Chasing Sunsets Part 7

He complied, forced or not.

"Who is it?" I asked through the barrier between me and whoever thought it was so important to wake me at-I looked at my watch-7:00 in the morning.

"Who are you? That's the question."

The voice sounded as though it belonged to an older woman. I cracked the door open and peered out. "May I help you?" I asked.

Sure enough, my early morning intruder was an older woman-in her late sixties if I had to guess-with silver hair cut in a pageboy. Her skin was tanned and leathery like that of women who'd spent too much of their days in the sun and not enough time listening to the warnings of the surgeon general. Her eyes, though kind, were distinctly authoritative. "May I ask who you are?" she asked again.

"Yes, you may," I answered. "I'm Kimberly Tucker."

"Well, you are in Dr. and Mrs. Claybourne's house, and I've not been notified that anyone was coming."

I blinked. "What?"

"Dr. Claybourne or Mrs. Claybourne always notifies me if anyone other than them is coming here for a visit. I got no such call."

"Who are you?" I asked.

The woman put her hands on her hips. "Are we back at that again? I asked you first."

I pressed my fingertips to my chest. "I am Kimberly Claybourne Tucker, Dr. Claybourne's daughter."

The woman stepped back. "No," she said. "Oh my goodness, but you sure are. Why I haven't seen you in . . . I don't remember when I last saw you."

I shook my head. Behind me, Max shuffled away, sensing, I suppose, that the "danger" was over and his role as protector was no longer necessary. "I still don't know who you are," I said.

"Why, honey," she said, her accent that of the natives, "I'm Madeline Lewis. Oh, just look at the expression on your face. You don't remember me. Of course you don't. I've worked down at the market since G.o.d laid sand on the Gulf beach. Your mama used to call me and tell me what she needed and I'd bring it to her. Remember?"

I did remember. Still, it didn't tell me why my father would use her to secure the beach house. I nodded. "Yes, I remember now. But, Mrs. Lewis, why are you checking on my father's house?"

"Miss Lewis, honey. Though the good Lord knows I wish there had've been a pretty gold ring around my finger . . ."

I thought, You can have my old one . . . but I remained silent.

"Your daddy started asking me some time ago-goodness, I guess it was shortly before your pretty mama died, back when she first came down so sick. I've been doing it ever since."

"Oh," I said. "Would you like to come in?" I stepped back, opening the door fully.

"Don't mind if I do," she said, then walked past me. Stale tobacco and used ashtrays wafted past me in her wake.

I closed the door. "Would you like coffee, Miss Lewis?" I asked.

"No, no. I just had my morning coffee down at the cafe."

We walked the three steps down into the family room, where sheets still covered the furniture and the blinds kept the room dark from the morning light. "I haven't really had time to do anything," I said, pulling a covering from the overstuffed loveseat and then directing Miss Lewis to it.

"First things first," she said. "And what I mean by that is: you call me Maddie, like everyone else, okay?"

I sat on the covered sofa across from her. "Maddie," I said. "Thank you."

"You're welcome."

I stood then, walked over to the windows, and jerked the drapes apart. The room came to life, and I squinted against the harshness of the light. When I turned, I was instantly dismayed and embarra.s.sed by the thin layer of dust dancing in the air and lying across the few uncovered pieces of furniture. "Goodness, looks like my work really is cut out for me." I returned to my seat. "You may be able to help me, Maddie. Dad sent me here to find someone to replace Eliana. At least that's his story and he's sticking to it."

"Ah," she said. "I'm sure there's a story in there somewhere." She sighed. "Eliana. G.o.d rest her soul." Then she paused before adding, "A replacement in what way?"

"Um . . . in the cleaning way," I answered. "Dad told me she was still keeping up with the house . . . but not since she died." I laughed at my statement. "Of course, not since she died." I leaned forward. "If you don't mind my asking, why didn't Eliana keep watch for visitors?"

Maddie leaned back and crossed her legs. She wore knee-cap shorts. Again I noticed how dark and wrinkled her skin was. "I don't claim to know why your daddy asked me to do what he asked me to do. I just did it. But, on the other point, here's what I'd do if I were you," she stated. "I'd post something down at the market. You know, a flyer with your phone number written several times across the bottom so that people can tear them off and call you."

"That sounds like a good idea," I said. "I have to go to the market later anyway for milk and things like that." I pulled my hair over one shoulder. "So then, I take it you don't know anyone off the top of your head."

"No," she said. She remained quiet for a moment, then added, "I suppose you know that her daughter Rosa works down at the realty office."

