Matecumbe (22 page)

Melissa’s trip to Islamorada would be completely unexpected—as far as Joe was concerned. He would have no idea she was coming until she walked up to his trailer and knocked on the door. When she tried to picture that critical moment in her mind, Melissa’s negative thoughts ranged from seeing Joe in bed with another woman to finding his trailer gone with only an empty lot at the site.

As were the arrangements with her most previous visit, Melissa took a plane directly to Miami. She chose a different airline this time and was disappointed when her on-board “snack” arrived—one lonely bag of peanuts.

“I guess,” she snickered, “this outfit gives you macadamia nuts if you fly first class.” Still, a more substantial meal would have given her a few minutes respite from her racing mind. Without it she just felt like a bundle of nerves.

At the airport in Miami, she rented a car and then began driving southwestward toward the Keys.

While enroute, she pulled into a rest area on the Florida Turnpike and recalled those occasions from her childhood when her stepfather would stop the family car at turnpike rest areas and buy lollipops for her and her sisters.

“Now, whenever I stop on the turnpike, I check out the condom machines in the lavatories. I wonder,” she mused, “if I will soon be one of the women who needs to keep a condom handy. If this doesn’t work out with Joe, I would be foolish not to. Sex these days is just too dangerous!”

Melissa thought ahead to the room she had booked at the Seascaper for three nights, hoping she would need much less time—a day at the most—to convince Joe that he should move north with her.

When she checked in at the Seascaper, Melissa was feeling somewhat like the typically honest citizen who was about to break the law for the very first time. It was an eerie feeling—a nervous sensation akin to being half inebriated and half worried that the world was about to laugh in her face. She fought back these mental uncertainties, however, and toted her bags into a beachfront room at about four o’clock in the afternoon. Somehow the soft yellows and blues of the drapes and the bedspread helped to have an immediate calming effect, as though she could feel the warmth of a bright sunny day right in her room.

Methodically, she refreshed herself with a shower and then shaved her slightly tanned legs until they were shiny and smooth.

“When a woman shaves her legs as often as I do,” Melissa admitted, “it’s a sure sign she’s experiencing an ongoing relationship with a man. I hope, deep down, that this isn’t the last time I shave them for awhile.”

Melissa then stood erect in the center of the room to practice her sales pitch—just one more time prior to the real thing.

“I’ve got to be assertive,” she acknowledged, while pointing to her own reflection in the oblong mirror that was hung above the dresser.

Melissa knew, from experience, that her blood would always pump faster if she could practice a speech while looking at herself in a mirror. The side-to-side movement of her head and body that she could follow with her eyes seemed to bring out the saleswoman in her—upbeat and forever on. It was a trait that would normally be locked deep within her psyche. Right now, she felt she needed it more than ever.

“We have to stop making excuses, Joe,” she practiced, leaning on the word “we” and thus appearing to take part of the blame for the procrastination that was Joe’s alone.

“We’re not the kind of people who should sit back and let events control us. We should be the ones who control the events.

“Both of us are mature adults who should know what’s best for us. Let’s do the right thing and make a commitment to spend the rest of our lives together.”

So, with her speech preparations concluded, Melissa gave a quick second glance to her crisp white shirt and navy slacks, applied just a hint of lipstick, and marched off to find her man.

Walking through the early evening breezes toward her car, she seemed to exude the calm confidence of a tough but fair schoolteacher who was about to address a new class—or the steely reserve of a combat officer leading a squadron of soldiers into enemy territory.

Melissa, like either of the above, would be lying if she professed to have a stomach free of butterflies.

The narrow road toward Joe’s trailer was bordered on both sides by dense tropical vegetation, making access seem even more restricted. As she approached, Melissa looked for lights inside the brown-façade structure, but she could quickly see that none were shining.

And after knocking on his door for about five minutes without getting a response, she concluded, obviously, that Joe wasn’t home.

Inwardly, she cursed the fact that she wouldn’t be able to talk to him at home. For at that very moment, she knew exactly what she wanted to say and was as high on confidence as she’d ever be. These were the reasons, she realized, that she must venture off immediately to the Islamorada police station. And no, she couldn’t wait for Joe to come home after his work shift. She must seek him out—now.

Police headquarters in Islamorada consisted of a small, stucco building situated alongside the town hall. In fact, it looked like the town hall’s garage. When she entered, she saw no other policemen except a solitary uniformed dispatcher on duty.

“Joe? Joe Carlton?” the man answered, in response to Melissa’s query. “Joe took some vacation time just yesterday. I think he went to Key West for a few days.”

Crushed was the only word to describe Melissa’s feelings at that exact moment. Visions sped through her head of Joe escorting some wide-eyed female tourist through all of the Key West spots that they had visited so memorably just a short time ago.

Melissa strode outside and stood in the moonlight, perplexed and angry. She realized that Joe and his mystery woman might be holding hands somewhere nearby, perhaps on a beach or next to a pool. Or maybe they were gambling at the dog track—or were even in bed together, enjoying each other’s laughter, each other’s touch.

Deeply disappointed and in somewhat of a mental fog, Melissa still managed to drive back safely to her motel room.

Once inside, she sat down on the bed and tried hard to come up with a sensible decision. With her rental car, she could certainly drive to Key West and retrace the guided tour that Joe had given her. If he were, indeed, in the company of his “date,” he would probably be taking her to most of those same romantic places in Key West, the places where Melissa and Joe experienced their first love—and their first true caring for each other.

