Secrets on Cedar Key (11 page)

I
got home a little after four-thirty, poured myself a glass of wine, let Oliver out in the yard, and sat on the lounge thinking. By the time I finished my wine, my decision had been made and I headed inside to the computer.

Thirty minutes later I grabbed the papers that the printer spit out at me and took a deep breath. What the hell had I just done? I couldn't recall having ever made such a spontaneous decision, and yet the papers in my hand proved that I had done just that.

I glanced down to see copies of electronic tickets for a flight to Paris, France, on November 25, three days before Thanksgiving, with a return flight two weeks later. I felt a smile crossing my face as I experienced a mixture of excitement and uncertainty. It was then that I heard my mother coming in the back door.
She'll probably think I'm nuts,
was my first thought.

“Marin. I'm home,” she called from the kitchen.

Damn. I felt every bit the sixteen-year-old about to face punishment for some incredibly stupid deed.

“Hi,” I mumbled, walking into the room.

My mother turned around as she removed a casserole from the fridge. “Are you okay? I'm so sorry about the delay at the shop, but Worth has a few calls out to find somebody to do the roof.”

I watched as my mother tapped the pad on the stove to preheat the oven.

“Yeah, I'm okay. I guess I overreacted on the setback.”

“I know you're disappointed, Marin, but what with Thanksgiving and Christmas just around the corner, you'll be busy, and before you know it all the work will be done and you can open. Worth is pretty sure everything will be completed by early January.”

“Right. Well . . . I won't be here for Thanksgiving. The boys aren't coming and this is the first year without Andrew and I don't think I can bear to pretend I'm even interested in celebrating this holiday. You'll be going to Sydney's, so I don't feel like I'm deserting you, and, well . . . I just booked myself a flight to Paris. I leave out of Gainesville to Atlanta, where I'll catch an Air France flight direct to Charles de Gaulle. I'll be gone for two weeks, and . . .” I knew I was babbling and couldn't help myself, and I also couldn't control the tears that were now streaming down my face.

“Oh, Marin,” I heard my mother say as she scooped me into her arms. “Good for you.”

“Good for me?” I hadn't quite expected to hear her say those words.

She gave me a tight squeeze before stepping back to reach up and wipe the tears on my face. “Yes. You're a fifty-six-year-old woman. You've had a very difficult year. You've been under a lot of stress. You need to get away and clear your head. I think going to Paris is a wonderful idea. You've wanted to return there since your college days. Believe me, life is too short not to do what makes you happy. So let's celebrate with a glass of wine.”

I sat at the table and watched as my mother poured two glasses of pinot grigio, passed one to me, and lifted hers in the air. “Here's to Paris and a whole new adventure.”

I touched the rim of her glass and smiled before taking a sip. It was in that moment that it really hit me. I
was
going back to Paris! It wasn't a daydream. It wasn't a wish. It was reality—and
I
had made it happen.

“My God,” I said. “I'm really going to do it. Are you sure you don't mind me leaving you over Thanksgiving?”

My mother waved a hand in the air. “Don't be silly, Marin. As you said, I'm not going to be alone. I'll be with Sydney and the family. So not another thought about that. I think you really need this trip. It'll be good for you. Now, where did you book yourself to stay?”

I let out a laugh. “Oh, I didn't get that far. I only booked the flight.”

“Hmm, well, don't let it go too long. Even though Thanksgiving is an American holiday, the hotels might be pretty full.”

I nodded. “I'll get back on the computer after supper and see what I can find.”

“What was the date again? Will you be here for Maybelle's memorial service?”

“Definitely. I don't leave till the twenty-fifth, and besides, I really want to talk to Victoria about the sale of the house.”

My mother remained silent. What was it about that house? Why was she supportive about my trip to Paris but not about purchasing Maybelle's former residence?

“You really don't want me buying that house, do you?”

I watched as she got up to place the casserole in the oven and waited for her answer.

