the word and I'll pick you up at your front door at 6:00. Otherwise, I'll meet you at the end of the lane from your house." He stopped walking, and I stopped with him. "Just promise me that tomorrow we'll be watching the sunrise together."

I looked at him long and hard. "Dad will say no."

"Tell your mom you want to take some pictures, then. You've got your license, you can drive the car. I'll meet you where Dad docks his boat."

I felt myself smiling long before my lips broke apart in a wide grin. "Okay, then."

Steven looked elated. "Really? Are you serious?" And then he laughed. "I'll bring the coffee."

I wrinkled my nose. "Hot cocoa, please."

He pulled me to him, pressed his lips against mine for one salty sweet moment. "I'll bring whatever you want."

"What shall I bring?" I asked, picturing us, blanket spread out on his father's dock, legs dangling over the edge, feet grazing the water. A thermos of hot cocoa stood between us and napkins filled with . . . I didn't know what . . .

But Steven shook his head. "Nothing. I'll bring it all."

"Okay."

We started walking again, over to the gazebo and then back to where he'd parked the red '76 GMC 4-by-4 his father had allowed him to buy with the money he'd saved over the years of working on the boat. "How about tonight?" he asked. "Got plans for tonight?"

I couldn't help but giggle. After all the years I'd stared after him, Steven Granger finally knew I was alive. Really alive. And not just in the "kid sister" kind of way. Not as it had always been before when he treated me no differently than any other summer resident on the island.

Not that I hadn't worked hard to make sure it would happen too. After winter break on the island-the one where Steven hardly said h.e.l.lo to me-I joined one of the new women's workout clubs near home, lost some excess girl-to-woman pounds, and firmed up my stomach muscles. A month before we were scheduled to come to Cedar Key for the summer, I'd talked Mom into a shopping spree at Dillard's, which included the bathing suit and a stop at the Clinique counter where I was taught-at last-how to properly wear makeup. The salesgirl admitted it wouldn't take much to accent my positives, telling me I was a natural beauty. Still, I'd come away with eyes shadowed in smoky shades and lips pouting with shimmery lip gloss.

As usual upon arrival at our summer house, my sisters and I bounded up the stairs to get everything unpacked so we could get to the water as quickly as possible. And, as usual, I was the first to meet up with Dad by the sh.o.r.eline. "Good gracious alive. Who is this young woman standing in front of me?" he asked, sizing me up and down.

"Dad . . ."

He stood from his chair, rubbed his chin in mock admiration and study, and said, "Now, I do believe my daughter, my little girl," he said winking, "who rode all the way from Orlando with us ran up those stairs a few minutes ago. But I do not remember this young woman riding with us in the car."

"Dad!"

His face grew stern then. "Seriously. What's with all this? Do you need all this makeup and . . . do those shoes actually match your swimsuit?"

I turned. If he were able to read my face-and I knew he could-he'd know that seeing Steven again was behind the transformation, and he'd have me in a gunnysack before I had a chance to protest. "I'll meet you at the car, Dad."

"Uh-huh," he called after me.

"I'm driving!" I yelled back.

"Only if I say so!"

"Dad!"

Now it was Steven who eyed me, albeit in a different way than my father had. "What about tonight?" I asked him.

"Do you think your dad would mind if we went to see the sunset together?"

"We'll be there anyway. Mom told me earlier that tonight will be a good one to catch some shots."

Steven squinted in the sunlight. "Well, that's all well and good . . . but can I pick you up and take you with me? Do you think they'd mind?"

We reached the truck. He opened the pa.s.senger door for me. A red towel was scrunched along the seat, placed there to protect the fabric. I straightened it, then hoisted myself up and in using the chrome running board. Steven closed the door behind me and ran around the front as I leaned my arm out of the opened window, hoping for a breeze. Even though he'd parked in the shade of the one bushy tree at City Park, inside the truck felt like two hundred degrees.

"I'll have it cooled down in a minute," he said as he bounded into the driver's seat. He started the engine, adjusted the air-conditioning, then fiddled with the gearshift on the floorboard between us. Looking from it to me, he said, "Scootch closer."

I happily complied.

Halfway to the house he asked, "So what time can I pick you up?"

"We usually eat about 7:00. How about 8:00?"

"Sounds good. That'll give us plenty of time before sunset."

"Why don't I bring some c.o.kes? I mean, after all, you're bringing the hot cocoa in the morning."

He smiled at me. "If your parents say it's okay."

I thought for a moment before answering. "It'll work out."

He shifted gears as he rounded the road from A Street to 3rd. Thick shrubs and palms lined the right side so densely it was impossible to see through. I stared out at the landscape, thinking. Devising a plan, as I seemed to be doing a lot of lately. I knew what needed to be done for it to all work out. The best time to talk to Mom. The right time that she'd agree to anything. Just as she had with the shopping spree.

The perfect time . . . "It'll all work out," I said again, then glanced at Steven, who looked at me and then to the road.

"If you say so, Boo."

A million b.u.t.terflies took flight inside at the sound of the endearment spoken from his lips. So different than when Dad said the exact same name. "I say so," I said, then leaned back and closed my eyes, already dreaming of the life Steven and I would someday have together.

A life in Cedar Key.

8.

I was awakened early the next morning by bamming at the door. I forced my eyes open; Max was already scrambling out of the room. "Max," I called out, then pushed the sheet from off my pajama-clad body. "Max!"

The bamming continued. Max added his two cents by barking like a mad dog.

"Max, get back," I said when I finally made it to the door. I gently pushed at the bulk of him with my foot.