The more she thought, though, the more she hated the prospect of going to Key West on her own. Such a choice appeared to have all the earmarks of a cut-and-dried, no-win situation.

For if she were to find Joe, escorting a woman, especially if it were a younger woman, her heart would certainly be broken. And, in the alternative, if she did not find him in Key West, her total time spent in that quaint, artsy city would be a complete downer, with nothing but unshared memories and countless visual reminders of happier times.

While she continued to sit on the edge of her bed, Melissa stared blankly at the wind-whipped, dancing palm fronds just outside her patio window.

For what seemed like the longest time, she tried to move but couldn’t. As well, the act of thinking clearly seemed to be an even harder chore. Crying seemed her only alternative, and soon her chest and throat ached from the sobs that racked her small frame.

Eventually exhausted, Melissa reclined on the bed, her unseeing eyes now facing upward toward a dull, gray ceiling. After she had fallen asleep for perhaps half an hour, the ringing of the telephone awakened her. She was still groggy when she answered with a muffled, “Hello, who is it?”

“Melissa? You sound like you just woke up. This is Cammie, from the library,” the voice reported. “Remember? You asked me to relay your messages. Well, you got a call here a little while ago. It sounded important. Are you awake enough to understand me?”

“Oh, I’m all right, Cammie,” Melissa responded, slowly regaining her mental clarity, and reaching for the Kleenex to clear her stuffed up nose. “Who called?”

“Your friend, Joe Carlton. He didn’t leave much of a message at all except the phone number where you can reach him. He did say he’d like to talk to you as soon as possible.”

“Wait, let me get a pen . . . go ahead.”

“It’s a New Jersey number . . .”

After she scribbled down the digits, Melissa realized that the phone number in the message belonged to Joe’s Uncle Steve.

“Could it be that Joe was actually staying at his uncle’s place, only a few miles away from Philadelphia?” Melissa wondered. “It must be so. The phone number he left with Cammie confirms it.”

“Did you tell him that I’m in Florida?” Melissa asked of Cammie.

“No,” Cammie responded. “You told me not to tell anybody, remember?”

After thanking Cammie for the message and uttering a sincere good-bye, Melissa started, without warning, to laugh out loud—while still holding onto the phone.

“I don’t believe it,” she screamed, to no one in particular. “What could Joe possibly be doing at Uncle Steve’s house?”

Dialing Uncle Steve’s number proved a real joy. Melissa smiled and hunched over the phone like a little girl with bubble gum in her cheeks and a big secret ready to roll off her lips.

Not surprisingly, it was Joe who answered, and, almost immediately, the words started falling out of Melissa’s mouth as quickly as dice leaving the hands of a craps shooter.

“Guess where I am, go ahead, guess. I dare you. Just take a wild guess.”

“From the way you’re laughing, Melissa, I’d have to say that you’re calling from a singles bar after having had too many margaritas. Either that, or you just hit the millionaire lottery.”

“No, silly. What if I told you that just a little while ago I talked, in person, to a gray-haired policeman, in a station house surrounded by palm trees? I was informed that a certain Officer Joe Carlton has probably gone off to Key West for a few days.”

“What?”

“That’s right, I’m in Islamorada—in a room at the Seascaper.”

“That . . . that’s amazing. And it was my idea to surprise you!” Joe revealed, his tone indicating obvious bewilderment. “What are you trying to do by coming down to see me? . . . No, don’t answer that.

“Instead, listen for a second, Melissa,” he stated, abruptly. “I’m sorry if what I’m about to say might seem to be out of place, but I’m afraid I can’t just stop laughing about how you’re in Florida, and I’m in Jersey. If I laugh, I might forget what I wanted to say.

“You see, the reason I called you at the library is that I’ve got to tell you something important right away, so don’t you say anything until I’m finished, okay?”

“Uh, okay.”

“I flew north for one reason—to see you in person, Melissa. I wanted to apologize for being such a fool and to ask you if we could set a definite date to get married.

“I really would like to move to Philly and to be with you permanently—as soon as possible—if you’ll have me.”

Hard pressed to hold back her unseen tears of happiness, Melissa answered in the affirmative.

“Of course I’ll have you, you big, lovable thing, you.

“Now, Officer Carlton, don’t you want to know what I’m doing in Islamorada?”

“Sure.”

“I came down here to talk to you, Joe Carlton, because I missed you. I missed seeing your smile and having you hold me.”

“Melissa, I realize now that you’re the best thing that has ever happened to me. Your past, my past, they’re immaterial. And I hope you’ll forgive me for being so casual with your emotions. Ever since I’ve met you, Melissa, it’s been like a new life for me. You’ve been responsible for how confident and well adjusted I’ve felt in the past few months. I’m sure of that now.”

“And as for my feelings,” Melissa told him, “I don’t give two hoots about your not having a college degree. Even if you were a third-grade dropout, I’d love you just because you’re you.”

“Let’s stop talking, Melissa,” Joe concluded, “so that I can get on the first plane back to Florida.

“As soon as I say good-bye to Uncle Steve, I’ll quit this cold weather. Just tell me your room number at the Seascaper. And I don’t care what the Islamorada gossips might say. The way I’m feeling now, I’ll park a submarine in front of your door.”