After a few moments she joined me at the table, took a sip of her wine, and said, “It's just that there are so many other houses on the island for sale. That house will probably need some refurbishing, and it's out at the tip of the island. Wouldn't you prefer something closer to the downtown area, maybe in the historic district?”

“But it's such a pretty location. Right on the water. And besides, I plan to purchase my own golf cart, so I can be downtown in a matter of minutes.”

My mother nodded and let out a sigh. “You're probably right, and it's your decision after all. By the way, I haven't had much of a chance to talk to you. Did you get the paint and border print purchased over the weekend?”

I had a feeling my mother wanted to change the subject. “Yes. Worth has it. I did get it on Saturday when we went to Home Depot. We went to his house for lunch after. What a gorgeous home he has, but so large for one person.”

“That's right. I had heard his wife passed away quite a few years ago. Such a nice man. He was quite concerned about you this afternoon.”

“About me?”

“Yes. He felt just terrible about the ceiling and the delay.”

The disappointment that I'd felt earlier had lightened with my decision to go to Paris.

“Gosh, it wasn't his fault. Not at all.”

“That's true, but I think it bothered him that it was just one more thing to give you frustration. He's a nice man, Marin.”

She had just said that. I moved my fingers around the stem of the wineglass.

“What? Are you playing matchmaker?” I let out a forced chuckle and glanced up to see a smile cross my mother's face.

“And would that be so bad?” she asked, with a hint of humor in her tone.

“Well . . . I don't know. I mean . . . Andrew has only been gone for eight months, and . . .”

“Marin, there's no time frame on grieving, and it isn't up to anybody but you to determine what that time frame is. You're never going to forget Andrew. He was your husband, the father of your two sons. You spent twenty-six years together. You have a history and nothing can erase that. But it also doesn't mean that you can't enjoy the company . . . or even love . . . of another man during your lifetime. I just want you to know this. Don't live by other people's standards. Live with what you know is right for
you
. Like making the decision to fly to Paris.”

She was right. It had been so long since I was on my own, capable and free to make my own decisions, that I'd forgotten what an exhilarating feeling it could be. I thought about the dragonflies I'd seen in Maybelle's yard. How they seemed to follow their instincts, how they seemed to seize the day, enjoying life to its fullest.

“My biggest wish for you,” she continued, “would be that when you're my age, you have no regrets.”

I couldn't recall hearing my mother ever say that, and before I could stop myself, I blurted, “Do you have any?”

It was a few moments before she answered, and I caught the expression of sadness that briefly came across her face before she let out a deep sigh. “I have a few, but I've come to realize that with age we learn forgiveness. Not just of others, but of ourselves. Youth can be notorious for causing us to be judgmental, but most of the time the years have a way of softening that judgment.”

I wasn't quite sure what my mother was referring to. My judgment of Andrew? My difficulty in forgiving his indiscretion? My reluctance to accept Fiona as a part of my family?

I knew the conversation was at an end when she got up to remove the casserole from the oven, and I also knew that, as usual, my mother had given me a lot to think about.

 

Later that evening I got back on the computer and began to Google hotels in Paris. I narrowed down my search by arrondissement. From my last visit there, I knew I preferred the Left Bank with its Bohemian atmosphere at the sidewalk cafés and restaurants. I knew I loved the Latin Quarter, the boulevard Saint-Germain area, and Montparnasse. So I began checking various hotels for availability with my dates.

Three hours later I realized that trying to find accommodations in Paris over Thanksgiving was proving to be a daunting task. Either there was no availability, I'd have to sell my firstborn child to afford the rates, or the write-up on the hotel from previous guests wasn't enticing.

I rolled my chair back from the computer and massaged my temples. Hours of staring at a screen had brought back my headache of earlier that day.

Damn. Now what? I had already purchased my airline ticket. Had even made my seat selection. Way at the back of the 777, where the configuration was two seats across. I chose the window seat, and with a bit of luck, the aisle seat would remain empty, giving me some stretch-out room.