"I didn't know that, no," I said. "But I was hoping to get to see her."

Maddie's lip thinned. "Well," she said.

I wasn't sure where the conversation was heading. I said, "It looks like it's pretty hot out there already."

"This summer has been just miserable so far," she said. "The humidity is thick enough to kill ya."

"Fortunately, I won't be here long enough to suffer under it."

"You're married, I take it," she said. "You said your last name was Tucker now."

I looked down at my left hand, naked of any rings whatsoever but still marked by the thick band I'd worn. "Divorced," I answered. "Two boys-Chase and Cody-who are with their father right now." The familiar knot formed in my throat.

"And the rest of the family?" She coughed out a throaty laugh. "Your stepmother is the nicest thing but pretty closemouthed, so I don't ask too often. But I'd love to know how the rest of you are doing."

I laced my fingers. "Fine. Doing very well. Jayme-Leigh and Dad have a pediatric practice together. I'm sure Jayme-Leigh will have the whole thing soon enough."

"It's about time your daddy stopped working so hard. I tell him every time I see him, I say, 'Ross Claybourne, why don't you and Anise quit all this working all the time, sell the house in Orlando, and move to Cedar Key.'" She laughed again. "He always blames it on Anise, saying that she wouldn't want to sell her flower shop."

"No, I don't imagine she would."

"How about the rest of you?"

"Heather is married. Three kids. Ami is a member of the Atlanta Ballet Company."

"I remember how proud your mama was of her. Of her dancing."

"Yes."

Then she pointed a bony finger, its nail painted in shimmery fuchsia. "But you," she said. "She was especially proud of you."

"Me?" I laid my hand against my chest. "Why was she proud of me?"

Maddie laughed one more time. "Goodness, what wasn't she proud of. You played piano, you were a cheerleader, you were homecoming queen, your all-A grades, your photography . . . the list goes on and on."

Mom was proud of me. I looked around the room, my eyes resting momentarily on each piece of her framed work. "Mom's photography was the best, though," I said.

"Your mother told me one time, she said, 'Maddie, Kim is going to go far with her photography. She's got the eye for it.'" When I didn't answer, she added, "So, what are you doing with it?"

I shook my head. "I'm teaching full-time now. The boys, church, different things like that. I'm afraid I just don't have a lot of time . . ."

With that Maddie pushed herself forward. "Well, now, that's a real shame," she said.

After Maddie left, I made coffee, fed Max, then took a shower. I dressed in a simple pair of plaid bermudas with a matching red-wine tee. I slathered my skin with sunscreen, put on a little mascara and lip gloss, then slipped my feet into a pair of white sandals. Max was sleeping on the cotton rug in the guest bedroom so I was able to leave unnoticed and without guilt.

Little about downtown Cedar Key had changed since my last visit. Or, for that matter, since my childhood. Perhaps a shop here and there, but it was still the island time forgot and I had not.

Years ago my father purchased a book by John Muir, a man who, in the late 1800s, walked a thousand miles from his home in Indianapolis to the Gulf of Mexico. Quite a bit of his time had been spent in Cedar Key. Dad read his copy of the book until the pages fell from the binding and insisted we girls do the same. Afterward, he asked me, "Well, Boo. What did you learn?"

Wanting to make Dad proud, I stood as if I were about to give a book report crucial for an A and said, "I think that when we push ourselves to do something like walk a thousand miles, we find more than just people and towns and plants and water."

Dad's expression showed just how pleased I'd made him. "And what would that be, Boo?"

"I think we find ourselves . . ."

Now, with the car parked on 2nd Street, I stood staring at the crossroads of my past and present. And something that felt like my future, though I couldn't imagine how that might be.

My stomach rumbled; I realized I'd not eaten breakfast. Hot as it was-and it was sticky hot-I walked to a small diner, Cook's Cafe. There was nothing fancy about it, but it was air-conditioned and offered the aroma and presence of bacon and eggs and pancakes.

After breakfast I walked the block to Dock Street. In the marina, boats rested from their labor. In the Gulf beyond Dock Street, a few of their brothers and sisters were already hard at work or play. Tourists and locals milled in and out of the shops and cafes, chatting casually. Some rode around in rented golf carts.

As it had always been, nothing about Cedar Key conveyed effort-not even work, hard as it might be. To my left, water lapped lazily against the sh.o.r.eline and the cement breakers. Gulls cawed as if to demand everyone stop what they were doing just to listen. The sun-nearly straight up-beat down as though it were on a mission.

