Southbound Page 7

  Gage gave me a questioning look. “Everything okay?”

  “Yeah. Something reminded me of Grandma and it just overwhelmed me for a minute,” I explained.

  “It definitely has that older vibe, on purpose of course,” Gage observed as we stepped off of the porch to enjoy the garden and yard attached to the house itself. Cats were scattered all around, taking in the sun or drowsing in the shade as they liked, and I was surprised to see that Roscoe--who seemed to be a fairly excitable dog most of the time--kept a respectful distance and only needed to be reminded to heel once.

  “It has a weird feeling,” I said, trying my best not to sound pretentious. “There’s still some kind of energy attached to it. Not to sound too hippie-like.”

  “Well, I do think they kind of cultivate that,” Gage pointed out with a chuckle. “They’ve kept it as close as possible to the way it was when he lived here, and there’s a lot of his original possessions in the building still. If that doesn’t hold onto the energy of the person...what would?”

  I thought of Grandma’s journals, and the fact that I hadn’t kept very much of her stuff beyond them.

  “Yeah, I guess I can see that,” I agreed.

  We took a break to sit on a bench together in the shade. I watched as a tour guide brought a group of sightseers through the garden toward the swimming pool, and I thought about where I’d gone so far today. This was a life of leisure, or at least a vacation.

  “You don’t seem to work much,” I said, glancing at Gage.

  “I work from home,” he explained. “I’ve found I can get more work done in my own space, without distractions, than in any office--and if I work from my own space, I can do what I want when I want to, instead of having to spread out five hours of work into an eight-hour day.”

  “Must be nice to be able to choose,” I said.

  “After a certain point, it’s like anything else,” he said, shrugging. “You hit a certain status in your career, and you get to do things your own way.”

  I thought about that and shook my head. “I’m not really convinced I’ll ever hit that point in my career--not that I really have a career as such, yet.”

  “Well, you’re studying writing, right? You were working as an editor before you dropped everything?”

  “Yeah, but going freelance is hard in that area,” I pointed out. “And it’s sheer luck for a person to ever get professionally published in the way that lets them do that full-time. So, I guess I was just sort of...planning on doing the same job I was already doing as an intern, and working my way up the ladder.”

  “Is that what you want to do?” he asked.

  “I don’t really know what I want to do, but that’s the safest, sanest path,” I replied.

  “You did drop everything,” Gage said. “You could take this time to figure out a path that might be a little less safe and sane, but more interesting and fulfilling.”

  “I guess that’s part of what I’m doing here,” I admitted. “I just don’t know what you do when you basically drop out of your life.”

  “You start over.” Gage rose to his feet and gave me a smile. “I was going to head down to the markets and grab some stuff for dinner. Feel up to coming with me?”

  “Yeah, sure!”

  We left the Hemingway House together, Roscoe between us. We went to Sugar Apple first, since it was only a couple of blocks away from the museum, and then Gage and I walked over to Eaton Street Seafood Market since Gage insisted that it was his favorite place to buy from.

  “Who’s this, Gage?” one of the people manning the counter asked when our turn came up.

  “A visitor from out of town,” Gage replied. “Aspen and I met on the plane down from South Carolina.”

  “Good to see you with a woman again,” the man said. “You want anything other than the usual?”

  “Throw in a couple of those beautiful pieces of black grouper--I’m cooking dinner tonight,” Gage said. I watched as the employee assembled his order and tried not to be alarmed at how much the man was piling up for Gage: stone crab claws, a container of smoked fish dip, the grouper, and a couple of lobster tails.

  “Please let me chip in for this,” I said, estimating how much it would all cost.

  “No--you’re staying in my home, and I’m making dinner,” Gage said firmly--but with a smile. “I want to show you some of the best of what this island has to offer, and I’m doing it with my money.”

  He was generous, and I didn’t want to spend my time with him bickering about money. “Then, thank you,” I said.

