Chapter 3 #2
“I’m Connie. Sorry to hear she’s passed. I knew your grandmother a little.”
“Thank you. Leah said you might have.”
“I didn’t know her well, mind you. She used to come in on weekend visits from Miami. Sat at that corner table over there.” Connie tipped her head toward a two-top by the window. Ordered a French dip and a glass of red wine. It was the same every time. Nice woman. Quiet. Kind eyes.”
Emma put her glass down. “You remember what she ordered?”
Connie smiled. “It’s something I’m proud of. I remember what the regulars’ orders.”
“Thank you for telling me.”
“Hadn’t seen her in a while, though. Four years, maybe.
Something like that. Before she stopped coming she’d bring a fellow with her.
Older gentleman, well spoken. He’d read to her right there at the table.
Books, out loud, in a quiet voice. Not many men do that.
She was well cared for, in case you were wondering. ”
None of what Connie said was anything Emma had expected. She’d had phone calls with her grandmother but not once had she ever mentioned there was a man in her life.
“I had wondered that, actually so thank you for telling me,” she said.
Connie nodded, “You’re staying in town a while?”
“A few days, maybe longer.”
“Then you’ll be back in.”
“Count on it.”
Connie picked up her bar towel and moved back down the counter.
Tess pushed back through the swinging door with a plate of fritters and a small, tossed salad. She set them in front of Emma. “Ketchup, tartar, or key lime aioli? I know it’s a trick question so here’s all three.” She set down three little cups.
“Thank you.”
Emma ate slowly, enjoying every bite. The fritters were as good as advertised.
She hadn’t felt taken care of by strangers before and was surprised to find she didn’t know how to react to all the attention.
When she was most of the way through her food, Tess drifted back over and leaned on the bar across from her.
“So,” Tess said, “tell me where you’re staying tonight.”
“I haven’t figured that out yet.”
“I thought so. Leah, we’re solving this. You want somewhere clean and pretty and not too far?”
“I do.”
“Winslow’s Bungalows, on Truman. Little conch cottages set around a garden with pools. Family-run feel even though it’s a proper inn. My friend Marisol works the desk on weeknights.” Tess was already reaching for her phone. “Do you want me to call?”
“I can find my own room.”
“I know.” Tess was already dialing.
Leah leaned an elbow on the bar and looked at Emma with something close to an apology. “She’s like this. It’s easier to let her.”
Emma opened her mouth to protest and closed it again. She’d spent years telling herself and anyone who’d listen that she didn’t need help. Today, she found she didn’t have the strength to fight it.
Tess spoke into her phone for less than two minutes. When she hung up, she slid a napkin toward Emma with a name written on it in blue ink.
“You’re set. Marisol has you down for the small bungalow, king bed, its own little patio. Ask for her by name when you get there. Straight down Truman, you can’t miss it.”
“Thank you. I appreciate it.”
“You’ll come back and see us? That’s the deal.”
“I can manage that.”
Emma reached for her wallet. Tess held up a hand.
“The fritters are on the house.”
“Tess.”
“You’re family now. Connie remembered your grandmother. That’s enough for us.”
Emma set her card down anyway, and Leah reached over and pushed it back to her.
“Next time,” Leah said, “We’ll charge you double.”
Winslow's Bungalows sat behind a tall white wall on Truman Avenue, hidden from the street by a curtain of bougainvillea. Emma pulled into the small lot, retrieved her one suitcase from the trunk, and walked through the arched entrance.
The property opened up in front of her like a garden. Winding brick paths ran between clusters of small conch-style cottages painted in the pale yellows and soft whites of the local architecture. There were three pools tucked among the greenery with a soft breeze rustling through the palm trees.
The front desk was in the main house, and the young woman behind it looked up and smiled when Emma came in.
“You must be Emma. I’m Marisol. Tess called about you. She said to take extra good care of you and I plan to.”
“Thank you so much.”
Marisol tapped through a quick check-in, took a copy of Emma’s credit card, and handed her a small key on a wooden fob shaped like a palm leaf.
“Bungalow Four, straight down the path, past the middle pool and it’s on your left. It’s the yellow one. We have a continental breakfast which starts at seven, and there’s coffee and water in the main house any time. If you need anything at all, you come find me.”
“Will do, thank you.”
“Tess and Leah are good friends. It sounds as though they’ve adopted you. I’m not surprised at all. That’s the kind of thing they do, especially when there is someone who has never been to Key West before.”
“I know what you mean. I’ve been told I’m family now, and I’ve known them for less than two hours.”
Marisol laughed, “That sounds about right. Now, you go rest up, so you have energy to enjoy our little piece of heaven.”
Emma took her suitcase and walked down the path.
The bungalow was just what she needed. It was small, clean, painted a soft buttery yellow with white trim.
Inside was a king bed with a white coverlet, a small writing desk, an armchair, and a set of French doors that opened onto a little private patio with two chairs and a table under the fan of a palm frond.
She set her suitcase on the luggage rack, kicked off her heels, and stood barefoot on the cool tile.
The day had been the longest of her adult life, and almost nothing in it had gone the way she’d braced for.
She’d expected a ruin and found a cottage someone had regularly tended.
She'd expected to be the only person in Key West who cared what happened to it. Instead, she’d found a room full of strangers who cared, and had fed her for the sake of a woman they'd known only a little.
And Gloria, in all the years Emma hadn't been paying attention, had been sitting at a corner table with a man she never mentioned who read to her out loud.
She stepped out onto the patio.
The light had gone amber, the last of it filtering through the palm above her. Somewhere on the property a fountain ran. The bougainvillea against the wall was the same magenta as the bougainvillea on the porch at Twenty-Three Hibiscus Lane.
Emma sat in one of the patio chairs and let her shoulders relax. Tomorrow she would call Samantha Larson, find a lawyer, and go back to the cottage to tell Jake Kelleher the truth. Whatever this was going to become, tomorrow would be the start of it, and she was ready for whatever came her way.
Her grandmother had known this place. Gloria had walked these streets with a gentleman friend Emma had never heard of. At the end of her life, Gloria Kendrick had built a small warm quiet life that her son, Arthur, had never bothered to notice.
Emma tipped her head back and looked up through the palm.
“All right, Grandma,” she whispered. “I’m here. What do I do now?”