PROLOGUE #2
Now I have to grab a napkin and wipe my own eyes. "Oh, I'm a mess," I mutter. The fact that I'm sadder at the thought of leaving my friends — the other women who swim in the mermaid shows at the park — than Brent, speaks volumes.
"Of course you adore the park and your co-workers. But this is an opportunity for you to start fresh. You're still so young."
"Some days, I feel eighty," I grumble. It's funny, because at the park I'm bubbly and upbeat. It's as if the real me comes out when I'm working, swimming and performing. The rest of the time, I'm quiet, dim, and watching the door.
"Oh! I almost forgot. Wanda left you a letter." Mom turns to the chair next to her, where her giant, white leather purse sits. I settle in, because it could take a while for her to dig through the black hole that is her bag.
I lean forward, eager to read the letter from the woman whom I'd always admired for being eccentric. Wanda had lived her eighty-six years on her own terms and died in her sleep. Just the way she had wanted.
Mom surfaces with an envelope. She hands it to me.
I inspect the front. Leilani Kostas, it says.
The envelope is that of the local electric company, with its address crossed out in ballpoint pen.
Reusing and repurposing envelopes had been another of Wanda's tactics; I recall getting similar ones as a kid on my birthday, filled with a crisp $2 bill.
Those had been Wanda's most generous gifts.
Until now.
I break the seal and open the envelope.
Dear Leilani—
If you're reading this, that means I'm gone. Don't spend too much time crying over me. I had a good life.
Somehow, this makes me grin, this no-nonsense salutation from the grave. I continue reading.
I'm leaving you a substantial inheritance. My only wish is that you use it to create joy. To create a life that you will be proud of when you're my age, a life that will bring joy to others, but more importantly, to you.
The word you is underlined. Twice.
I’ve been so proud hearing about your adventures as a Weeki Wachee mermaid. You have brought happiness to thousands of people over the years. Isn't it time you work on making yourself as happy as you've made others?
I love you, my dear.
Wanda
I nod through my tears. Wanda had known all about my life with Brent — our whirlwind courtship, and how I'd moved into his newly built home when we'd only known each other for a month.
I'd been staying in a trailer with two other mermaids, and living with Brent in his beautiful, new house seemed like a dream come true. That was two years ago.
How wrong I had been, about everything. He'd started small — little corrections, what I wore, who I texted.
By month three, he was rewriting my schedule.
By month six, every joke I told was something to be polite about, not laughed at.
I'd left briefly, after one particularly humiliating dinner where he'd told his banker friends that mermaids weren't a real career, and they'd all smirked.
He begged for forgiveness. Stupidly, I took him back, egged on by my friends.
He didn't mean it, they said. Everyone makes mistakes, they said.
But with every harsh word and nasty comment in the months that followed, I began to slowly lose myself. I withdrew from everything I loved. Except swimming.
Isn't it time you work on making yourself as happy as you've made others?
"I want to stay in state. I'm a Florida girl," I say, almost defensively, as if Aunt Wanda's sitting at the table with us. “I shouldn’t have to leave the place I love.”
"That's fine. You can do that. Just get out of here. What about Miami?"
I wiggle my nose. "It would be great, but it's pretty expensive. And there's so much to do already, I don't know if people would want to visit a mermaid-themed bar. Plus all that traffic."
Mom ponders for a minute then snaps her fingers. "True. Oh, I've got it! I know just the town."
"Where?"
"That place we went to when you were in high school. Remember?"
"Our girls' weekend? Which one? Goodness, we haven't done that for years.
" Haven't because I'm poor, and her husband siphons her paycheck so that he can bet on every sport possible.
I'd once asked Brent for the money to take Mom somewhere, and he asked why I wanted to "run away for the weekend" and leave him behind.
That had led to a long, cold silence, and I never asked again.
"The one where we rented that little cottage. Somewhere north of Orlando. Or was it east of Orlando? Lord, that was probably more than fifteen years ago, because you were still in braces, I think. What was the name? Cassadaga? My memory is shot."
I laugh. "Cypress Grove, you mean?"
"Yes. That's it. I remember it being real Florida. A sleepy little downtown. With beautiful blue springs on the edge of town, and the funny little shops selling crystals and herbs, and that very handsome man."
Cracking up, I grab her hand. "Of all the things you remember about our vacation, you recall the part about that handsome guy who was… was he planting flowers? That's what I remember, anyway. He was dirty and all I wanted was to get back to the spring to swim."
"Jimbo." She looks wistful, like she does with the handful of men who, for whatever reason, didn't have the time, money, or energy to become her next husband. "He was a plant shaman. So handsome. If I remember correctly, he looked like Kenny Loggins, but shirtless."
I snort-laugh.
She winks. "Seriously, why don't you go there? Rent a place for a few months and research whether you should open a bar?"
I squint at her. Surely the place has changed in fifteen years.
Still, I don't recall it being on any lists of the most expensive places in Florida, or the most dangerous places, either.
And it does have a blue spring, which in my memory sparkled like a thousand diamonds.
Seems as good of a town as any, even if I only go there for a few months to gather my bearings and try to heal from Brent.
My eyes go to my purse, where the million-dollar check sits. I reread Aunt Wanda's letter. Twice.
Isn't it time you work on making yourself as happy as you've made others?
It would be impulsive to quit my job and move to a town I've been to only once. But, really, what do I have here? An existence with a man who berates me daily? Brent would surely have ideas about what I should do with that money — ideas that I don’t even want to hear.
What am I waiting for? Him to finally convince me my dreams are stupid? For there to be nothing left of who I used to be?
Staying at my job doesn't make sense, even with this windfall. I make nine dollars an hour, and I've tried to squirrel away as much as possible. And even though I love my job, it isn't something I can do forever. I'm already the oldest mermaid at the attraction.
"Everyone at the park keeps asking me what's next," I say.
"Why’s that?" Mom asks, the lines between her brows deepening.
"Because there's an unspoken rule that mermaids usually move on once they get into their early thirties."
Mom fiddles with her coffee cup, her bright coral-colored nails glittering against the black mug. "I guess that's the question you need to ask yourself then. What's next?"
For the first time in my life, I can do whatever I want. I imagine my own little cottage, decorated in shades of gold and light blue. Swimming in clear, still water with my mermaid fin at sunrise. Watching the sun set with a glass of something cold in my hand from somewhere green and quiet.
Not being made small by anyone, ever again.
If that's not a reason to make an impulsive decision, I don't know what is.
Grasping Mom's hand, I grin.
"Cypress Grove it is."