  We went back to the house and Gage mixed me up a rum runner to sip while he got to work on dinner. Roscoe sat on the kitchen floor, patiently for any falling scraps. I took out my own journal, which I’d bought before I left home, and began taking notes on the places I’d managed to find so far from Grandma’s journals.

  I sipped my drink. Two of the places I’d wanted to visit today had been bought up by private companies in the years since my grandmother had been here; one of the hotels she’d stayed at had been completely renovated, so it was almost unrecognizable from what it would have been when she was there, and it was owned by a major corporation instead of a family. One of the houses she’d had friends living in had been sold in the 1990s and torn down to the foundation, then replaced with a completely different house. I would have to face the fact that a lot of my grandma’s special places wouldn’t be here anymore. Including the place where I was meant to scatter her ashes.

  I finished up my notes before Gage finished making dinner.

  “Why don’t we get started on the cold stuff while the flounder’s cooking?” Gage asked.

  He sat down at a bar stool across from me. Roscoe looked distressed at the prospect of two different people to try and mooch scraps from as we sipped our drinks and cracked stone crab claws. The sweet-salty meat was better than lobster, as far as I was concerned, and it went really well with the smoked fish dip and crackers, and even better with the rum drink I had.

  “Poor guy looks like he wants to try and jump up onto the bar itself,” I said, pointing out Roscoe’s shifting feet and switching gaze to Gage.

  “Oh yeah, he’d love to get up onto the top of the bar and help himself,” Gage agreed with a laugh. He spread a little smear of fish dip on a cracker before tossing it to the dog.

  “Can I give him a little bite of the crab meat?” I had managed to tug some carefully out of the hard, sharp shell it came in.

  “You can if you want to, but personally I think it’s too good to share with the dog,” he pointed out. I chuckled and shrugged.

  “He deserves a bit of luxury for not going after any of those cats,” I said, and fed the dog a pinch of the sweet seafood, which he took gently from between my fingers.

  “Let me just get the flounder out of the oven and freshen your drink, and once it isn’t a million degrees, we’ll have the main course,” Gage said.

  I couldn’t help but think that Grandma would have envied the expensive meal--and eaten every bite she could with gusto--if she had been here with me. I told myself not to get discouraged, and to go out the next day to find some more of the places she’d visited.

  Chapter Eleven

  Gage

  Ben and Jeannie came over after I’d cleared the plates, and I felt a kind of spurt of dread after all the comments I’d gotten whenever someone on the island had seen me with Aspen; were they going to make comments about it being good to see me with a woman again, too? And how long would it be before Aspen thought to wonder why so many people were making such a big deal about it? Those were questions I didn’t want to think about.

  “We saw you had company, so we wanted to come over and say hi,” Jeannie said as she came in, glancing from me to Aspen. “You’ve probably noticed we’re all pretty friendly around these parts.”

  Aspen laughed at that. “Yeah, my grandmother told me that, too--so I was forewarned, though I’ve still been surprised.”

  “How are you sett
ling in here? Is Gage being a decent host?” Ben sat himself in his usual spot at the kitchen bar and I served him and Jeannie both glasses of the rum runner cocktails I’d been making for Aspen and me.

  “Gage has been way too generous,” Aspen said, shaking her head and smiling. “He’s insisted on paying for dinner twice now--even though I made myself clear that I wanted to chip in.”

  “That’s just plain good manners, though,” Jeannie pointed out. “Even if you were somehow richer than him--and, no offense, but I doubt it--you’re a guest under his roof, he should be covering at least dinner, and probably breakfast too.”

  Aspen’s cheeks lit up with a blush and she shook her head a bit again.

  “I just don’t want to impose,” she said, glancing at me as I took my own seat once more.

  I was glad at least that Jeannie and Ben didn’t seem to be going right for the most awkward questions.

  “So, what brings you to our little patch of paradise?” Ben asked.

  Aspen looked for a moment like she wanted to hesitate, but after a quick look in my direction, she answered.