But I had no place to stay. There
had
to be a decent hotel, with availability at a reasonable price. Didn't there? My day had definitely been one that I wasn't sorry to see come to an end. Despite my lack of accommodations, I drifted off to sleep thinking about French wines, patisseries, and sidewalk cafés.

B
y the time I arrived at the knitting group Thursday evening, I was no closer to finding a place to stay in Paris. Maybe my plan would fall apart before it even began. I turned around to see Monica and Clarissa walk into the shop.

“I know it's almost time for your knitting group to begin, but I was wondering if Clarissa could purchase some yarn.”

“Of course,” I said, taking in Clarissa's extremely short hairstyle. Gone was the long, wavy hair cascading down her back, and in its place was about a half inch of hair covering her scalp. “I really like your cut,” I told her. And I did. With a pretty face like she had, the length of her hair didn't detract from her looks at all.

A huge smile covered her face. “Thanks. But I think my head might be a little cold this winter, so I want to knit myself a hat.”

“Smart girl, and I applaud you for donating your hair to the Locks of Love. It's a very worthy organization, and a lot of girls wouldn't part with their hair like you did.”

“Thanks,” she said and walked over to inspect a new shipment of baby alpaca.

“Is she really okay with it?” I whispered to Monica.

She nodded. “Yeah, she is. Adam and I are so proud of her, but I think Clarissa would prefer to stay low-key about it.”

I nodded back and looked up as some of the women walked in the door.

Flora looked around before settling herself on the sofa. “Is your mother coming tonight?”

“She is and should be here shortly.”

Clarissa returned to the counter holding up a skein of beautiful pale pink baby alpaca. “Do you think this would be okay?”

“Perfect,” Monica and I said at the same time.

“Do you have a pattern at home or do you need to get one?”

“Monica found one at home for me. It's a French beret and really cute. Is this enough yarn, do you think?”

Monica read the label and said, “No, for the beret you'll need one more skein.”

“Can you stay for the knitting group?” I asked as I rang up the order.

“Not tonight. We left Adam at home with the triplets and he has papers to grade for tomorrow, so we promised we'd just come down to get the yarn.”

“Maybe next week, then,” I said, as my mother walked in, followed by Raylene, Sydney, and Corabeth.

I was just sitting down when the door chimes tinkled again and we looked up to see Shelby Sullivan walk in.

“Gosh,” I said. “I haven't seen you in ages.”

“It
has
been a while,” my mother agreed as she waved a hand toward a chair. “Welcome, Shelby. Come and join us.”

Shelby Sullivan was Cedar Key's first best-selling author. Now in her early sixties, she lived out by the airport with her husband and continued to sell romance novels that women across the country loved.

“Thanks,” she said, sitting down beside me. “I just finished my novel a few days ago and it's on its way to my editor. Now I'm on holiday till early January.”

“You have a good schedule worked out, don't you?” Sydney said.

Shelby nodded as she reached into her knitting bag and removed a gold and tan cable sweater she'd obviously just recently started. “I always plan to finish my last novel for the year by early November, and then it's my time to get ready for the holidays, do my Christmas shopping, baking, and cooking. Not to mention allowing me time to get more knitting done.”

“Well, good for you,” Corabeth said. “And congratulations on another manuscript finished.”

“Thanks, and how's your latest one coming along?”

“As spicy as ever, and I should have it completed in a few months.”

“So what's the latest news on the island?” Shelby asked. “When I'm writing, I feel so isolated. Bring me up to date.”

“Well,” Raylene said, leaning forward in her chair. “We hear that a movie company is coming to Cedar Key to do a film. Any chance it could have something to do with one of your books?”

Shelby laughed. “If so, I don't know a thing about it. From your mouth to Spielberg's ears,” she said, causing all of us to laugh.

“So you're denying it has to do with your books?” Raylene persisted.

“I'm afraid so,” Shelby told her.

“How's Josie doing?” my mother asked. “We don't see much of her lately either.”

“She's doing very well. Hard to believe she's already graduated from her RN program.”

