Chapter 5
Logan
At sunrise, Logan had given up on sleep and gone for a run on the beach. Even at such an early time it was almost too warm to enjoy the run, so he left his T-shirt at home and hit the sand barefoot wearing nothing but his running shorts. He was hoping the sun would tan his arms and chest that were normally hidden underneath button-up shirts.
He’d tried to outrun the look Lucy had given him last night. The one where she seemed disappointed in him. He knew he shouldn’t care. People always viewed him as the villain when he came to town, and it wasn’t as if she really knew him. And yet, he couldn’t get her out of his mind.
After returning to his cottage, he grabbed the last book Island Girl had left him off his counter and took it out on the porch with a cold glass of water. In response to the book he’d left on Fitzgerald’s time in Hollywood in the later years of his life, she’d given him a fictional tale about all the American writers and artists in Jazz Age Paris.
He slipped the index card out of the front pages and read it again.
Gatsby’s Ghost,
Since you seem to be interested in the Fitzgeralds, I wonder if you might also be interested in a fictional account of that period. I’ll admit a bit of a fascination with 1920s Paris. Okay, a bit of a fascination with Paris in general, although I’ve never been. It’s on my bucket list!
Enjoy,
Island Girl
He’d been in town for a few weeks now, but he’d mostly been hiding out in his cottage poring over the boxes of old budgets, leases, meeting minutes, and other paperwork the town had sent over. Then at night when he couldn’t stop running through potential redevelopment scenarios in his head, he’d read the latest book he’d found from Island Girl. He’d soon found himself ordering books he’d read previously online just so he could pass them along to her.
He’d enjoyed the books she’d left for him so far, but it wasn’t the authors’ prose that had kept his attention. It was the loopy handwritten notes in the margins. Whoever Island Girl was, the passages she’d marked, along with her notes to the side, revealed seemingly opposed personality traits. She was at times both a dreamer and a cynic. The combination of the mystery of her identity and her completely opposed outlooks was quickly becoming a drug he couldn’t get enough of. He instinctively felt as if Island Girl understood him.
The first passage she’d marked in the latest book showed her dreamer side.
“In that precious interval betwixt night and day, a space of enchantment unfolded, defying the constraints of mere hours—a mystical lavender expanse, suspended between worlds, where time dared to linger.”
In the margin she’d written:
This is how I feel every time I watch the sunrise.
He wiped sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand as he looked out at the water, the sun now well above the horizon. He’d never experienced hot like this before. Sure, it had been hot on some of his runs the past two years he’d been living and working in San Diego, but there hadn’t been this kind of humidity. It was as if someone had put a wet towel over his head and told him to try to breathe through it. Maybe the sunrise here felt more magical in the fall. He hoped he wouldn’t be here long enough to find out. The city couldn’t afford to hire him to stay on and manage the development—although they would need someone—so he was only here for however many weeks or months it took to come up with a profitable plan they could implement on their own.
He flipped to the next passage she’d underlined, this one markedly darker than the last:
“They went on, living their lives, forging ahead through blunders and missteps. Meanwhile, I found myself stalled in some indistinct moment, a prisoner of my own uncertainties, with no clear knowledge of the escape route.”
There was no note in the margin this time, which only made him more curious about her. Why did she feel stuck? Was she stuck in a marriage? A dead-end job?
He flipped to another underlined passage.
“Happiness, it seemed, might resemble an hourglass with its sands steadily dwindling, particles sliding and intermingling, much like thoughts in one’s mind.”
Her note in the margin asked a simple question:
Is happiness a state of mind?
For the next underlined passage, she’d simply drawn a heart with a jagged line down the middle.
“Regret’s sting lies in the halting of affection for that initial love, a sentiment once as unbridled as the open sea, now confined to the quiet depths of memory.”
Did it confirm his suspicion she was stuck in a loveless marriage? He knew all too well what it was like to realize your relationship was over. To admit you’d failed. It had been doubly hard for him since he’d demolished both his love life and his career at the same time.
After Logan had spent two years putting together the North Port project in San Diego, it had all fallen apart in the eleventh hour because he’d had the audacity to break up with Catherine Albright, the daughter of one of the wealthiest and most well-connected men in San Diego, Jack Albright. Jack had never even bothered to find out what had caused the breakup, but in less than forty-eight hours he’d convinced every anchor tenant in the North Port project to abandon it and with that the bond issue had failed. With no funding and no anchor tenants, the city decided to hit pause while it searched for a new consultant. One that could get the job done.
