Key West Promises (Seaside Palms #1)

Chapter 11

CHAPTER 11

T ess wiped down the bar at Margarita Max's, her movements automatic as her mind wandered back to the new revelations about Gretchen.

The familiar rhythm of Open Mic performances at dinnertime was a welcome distraction and easier to appreciate than the Wannabe Wednesday night karaoke that would begin a few hours later. The gentle clink of glasses, quiet conversations, and none of the tourist chaos that usually filled the place was a welcome change.

"We have to tell Chelsea," Leah murmured, refilling the salt rim tray beside her. A group of regulars waved from their usual corner table, and she acknowledged them with a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "She deserves to know what Gretchen's been hiding. They live ten minutes apart on Captiva now."

"One family crisis at a time," Tess replied softly, mixing a mojito for one of their regulars—an older woman who wrote mystery novels and always tipped in cash with a note about which character she'd named after her bartender that week. "Let's figure out how to handle Kaitlyn first."

She broke off as movement near the small stage caught her attention. A man was settling onto the stool, guitar in hand. Tess found herself pausing in her work, drawn to something in his presence.

He looked to be in his forties, his dark brown hair just starting to silver at the edges, wearing a faded button-down with rolled sleeves that somehow made him look perfectly at home. His fingers moved over the guitar strings with the kind of familiarity that spoke of years of practice.

"Who's that?" Tess asked, unable to look away as he began tuning his guitar. The way his hands moved over the instrument made her think of stories waiting to be told.

Leah followed her gaze, then smiled slightly, the first real smile Tess had seen from her since Kaitlyn's confession. "Jameson Carter. Jamie. Connie said he used to be a regular performer here until…" She hesitated, lowering her voice. "Until his wife passed. He owns the restaurant Harbor Lights, that seafood place on Whitehead."

"The good one with the key lime pie I love?" Tess asked, remembering one of their failed attempts to network with local restaurants. Their 'Island Catering' business cards were still stuffed in a drawer somewhere, another dream that hadn't quite found its footing.

"That's the one. This is the first I’ve heard him play." Leah's expression turned thoughtful. "Connie says he used to write his own music. Love songs mostly. But after Emma—his wife—died ten years ago, he just…stopped. Packed away his guitar and focused on the restaurant."

"Ten years is a long time to stay silent," Tess mused, watching as he adjusted the microphone.

"It certainly is sad," Leah replied.

Before Tess could respond, Jamie's voice filled the bar, deep and rich as he addressed the crowd. "All right, folks. It's been a while, so go easy on me."

The regulars responded with warm encouragement—these weren't the usual tourist crowds looking for Jimmy Buffett covers. These were the people who remembered him from before, who had watched his story unfold over years of Wednesday nights. Some even put down their phones, giving him their full attention—a rare sight in any bar these days.

Then he began to play, and Tess felt something shift in her body as his voice wrapped around the bluesy melody. It wasn't just skill—though he had plenty of that. It was emotion, raw and real, the kind that made you feel less alone with your own complicated feelings. She recognized the song—an old Tom Waits number about love and loss and finding your way home.

"Speaking of time healing all wounds," Leah said quietly, but Tess barely heard her. She was caught in the way Jamie lost himself in the music, in how his fingers moved over the strings like they were having a conversation only he could hear. There was something about a man willing to be vulnerable in public that made her breath catch.

When the song ended, the applause was genuine and warm. Jamie acknowledged it with a small, almost shy smile that made something flutter in Tess's stomach. He followed it with two more songs—one she recognized from the radio, and another she suspected was original, though he didn't introduce it as such.

"You're staring," Leah murmured, amusement temporarily replacing her worry about their family drama. "Like you used to stare at that street musician in Faneuil Hall Marketplace."

"I am not," Tess protested, but then Jamie was making his way to the bar, guitar still slung over his shoulder, and all her clever responses deserted her. He moved with an easy grace that spoke of someone comfortable in their own skin, even if that comfort had been hard-won.

"Whiskey?" he asked, his smile hitting her like a physical thing. Up close, she could see the laugh lines around his eyes, the way his hands still moved like they were keeping time to some internal rhythm.

"On the house," she managed, pouring him a glass. The good stuff—not the well whiskey they served to tourists. "That was…you're incredible."

His smile deepened, reaching his eyes. "Thanks. Wasn't sure I still had it. Been a while since I've played for anyone but my empty kitchen."

"Trust me, you do." She found herself leaning slightly closer, drawn in by the warmth in his voice. "So what made you decide to play again?"

