Meet Me in the Keys
Aubrey Wagner had never seen water so blue. The sun-drenched ribbons of turquoise and emerald flashed between the mangroves as her car followed the Overseas Highway into Islamorada. The air was thick with salt and sun. But there was something else she hadn’t felt in a long time—possibility.
She rolled down the window despite the heat, letting the ocean breeze whip strands of her brown hair loose from the clip at the nape of her neck. Outside, it smelled like seaweed, sunblock, and somewhere, a hint of fish on the grill—like vacation. Like escape.
She hadn’t realized how badly she needed this until she was halfway through the Everglades.
Now, with the Atlantic glinting to her left and the Gulf to her right, the reality was setting in.
She’d done it. Packed up her life in Raleigh and headed out for ten weeks, since first-grade teachers like herself were lucky enough to have their summers off.
She’d driven south to claim the little old cottage Uncle Richard had left her when he’d passed away last winter.
A place she hadn’t seen since she was a child, and even then, only once or twice when she and her parents had visited.
A place she barely remembered, except for the vague impression of fishing poles leaning against porch railings and a wrinkled man with a heart of gold who used to sneak her chocolate taffy before dinner.
Uncle Richard. The last of the old Florida fishermen, Mom had called him—though he’d laughed at that title every time.
He’d lived simply and stubbornly here in the Keys after his wife, her mother’s much-older sister, had passed away ten years ago.
And in the end, he’d left everything he had to Aubrey.
Not that they’d been close. She’d barely seen him in decades, and she hadn’t been to the Keys since she was ten. But maybe he’d left it to her because she was the only one of his four nieces and nephews who’d kept in touch with a Christmas card and a birthday card every year.
Or maybe because he’d known—somehow—that she would need it.
She’d nearly turned the cottage down. What was she going to do with an old place that probably needed fixing up, even if it was in the middle of paradise?
She hadn’t had the time, and frankly, the energy to deal with it.
Starting over in Raleigh after the divorce had been a lifeline but had also been difficult.
Then she'd heard, just as the school year was ending—through the grapevine—that her ex-husband and the much younger woman he’d left her for two years ago were getting married.
A beautiful summer wedding was planned. An outdoor ceremony in Chapel Hill, where Jordan still taught.
A long guest list, apparently. As if he hadn’t done the same thing with her only eight years ago.
The plastic bottle in her hand nearly slipped from her grip. She felt her pulse increase.
Aubrey inhaled the salty air blowing through the open window again, then took a long drink, the iced tea sweating against her palm.
She’d picked it up at a tiny local market near the marina—blue awning, rusted tin fish hanging on the wall, the kind of place that sold bait next to bananas.
The man behind the counter had smiled widely with a greeting.
“Welcome to paradise, sweetheart.” He’d sounded like he meant it.
And as far as she could tell, he had that right.
Even now, she was passing more evidence of it.
The little boats bobbing in the harbor, the cats stretched lazily across porches, the bursts of pink bougainvillea climbing up mailboxes and gates, the flat, short stretches of white sand she’d peeped at through the mangroves.
No one knew her name or her story here, either. She could start fresh, the way she had in Raleigh. Only this was just for summer. And she was just a woman in a dusty Corolla with a suitcase in the back and a paper bag of snacks in the seat beside her.
It suddenly felt like the best idea she’d had in years.
Aubrey slowed as she turned onto Mango Court, a short street shaded by crooked palms and live oaks, where every mailbox was personalized and the houses were painted in cheerful shades of mint or coral, their shutters wide open to the breeze.
Yes, she vaguely remembered this place. Only the trees had seemed much smaller the last time she’d been here, but that was twenty-four years ago.
At the end of the road, nestled between a weathered picket fence and a stubborn hibiscus bush, sat a low-slung house with sun-faded blue siding and a rust-streaked tin roof.
Her uncle’s cottage.
Her inheritance.
Her supposed fresh start.
Aubrey pulled into the narrow crushed-shell driveway, her tires crunching beneath her, and stared through the windshield.
The front porch was half-sunk, the screen door hung crooked, and a broken wind chime clinked hollowly in the breeze.
The grass was patchy in some places and overgrown in others.
One shutter was missing. A lizard darted across the porch railing like it was fleeing the scene of a crime.
Oh. No.
This wasn’t a tropical haven. It was a rehab project dressed up in a Hawaiian shirt.
Her stomach sank. What had she done?
Aubrey cut the engine and sat in silence for a moment. The cicadas buzzed in the heat. A rooster crowed in the distance, unapologetically off-schedule. She could smell salt and damp wood and the faint scent of mildew, even from the car.
The weight of it all settled on her chest once more.
Her crumbled marriage. The way it had blindsided her.
How she'd wasted her twenties and early thirties in a relationship with a man who, it turned out, had fallen in love with someone else six months before he’d told her.
How she’d tried to have children for years with him but had failed.
How she hadn’t become a mother. Something she wanted so much it brought tears to her eyes whenever she allowed herself to think about it.
But thank goodness she and Jordan hadn’t had kids, of course. Who wanted to bring children into a broken marriage?
Regardless, she'd scraped herself together, gone through the motions, and kept her head down while everyone else had moved on. But lately, it seemed like she might just quietly fade into the background of her own life if she didn’t do something about it.
And it wasn’t in her bones not to do something about it.
This trip, this cottage, this summer…that’s what this was for. It could change things.
If she kept her thoughts positive.
But looking at the state of the place now, her usual glass-half-full outlook might be harder to hang onto than she’d guessed. A heavy sigh escaped her.
She inhaled. No.
It was just a house that needed work. Not an impossible task. And no, she wasn’t very handy with a hammer and nails, but she could learn. She could handle this. Because she’d never been a quitter, and she wasn’t about to start now.