It was the second time in his career that his love life had gotten in the way of him closing a deal. He’d vowed it would be the last. The first had been early in his career, when he’d gotten so wrapped up in his budding relationship he’d missed the signs the deal was collapsing, but the second had been more egregious. A career-ending kind of failure. Business and pleasure should never be mixed.
The Heron Isle job hadn’t only been appealing because it was the first—and only—offer he’d finally landed after San Diego, but also because the mayor had joked with him about his romantic prospects here. He’d apologized for it being a terrible place for a single man like Logan because the local population was so small and most of those of marrying age were already coupled off and settled down. It had sounded perfect to Logan.
But now here he was, only a few weeks on the island, and not one, but two women were distracting him. First, what had started as a friendly note to a fellow Fitzgerald lover had turned into some sort of book-pen pal situation that was becoming increasingly personal and vulnerable. And then he’d met Lucy with her big brown puppy-dog eyes and her boundless enthusiasm for the historic building that had once been home to what were surely some traumatic dental procedures before the days of Novocain.
Maybe they were both married anyway. Except he hadn’t seen a ring on Lucy’s finger. He’d checked before his brain registered what he was doing. But she was the opposition, so that would keep her at arm’s length. And the woman in the Little Free Library? Well, he didn’t even know her name, and he certainly didn’t plan to be in town long enough to find out. She had good taste in books, but that was it. Okay, so she was also the embodiment of some bizarre dichotomy that made his brain work in overdrive, and he loved trying to put the puzzle together. But mostly he was reading to keep from wallowing at night and drinking more bourbon than he should. That was all.
Closing the book and standing to go back inside, Logan looked up the beach to the north and marveled at the wide, sandy expanse that seemed to go on forever. The other side of the dunes were dotted by one- and two-story beach houses that looked as if they’d been there for decades. Boardwalks snaked from nearly every house through extensive dune systems that separated the homes from the sand by a good fifty yards in most places.
Unlike many of the towns up and down Florida’s east coast, the incorporated portion of Heron Isle had restricted development to no more than twenty-five feet high, which had kept the island’s two resorts relegated to the small unincorporated north end of the island. Here they’d retained the quaint feel of a Florida beach town of yesteryear. He had to admit he’d never seen anything like it.
While there was a certain appeal to the nostalgia of it all, his practical side knew the town couldn’t go on like it had been. They had some serious infrastructure needs—from the boardwalk he’d walked down this morning that shifted under his weight to the failing air-conditioning at the elementary school he’d read about in the paper.
None of these problems were insurmountable. In fact, they could easily be solved if the town had some new revenue streams. That was why the job had appealed to him—it was exactly the quick win he needed. He’d find the new revenue streams, help the town hire someone to manage it all, and then he’d be off to somewhere bigger and better.
After showering and dressing, Logan headed straight for the coffee shop downtown to fuel up for a big day ahead. When he parked at the marina, he marveled again at the premium land the city owned—land that could easily be better monetized. In addition to the marina and the building on it that housed the Waterway Café, the town also owned all the land that extended one hundred yards in each direction from the marina along the water. It was a thin strip of land because of the port that had historically been run by the city, but it was still prime real estate.
Walking east from the marina into the historic downtown, he stopped to read more of the plaques attached to nearly every building, which reflected a surprisingly wide variety of architectural styles from Classic Revival to beaux arts with Italian and Spanish influences that made the town unique even among historic towns. He stopped to read the marker for the oldest surviving hotel in Florida, a two-story boarding-house-style accommodation that still operated on Main Street.
The Heron House was originally built as the first boarding house on Heron Isle. It has housed a variety of guests since it was built in 1855, including Union soldiers during the Civil War, famous visitors such as the Vanderbilts and Carnegies, three Presidential candidates and one sitting president, Ulysses S. Grant. It remains the oldest surviving hotel in Florida.
Aside from the quick win, the incredible history of Heron Isle had also attracted him to this job. Historic preservation had been his minor in college, and he’d always taken great care to preserve what he could in each city where he’d worked. He’d been delighted to learn the project wouldn’t involve the demolition or relocation of any historic buildings.