  “My grandma met my grandfather here, ages ago,” she explained. “And not too long ago, my grandmother passed away. She asked me to come here and scatter her ashes.”

  “How did you get her ashes down here?” Jeannie looked equal parts intrigued and almost scandalized, and I grinned.

  “A lot of luck, I think,” Aspen said, giggling a bit.

  “You got them on the plane?”

  Aspen nodded.

  “Somehow or another, without any questions,” I told them.

  “I think I wore out my luck for a while with that,” Aspen pointed out, and then explained the bad turns her trip had taken the first days of her arrival on the island.

  “Well, you’re here now,” Jeannie said once she was done, patting her hand. “Ben and I are always happy to have guests over for afternoon drinks, or dinner, or just to chat.”

  “And if you need to track any other places down, and Gage is busy with his own work, you can always check with us,” Ben added. “I own one of the area tours, and I’ve gone out with the guides every time they finish training and get ready to take people out and about the city, so I know where most of the major things are.”

  “I appreciate it,” Aspen said. “I’m finding that a lot of the places that Grandma mentioned in her journals are either closed down permanently or bought up by someone--or some company--and changed, or things like that.”

  “Well what are some of the places you’re having trouble tracking down? Maybe we can help you figure out where they are or how to get there?” Jeannie asked.

  Aspen took out her journal, a little leather-bound notebook, and opened it up, and Jeannie shot me a look that I thought I knew the meaning behind--but she didn’t say anything.

  “I do know that I want to visit Fort Jefferson, because Grandma and Grandpa went there at one point,” Aspen said, consulting a list. “And of course, the Southernmost Point, and Mile Marker Zero.” She shrugged and glanced up once more.

  “A couple of those are easy to get to,” Ben pointed out. “You can find the signs for them around the island. Fort Jefferson is a bit tricky, though. Even if it’s technically part of Key West, it isn’t attached--it’s a separate island.”

  “I had figured that much,” Aspen said. “Grandma wrote about taking a boat to it.”

  “Now the only access is by seaplane,” I told her. “It’s part of Dry Tortugas National Park.”

  “That sounds pricy,” Aspen said, sounding cautious.

  “Not too bad--though probably not the usual expense for a tourist,” Jeannie said.

  “It’s about three hundred for a half-day trip, and six hundred for a full day,” Ben added.

  Aspen pressed her lips together and I could almost see her doing math in her head.

  “I’ll get the tickets for us to go,” I suggested quickly.

  Jeannie, Ben, and Aspen all looked at me with surprise--but I could see that Jeannie and Ben had more in their minds than surprise, even if Aspen didn’t.

  “No, I couldn’t let you do that,” Aspen said, before either of my neighbors could say anything. “I’ll pay for my own ticket--that much I will completely insist on.”

  “Well, if you don’t mind, I’ll come with you,” I suggested. “Though honestly it would be easier to just buy the tickets at the same time, and then you can pay me back?” I had no intention of taking Aspen’s money, and this amount was little more than peanuts to me. But it would soothe her conscience.

  “We’ll work it out,” Aspen said, and I saw a stubborn look in her eyes. If nothing else, she definitely had her pride.

  Ben and Jeannie left an hour later, and I showed Aspen how to get the tickets. I pressed the point a little bit more firmly, but she insisted on paying for her own ticket on the plane, along with the tour she would get, a half-day excursion.

  “I think that will be enough for what I want to do,” she said.

  I agreed, and gave into Aspen’s insistence on cleaning up the kitchen, since I’d cooked dinner.

  The next morning, we left early to catch the earliest flight we could get, and I was pleased to see that Aspen was just as chipper--if a little more quiet--in the early hour as she’d been the evening before. She was taking in everything, snapping pictures on her phone as the plane took us over the historic shipwrecks near the island, and then hovered over Fort Jefferson itself, the guide talking about the history of the Civil War era fort. The plane landed on the water and then beached, letting both of us--and the few other tourists--off to explore the fort under the guidance of one of the National Park employees.