Jamie traced the rim of his glass, thoughtful. The gesture reminded her of the way Kaitlyn had held her coffee mug the day before, both of them carrying weights they weren't quite ready to set down.

"Honestly? Something about tonight just felt right. Like maybe it was time to stop living in the past."

The words hit close to home, making her think of Kaitlyn, of Gretchen, of all the ways the past could hold you hostage if you let it.

"I get that," she said softly, meaning it more than he could know.

He met her gaze, something warming in his expression. "So what's your story? You don't seem like the usual Max's bartender."

Tess laughed, the sound surprising her with its genuineness after the tension of the past day. "That obvious?"

"Just a little. Most bartenders I’ve dealt with don't look at their customers like they're trying to write their stories in their heads."

She hesitated, then offered him a version of the truth. "My sister and I moved here thinking we had it all figured out. Turns out life has other plans sometimes." She gestured at the bar around them. "Though lately I'm starting to think maybe the plans find you, rather than the other way around."

"Best laid plans…" Jamie nodded, understanding in his eyes. "Sometimes you have to let go and see where the music takes you. Everything I thought I had figured out ten years ago…" He shrugged, but there was peace in the gesture rather than resignation. "Life has its own rhythm."

"Says the man who hasn't played in a decade," she teased, surprising herself with her boldness.

He chuckled, the sound doing interesting things to her pulse. "Touché. Maybe we're both due for some new material. Although, to be fair, I started back up playing guitar several years ago, just not in public."

As if on cue, Leah's phone buzzed.

“It’s Kaitlyn,” Leah said. “Just checking on us to see if we’re all right.”

“That’s sweet,” Tess said, the weight of family obligations reminding her of their difficulties. For just a moment, looking into Jamie Carter's warm eyes, Tess felt like maybe there was room for more than one kind of healing in Key West.

"You should play again next week," she found herself saying. "The regulars would love it." She paused, then added more softly, "I would too."

His smile turned contemplative, a spark of something like hope in his eyes. "Maybe I will. Especially if the audience is this appreciative."

The way he looked at her made it clear he wasn't talking about the whole crowd, and Tess felt warmth spread through her body.

Maybe Leah was right—sometimes time was all you needed to find your way back to the music. Or maybe sometimes you just needed someone to remind you how to listen for it.

Leah, Tess and Kaitlyn went about the next two days feeling numb and unwilling to talk about what Gretchen had done. It wasn’t that they didn’t want to talk about it further, but rather, just as Kaitlyn had told her mother, they each needed time to process.

Tess was feeding Ernest leftover corn kernels when leah walked into the room.

“Did Kaitlyn go to the shelter?” Leah asked.

Tess shook her head. “Nope. She said she was going to take some quiet time at the beach. I think it will do her a lot of good. I think she finally realized how stressed she is.”

Leah nodded. “She’s wound so tight, I’m afraid she’s going to do something drastic.”

“Drastic?” Tess asked.

Leah sighed. “I’m as angry at Gretchen as Kaitlyn is, but I don’t want to sever my relationship with my sister because of it. Kaitlyn needs her mother, and heaven help us, we’re going to have to help her realize that.”

Tess nodded. “I feel the same way. Sooner or later, though, we’re all going to have to confront Gretchen, and I can’t wait to hear what Chelsea is going to say about all this. She’ll be furious.”

Leah laughed. “It won’t be the first time our oldest sister has been angry at Gretchen.”

“Or us, for that matter,” Tess added.

“Well, for now, let’s let tempers cool. I’m headed to the shelter. I need to talk to Elena about something I’ve been thinking about,” Leah said.

“Ciao!” Tess responded.

Leah found Elena in her office, surrounded by stacks of paperwork. Through the open door, they could hear children's laughter from the backyard, punctuated by the occasional adult voice giving gentle direction. A half-drunk cup of coffee sat forgotten among the papers, probably cold by now.

The walls of Elena's office told their own story—photos of successful transitions, thank-you notes written in careful handwriting, children's artwork preserved in dollar-store frames. A bulletin board overflowed with community flyers, business cards, and what looked like a carefully maintained calendar of appointments and deadlines.

"Do you have a minute?" Leah asked, noting how Elena's desk calendar was covered in scribbled notes and reminders. Red marks in several squares caught her attention—probably bills coming due.

"For you? Always." Elena gestured to the chair across from her desk, pushing aside a stack of donation receipts to create eye contact. "Kaitlyn's been telling me about your business background. Says you're some kind of financial wizard."