I spotted a bench shaded by a shiny tin roof where A Street curved at the harbor. Wanting time to just sit and absorb, I walked past the tour boat docks-all three of them-and forced myself not to look at the one owned by Steven's father. Too many memories . . . most of them good.

Too good.

Each one leaving me remarkably sad and unsatisfied. How was it, I wondered, that the moments of our youth could affect the emotions of our adulthood?

When I made it to the bench, I sat and stared straight ahead. It was easy to do, to sit and watch the water. The boats. The couple leaning against the metal barrier between the sidewalk and the Gulf below. Too easy to pretend it was me, as it had once been. One half of a whole.

Past the couple and the edge of a restaurant that jutted out over the water, I spied the tip of Atsena Otie Key, the island that had been the original Cedar Key. I remembered the old history lessons Steven had given me, of how Atsena Otie-p.r.o.nounced without the t in Atsena-had played its role in the Civil War and how the Eberhard Faber Pencil Company had built a lumber mill there in the late 1800s.

"Thirty years later," Steven said as we sat upon one of its beaches, "a ten-foot tidal wave hit the island and the mill was destroyed. Only a few houses survived enough to live in or repair, and those were floated over to 1st Street on Cedar Key." He pointed; I followed the long tan arm and callused hand and tender finger to the land on the other side of the water.

Just the night before, that very same arm had slipped around my shoulders, had drawn me close to its owner, and its owner had pressed his lips-soft and sweet-on mine. The kiss had intensified and, as is often the case with teenagers, had left us both frustrated and wanting so much more.

In my seventeen years, it had been my first such experience. Sitting there next to Steven, I only knew that I didn't want it to be my last.

9.

Revving motorcycles and voices caused me to look over my left shoulder. Two un-helmeted bikers leaned into the curve, then drove past me. I followed them with my eyes, then looked over my shoulder once more. There were people standing near one of the docks, talking about their upcoming tour, wondering when the guide was going to arrive.

"We reserved for 11:00," a woman in the small group said.

"Then he should be here any minute."

I smiled, then looked back toward Atsena Otie. Here these people were, in a hurry to take a relaxing boat tour. No sooner thought than I heard a boat's motor. I looked again to see a boat with "Granger Tours" painted in dark green on the side. A man sat near the back, in the shade of the covering, navigating.

It wasn't Mr. Granger.

I lowered my eyes and wondered if Mr. Granger-a man my father's age-might have pa.s.sed away. Perhaps someone had taken the business over, had kept it going. I stood, turning back to where I'd left my car on 2nd Street, which forced me to walk past the dock where the man welcomed the group on board. I squinted behind my shades, trying to make out who the man might be, but he wasn't even vaguely familiar.

Most likely a teenager Mr. Granger had trained to do the work Steven had done so many years ago . . . before he'd left for college.

Past the docks and the marina, I looked back a final time. While the group had all managed to get settled in the boat, the man remained standing on the dock. He looked at me then raised his hand in a friendly h.e.l.lo, and I returned it.

I continued to my car, feeling alive. This is Cedar Key, I thought. Casual, hot, and-above all-friendly.

I'd almost forgotten.

Max was more than a little happy to see me when I returned to the house. We played outside for a while, then returned inside, where I made the poster to take to the market. That done, I asked Max if he wanted to take a ride. He a.s.sured me he did.

The market stood on the corners of 3rd and D Streets. The small warehouse's blue facade front had double doors held wide open, three newspaper stands on their left, and a c.o.ke machine plus two ice freezers on the right. A large window over the newspaper stands was plastered with various colorful advertis.e.m.e.nts; the side of the building boasted a mural of life on Cedar Key when Indians alone had lived here. On both sides was a variety of golf carts, cars, and bicycles.

I left Max in the car with the windows half down. "Stay put," I told him. He barked in obedience.

Inside, Maddie stood at the cash register. "Oh, you brought it, did you?" she asked, spying the white between my finger and thumb.

I held it a little higher and smiled. She walked to a bulletin board near the front door filled with other such papers, coupons, and a few old high school announcements held by tacks. Maddie popped several of them away with her thumbnail. The old papers floated to the floor and landed about her feet. I bent down to retrieve them as she said, "Hand me your flyer, Kimberly."

I did.

"There you go," Maddie said. "You'll be getting calls in no time."

"I hope so," I said.

"Meanwhile, if you need someone to give the place a good cleaning, I know someone who might do that."

I felt myself brighten. "You do?" If Maddie knew someone, I'd be home in a couple of days.

"One time only, though," she said as if she'd read my thoughts.

"Oh."

"But she might know someone . . ."