  “It’s kind of surreal to imagine my grandparents wandering around here, fifty years ago,” Aspen whispered to me as we followed along.

  “It’s weird to think of anything standing that long, in a way,” I agreed.

  “Weirder to think of it being a tourist attraction for that long,” Aspen added, and I nodded.

  At one point, close to the water--in an area that was not permitted for swimming--I saw Aspen blushing.

  “What’s up?” I asked.

  “Nothing,” she said quickly, ducking her head and blushing even more deeply red.

  “No, tell me,” I insisted, grinning.

  “My grandmother wrote about coming here at night with some rich friends, and Grandpa,” Aspen whispered, looking around to make sure no one was eavesdropping.

  “Oh? I have to know more,” I said, seeing her embarrassment and amusement on her face.

  “According to her journal, she and Grandpa went skinny dipping in a spot that sounds a lot like right here,” Aspen whispered.

  “Maybe we can find someone to bring us back in the evening,” I suggested playfully. “I mean, I’m sure your grandmother would approve of you reenacting her late-night law breaking.”

  Aspen snickered and shook her head.

  “No way--I am not getting myself arrested for violating National Park rules,” she told me, but when her gaze came up to my face, her eyes were sparkling.

  “Well, if nothing else I’m sure I can find a spot where you can go skinny dipping on your own, in privacy, where it won’t be illegal,” I said. “If you’re interested.”

  Aspen pressed her lips together and I saw the mischief dancing in her eyes again.

  “Maybe,” she said.

  We left the fort just after lunch, headed back for the island proper, and I bought some Cuban food for us to snack on since the day was so hot--too hot for a proper meal. In spite of her hat and sunblock, Aspen had gotten a little burned, so I suggested that we stay in the shade for the rest of the day.

  “I’d like to grab some things from the store and repay your kindness--if you’ll let me,” Aspen said. “It’s been almost a week since I’ve cooked anything, and I want to make something delicious for you.”

  “You don’t have to cook for me, you’re a guest,” I said, the words coming out a bit more firmly th
an I meant them to.

  Aspen frowned for a moment and then got that stubborn look again.

  “You’ve been so nice to me, and this is just something little,” Aspen said. “I just want to repay your kindness a bit. Please?”

  I relented, and we went back to the market to pick up what she wanted. As we wandered the aisles, Aspen noticed the different prices on things; even in the twenty-first century, imports were more expensive than native things, so beef and pork tended to be more expensive. Chicken was cheaper, but there was--as I pointed out to her--good reason why a lot of people ate a good proportion of seafood most of the time.

  We got back to my place and while I had relented enough to let Aspen buy what she wanted to cook for dinner, I wasn’t about to leave her alone in the kitchen to make the meal all by herself.

  “Just tell me what you want me to do to help,” I suggested, showing her where the different tools, utensils, pots, pans, and everything else was.

  “Okay, but I’m mostly used to doing this on my own, so you should be ready to get out of my way,” Aspen said, smiling at me.

  I chuckled and we both fell into work together, me watching her, taking over when it was clear what she needed me to do while she chopped and sliced and cleaned. The meal she made for us was something I never would have thought about, but which seemed to be the perfect fusion of Key West and Mainland: chicken cutlets with mango pico de gallo and homemade refried beans and rice, with a green salad to go with it.

  As I helped her, cleaning and chopping and tossing things into pans, checking on the rice and mashing the beans while Aspen worked on other parts of the meal, I found myself thinking back to the last time I had a woman in the kitchen with me--the last time I’d made a meal alongside a woman, intimately, like this.

  It almost stopped me dead in my tracks to think of her—the love I had lost, the wife who had died. I managed to push the ghost of her out of my mind, but there was still a tingle of something I could feel, almost like guilt and relief at the same time. I felt comfortable with Aspen in a way I hadn’t felt comfortable with anyone since my wife.