"I was hoping to talk to you about that, actually." Leah settled into the chair, trying not to disturb the precarious paper piles. "I've been looking at your website, the programs you offer. You're doing amazing work here, Elena."

"But?" Elena's smile was knowing. She'd clearly heard praise followed by suggestions before.

"But I noticed something. Have you ever considered applying for grants?"

Elena's pen stilled. She set it down carefully, like she was buying time to form her response. "Of course. But running this place…" She gestured at the paperwork surrounding her. A report had slipped partially off the desk—Leah caught the words "monthly expenses" before Elena tucked it away. "There's barely time to keep up with daily operations, let alone learn grant writing. And hiring a professional grant writer?" She shook her head. "That's a luxury we can't afford."

"But you have connections all over Key West," Leah pressed, thinking of how many local business owners seemed to know and respect Elena. "Surely someone?—"

"Could help?" Elena's smile held a touch of weariness. "Yes. But asking for help means admitting how precarious our funding is. That could scare away donors, make residents worry about our stability." She met Leah's eyes. "Most of these women have already lost everything once. I can't risk them thinking they might lose this place too."

Understanding dawned. "So you've been handling it all yourself."

"Doing my best." Elena picked up her pen again, twirling it between her fingers. "Monthly donations keep us afloat, but barely. Every time a new family arrives, I wonder if we'll have enough. And now with the sunset cruise fundraiser…" She trailed off, glancing at a budget sheet that seemed to mock her from the corner of her desk.

A child's laughter floated in from outside, followed by what sounded like Carla reading a story. The sounds of life continuing, of healing happening, despite the financial strain evident in this room.

"Let me help," Leah said. The words came naturally, surprising her with their certainty. "I've written countless proposals in the corporate world. Grants can't be that different."

"They're very different," Elena warned, but something in her posture had shifted—a slight relaxing of her shoulders, perhaps. "More complicated in some ways, simpler in others. And the competition for funding is fierce. You're not just selling a product or service—you're asking someone to believe in possibility."

"Then I'll learn." Leah straightened in her chair, feeling that familiar spark she used to get before tackling a new project. "I'll need to brush up on current practices, but–"

"Check out The Lost Anchor, over on Fleming. The owner's an old friend—used to be an investigative journalist before…" She paused, something flickering across her face. "Well, that's his story to tell. But if anyone can help you navigate the world of grant writing, it's Jack Calloway."

Something in Elena's tone made Leah look at her sharply, but Elena was already turning to her filing cabinet, the moment lost.

"Here's our financial history for the past five years. Not pretty, but honest. And this–" She pulled out another folder, this one newer. "Research I started on potential grants before reality got in the way. I'd love to know what you think about the sustainability angle. Several foundations are focusing on that now."

She handed both folders to Leah, then hesitated. "There's something else you should know. We're not just struggling—we're approaching a crossroads. The building needs repairs, our programs need updating, and the demand for our services keeps growing. If we can't find sustainable funding soon…"

"You won't have to close," Leah said firmly. "We won't let that happen."

"We?" Elena's eyebrow rose slightly.

"Yes, we. You're not alone in this anymore." Leah stood, clutching the folders like a lifeline. "I may not know much about grant writing yet, but I know about building cases for support. And Paradise Harbor House? This place sells itself. We just need to tell its story the right way."

"About that storytelling," Elena said, a slight smile playing at her lips. "Jack's actually been working on a book about Key West's hidden communities. He has a way of seeing beyond surface appearances, finding the heart of things." She paused meaningfully. "Rather like someone else I'm getting to know."

"Elena…" Leah started, recognizing matchmaking when she saw it.

"What? I'm just suggesting a valuable resource." Elena's innocent look wasn't fooling anyone. "And Leah? Thank you. Not many people see beyond the surface here."

"I'm learning to look deeper," Leah said softly, thinking of Kaitlyn, of Carla, of all the stories Paradise Harbor House held. Her fingers traced the edge of the folders, feeling the weight of responsibility they represented.

As she left Elena's office, Leah heard the sound of small feet running past, followed by Carla's gentle reminder about indoor voices. A volunteer was teaching someone how to use the computer in the common room, their heads bent together over the keyboard. In the kitchen, someone was baking cookies, the warm smell wrapping around her like a promise.

This place was worth fighting for. And if that meant learning a whole new skill set, spending hours in a bookstore with a former journalist…well, there were worse fates. She smiled, tucking the folders into her bag as she headed toward Fleming Street, toward The Lost Anchor, toward whatever story was waiting to begin.