The Waterway Café was the only building on the chopping block, and it had no historic value. It was built by the city in the early nineties in an attempt to generate more revenue, but between the below-market lease the restaurant enjoyed as a result of a poorly written contract decades prior—that kept automatically renewing—and the upkeep required for a wooden building that sat right on the water, the entire venture had become a burden on the city.
Logan scowled as he thought again of how Lucy Sullivan had tried to demonize him in front of Mildred Banks and the others. He was used to locals who opposed his plans, but they didn’t usually look like Lucy. When he first met her, he’d loved how excited she got talking about the history of the old dentist’s building, her shoulder-length blonde curls bouncing with her movements. She’d been bubbly and cheerful, the kind of person who seemed to never have a bad day.
As it turned out, she had an entirely different side, and he imagined that was all he’d get to see now—the Lucy who thought he was a soulless outsider looking to destroy their precious town.
The coffee shop was empty when he arrived except for the woman behind the counter and Mayor Jenkins, who sat at a table by the window eating a pastry while he read the paper.
“Mayor.” Logan nodded as he entered. “You’re up and about early.”
“Please, you can call me George when we’re not on the clock.” He motioned for Logan to join him. “I sit here every morning to drink my coffee and catch up on the latest news. The residents all know they can find me here if they need to talk.” He folded his paper, giving Logan his attention. “Reminds them that I’m one of them, a local who’s lived here most of my life and drinks coffee and reads the paper just like they do.”
The waitress took Logan’s order for an iced coffee and hurried back behind the counter to get it.
“Did we make the headlines?” Logan asked. No doubt the top news in a small town like this would have to be the surprise announcement of his presence at the meeting last night.
The mayor chuckled. “Not yet. Our paper only comes out on Wednesdays and Fridays. Not enough news around here to support a daily.” He tapped a finger on the paper he’d folded neatly on the table. “This one’s the Jacksonville paper. They don’t really cover us, but it keeps me up to speed on what’s going on in northeast Florida.”
That gave Logan one more day before he could read what some local reporter would say about him and his intentions for Heron Isle.
“So how do you think it went?” Logan tested the waters, curious if the reception from the locals was what he’d expected.
“Well, I’m not sure you made any friends.” The mayor smiled as he rocked back in his chair and folded his hands over his robust middle. “But I didn’t think you would. Not yet anyway. You’re a charming fellow, though. I think you’ll have no problem winning them over in the end.”
Logan nodded, but wasn’t convinced charm would be enough. It had worked on Mildred, but Lucy certainly seemed immune.
“I ran into Lucy Sullivan—a couple times yesterday, actually,” he said. Her big brown eyes flashed before him. Clearing his throat to bring himself back to the present, he asked, “What’s her story?” Not that he cared. He was only asking for business reasons so he would know how best to get her on his side.
“Ahh, Lucy.” The mayor shook his head. “Means well, but she can be overly passionate sometimes. She’s a bona-fide local, born and raised here. Her daddy was from here too. I think she’s third or fourth generation. Poor thing. Her mother left when she was young. Just packed her bags one day and was gone.”
The mayor frowned. “Lucy always had her nose in a book after that. Annie over at the bookstore took her under her wing, and Lucy inherited the store when Annie passed. She fought like heck to save the public library, but the building was in such a state of disrepair it was a lost cause. There wasn’t any other space downtown big enough, so we had to shut it down. Lucy was devastated. She’s also fought this waterfront development tooth and nail.”
So she was a champion of lost causes? She probably had a house full of abandoned animals. Logan sipped his iced coffee as he pictured what Lucy’s house might look like. He imagined it was full of antiques, and she probably had a story that went along with each one. He saw himself walking through with her, watching the excitement in her eyes as she told him about each one. He was just picturing her curling up in a window seat surrounded by her knickknacks, a book in hand and her blonde hair falling in her face, when the mayor interrupted his thoughts.
“Have you seen the little library?” The mayor flicked his head toward the park across the street.
Logan nodded, not admitting just how well he’d been getting to know it.