Still gripping her iced tea, Aubrey threw back a generous swig, then opened the car door and stepped out into the sweltering heat. Sweat bloomed on the back of her neck. Her sandals crunched on the shells as she walked around to the porch steps.
“Well,” she murmured, squinting up at the blistered roofline. “You’re not much to look at, are you?”
The house said nothing. A palm frond creaked above her head.
She ascended the stairs, one of them groaning under her weight, all five-foot-seven-inches of her.
Somewhere beneath the peeling paint, she could feel it: something good. Solid. Waiting.
Maybe, just like her, the house wasn’t washed up. Maybe it was just…unfinished. Just like her.
She took a deep breath, squared her shoulders, and reached for the screen door.
It stuck.
Of course, it did.
She pulled harder until it swung open, then dug into her purse for the key that the probate attorney had sent first class.
Jake McLean wiped the sweat from his brow and stepped back to admire the trim work he'd just finished around the hurricane-rated windows.
“Solid,” he muttered, more to himself than anyone else.
The building—an old conch-style bakery near the main drag—had been long overdue for upgrades, and now, it was nearly storm-proofed from top to bottom.
Reinforced shutters. Elevated foundation tweaks.
Impact glass. If another hurricane came tearing through Islamorada—and they always did—this place had a fighting chance.
He liked that. Building something that held up when it was tested. Held strong.
A gust of sea-salted breeze kicked up sawdust from the sidewalk, and Jake tucked his hammer into the worn leather loop on his tool belt.
The air was thick with the scent of baked bread from inside and the sharp tang of fresh-cut pine.
Sweat clung to his back like a second shirt, but he didn’t mind.
All in a day’s work. Work that meant something.
He poked his head inside and told them he was finished and he was leaving.
“See you, Jake, but wait,” called the owner from across the counter, an older woman with a rounded middle and a quick tongue. She hurried out to hand him a chocolate chip cookie. “The check’s in the mail.”
“I’ll bet it is, Linda,” said Jake, laughing as he accepted the oversized cookie, then taking a generous bite of the soft, perfectly baked pastry. The woman knew exactly how he liked his cookies, and she wasn’t afraid to spoil him.
He waved as he stepped outside. “C’mon, Chief,” he called as he walked toward the old gray pickup parked under a swaying palm.
Chief—part retriever, part something scrappier—leapt up when he opened the door, then scrambled across the bench seat and popped his golden head out the open window, ears perked, tongue lolling, ready for a ride.
Jake eyed the dog. “Yeah, I know. You’ve waited long enough.” With another bite of the cookie, Jake climbed into the driver’s seat.
The leather was sun-cracked and warm, but it didn’t bother him. He just started up the engine, opened his own window, and headed toward the beach.
They always stopped there at the end of the day. Just the two of them. A stretch of white sand and calm blue water near the quieter end of the island, where tourists rarely wandered and the locals let their dogs run off leash.
Jake pulled in beside a leaning sea grape tree, cut the engine, and let the sounds of the ocean take over—gulls crying, surf lapping, palms whispering like the island was catching its breath.
Chief took off like a rocket the second his paws hit the sand, barking at the gulls, tail flying like a banner. Jake grabbed a weathered stick from the truck bed and followed at a slower pace, his boots sinking slightly with each step.
He threw the stick once, twice, again—watching his dog race through the surf like joy itself had taken shape.
And then the quiet hit.
That stillness that always settled when the sun began to sink low over the Gulf, gilding everything in gold and shadow. The kind of moment that made you feel like you should be sharing it with someone. Like it meant more that way.
Jake squatted in the sand, arms resting on his knees, and watched Chief shake saltwater from his coat. The breeze tugged at his shirt.
He’d chosen this life. The work, the quiet, the island.
He didn’t regret it. Not really.
But sometimes…
A couple passed nearby—holding hands, barefoot, sharing a colorful, iced drink with a straw and a lid. She laughed at something he said, and the sound floated down the beach like music.
Jake looked away.
This was the life he’d built. It wasn’t perfect, but it was good. He’d rebuilt homes after storms, reinforced schools, helped neighbors gut flooded kitchens and rehang cabinets. And he was proud of that.
Still. There were nights—and evenings like this—when the silence said more than it should. Would he ever replace what he’d lost when he’d lost his girlfriend all those years ago?
He threw the stick again, farther this time. Chief barreled after it, happy as ever.
Jake’s gaze wandered toward the horizon, where the sun spilled fire into the water. Somewhere out there, Kara was living a different life. A safer one. One that didn’t include long hurricane seasons and early warnings and waiting to see if the roof would hold.
She hadn’t wanted this.
She’d said she couldn’t watch him put himself in danger anymore. Said he chose the storms over her, every time. And she wasn’t wrong.
During the last big one, when evacuations hadn’t been mandated—only strongly advised—he’d decided to stay and help out his neighbors, the town, the other Keys.
Wherever he could. Because he couldn’t just leave and let them all fend for themselves, not when he was able-bodied and skilled at this kind of thing.
But he’d come home to find her suitcase gone and her house key on the table. I’m leaving, the note had said. No goodbye. Just her signature.
Jake had never seen her again.
Three years later, and he still didn’t blame her. Not really. But something in him had changed after that. Hardened. Like wood that’d weathered too many storms.
Chief dropped the stick at his feet, tail sweeping the sand.
Jake smiled faintly, ruffling the dog’s damp ears as he bent down to pick it up. “Good boy. Time to head out, buddy. Couple more stops to make.”
He stood, brushed the sand off his jeans, and looked back toward the road.
Tomorrow, he had another job. Another set of shutters. Another neighbor to help before the next storm season rolled through.
And that would have to be enough.