“It was Lucy’s idea.” The mayor laughed. “The first one was small, like a dollhouse, but it was so popular she and Bob—he owns the hardware store—got permission to build the walk-in structure. They modeled it after a house that used to sit at the end of the town square. It burned down decades ago, but it’s the house we use for the town logo.”
Mayor Jenkins continued with a history lesson on some of the most notable Victorian-era homes in town. Logan decided he should sign up for one of the history tours at the small three-room museum over on 3rd Street. After all, the historic buildings were half the reason he’d convinced himself he could make the best of this job on Heron Isle.
When he’d finished his coffee with the mayor, Logan headed toward the fountain in the square. He’d admired the craftsmanship of the Little Free Library the first time he visited, but he wanted a closer look now that he knew more about its story.
After he rounded the fountain and continued on the sidewalk north, he spotted the cream-colored miniature Victorian house on the right of the path near a bench. A giant live oak draped its long arms over the sidewalk, Spanish moss hanging over the sides and swaying in the breeze. He stopped to admire the intricate gingerbread detailing outlining every door and window of the library. It really was remarkable craftsmanship.
He opened the door and stepped inside and immediately went to look through the books on the ledge on the back wall. Whoever maintained the library—Lucy or Bob maybe?—had been skipping shelving the books he and Island Girl had left addressed to each other. His heart began pounding as he realized there was a new book addressed to him about Zelda Fitzgerald. He opened it to read her note.
Dear Gatsby’s Ghost,
You’ve read Scott’s version of events, so I thought you might enjoy what one writer imagined Zelda’s story might have been. She was so glamorous, but at the same time so sad. She always wanted something more, but she never found happiness.
She has been overlooked in death in much the same way she was in life, and that is perhaps the saddest thing of all.
I see a bit of myself in Zelda. I know what it is to feel unheard, overlooked, and even unloved. To want things beyond my reach.
And even though I knew the ending, I couldn’t help but hope that somehow the story ended differently.
To Les Années Folles,
Island Girl
To Les Années Folles—to the crazy years, as the French called the time period in the 1920s when the Hemingways, Scott and Zelda, Gertrude Stein, and the others of the Lost Generation lived, worked, and played in Paris.
Island Girl had him more curious than ever now. He tried to piece together what he knew about her so far. She enjoyed historical novels about the Lost Generation. She’d never been to Paris, but wanted to go, which was why Logan had ordered the memoir by the literary walking tour guide he’d enjoyed.
And now he knew more about her. But this note was sadder than the ones that came before it. She said she could relate to feeling unheard, overlooked, and unloved. He was more convinced than ever she was in a difficult marriage. He felt a sense of protectiveness, even if he didn’t know her. You could learn a lot about a person from the books they read—who they admired, what piqued their interest, even how they viewed the world. Heck, he felt he knew more about Island Girl from her notes than he’d ever learn on a first date. Not that it was like that. He wasn’t interested in a relationship, and it sounded like that was the last thing this woman needed right now.
He was intrigued, though, and he didn’t want this discourse to stop. It reminded him of the pen pal he’d had as a kid. Their little classroom in Wisconsin had been paired with one in New York. Their teachers thought it would be good for kids growing up on farms to learn what it was like to grow up in a big city, and vice versa. They’d exchanged letters all school year.
He’d learned that his pen pal Dominic lived on the fifth floor of a building in Manhattan and had to walk three blocks to catch a glimpse of grass, a stark contrast from the acres of farmland that surrounded his childhood home. Virtually everything about their lives had been opposite, and it was fun to imagine what it would have been like to ride the subway to school and take field trips to Broadway shows. Those letters from Dominic had inspired Logan to go away to school, to experience big-city life firsthand. He occasionally thought of Dominic and wondered what he was doing now. Maybe he’d been as taken with small towns and farm life as Logan had been with Dominic’s city life and was off in the Midwest somewhere milking cows. Nah, probably not.
Moving from city to city so frequently could be lonely, and Logan blamed his poor relationship choices on the nature of his job. Having a book pen pal was perfect. It would give him the friendship that was so difficult for him to form when he arrived in a new town, without any of the romantic entanglement. Besides, it seemed Island Girl needed someone to talk with as well.
Taking the book with him, he headed to his temporary office at city hall. He had to focus on the job at hand. If he couldn’t pull out a win on Heron Isle, he might be the one who wound up back in the Midwest milking cows.