“That's right,” I said. “This past June. I heard she took a position at the Urgent Care Center in Gainesville. Does she like it?”

Shelby nodded. “Yes, she seems to. It's very good hours and only one weekend a month. So she certainly accomplished what she hoped to do—having a career with a decent salary and being able to spend more time with Orli.”

“I saw Orli in the post office last week.” My mother shook her head. “Goodness, she's a young lady now. No more little girl.”

“True. She turns sixteen the end of December. So far the teen years haven't been too bad.” I saw her glance stray to the archway in the wall. “I heard you're going to be opening a needlepoint shop. Gosh, I haven't done that in years, but I'm looking forward to browsing in there. When are you planning to open?”

I refrained from lifting my head from my knitting or from answering and heard my mother say, “Well . . . we've had a bit of a setback. We were hoping to open before Christmas, but I'm afraid that won't happen now. Apparently there's a small leak in the roof that caused ceiling damage, but Worth is attempting to find some workers to get it all fixed. So . . . we won't be opening now until after the first of the year.”

“Oh, that
is
a shame,” Sydney said. “I know how anxious you were to open, Marin.”

I nodded and heard my mother say, “She was. However, I think Marin has found something to occupy some of the time between now and then.”

I looked up from my knitting to find a group of expectant faces looking at me, waiting for an answer, and I smiled. These women allowed no possible information to escape them.

“Well . . . I'm planning to take a trip to Paris. But . . . now I'm not sure that will even happen. I was foolish enough to book my flight first and now I'm finding it almost impossible to find a place to stay.”

“Oh, how exciting,” Sydney said. “When are you planning to leave?”

“November twenty-fifth, a few days before Thanksgiving, and I guess that's the problem. I didn't think about so many hotels being booked solid during that time. The ones I've found so far that are available are so pricey I can't justify paying that.”

“Yeah, the holidays can be a busy time in Paris,” Sydney said. “Let me talk to Noah and see if he might have some suggestions for hotels, and you should also talk to Lucas and Grace. They're very familiar with Paris also.”

“Good idea. I'll do that tomorrow.”

“Did you say you plan to be there for Thanksgiving?” I heard Raylene question.

“Yes. I'll be there two weeks, so I'll be back early December, in time for Christmas.”

“Well, that doesn't seem very proper. Leaving your mother alone and all.”

Before I had a chance to reply, I heard my mother say, “Proper has nothing to do with it, Raylene. Marin is a grown woman and should be able to make her own choices. She's had a very difficult year, and besides, I won't
be
alone. I'll be spending the day with Sydney and Noah.”

Raylene shrugged her shoulders before giving off a sniff. “Well, I know it's none of my business, but I'm just saying . . . in my day, a daughter was always present for any holiday gathering.”

“Right,” Corabeth said. “This is none of your business, and Marin, I think it's a wonderful idea.”

“I agree,” Flora said. “Weren't you there after you graduated college?”

“I was, and I've always wanted to go back. I spent some time there with a couple girlfriends, and then time got away from me and I never had the chance to return until now.”

“And you're traveling there alone? All by yourself?” Raylene asked.

“Yes,” I told her. “Contrary to what many might believe, Paris is a very safe city. Of course I'll take precautions and not do anything or go anywhere foolish, so I think I'll be just fine.”

Raylene sniffed again. “I just can't imagine being there alone. What if something happened? What if you got sick?”

“God, Raylene, stop being such a downer,” Flora said. “They do have doctors in Paris, and believe it or not, many French people speak English, although I have no doubt that Marin will be brushing up on her French before she leaves.”

In all honesty, I hadn't thought about that but made a mental note to dig out my old French translation book or purchase a new one.

“Whatever,” Raylene mumbled before she resumed her knitting, and I couldn't help but wonder what had happened to the woman who had seemed to mellow earlier in the year. Normally cranky, judgmental, and a gossip, for a time Raylene had become almost sweet. Her husband, Mr. Carl, had insisted that the transformation had all come about because of Berkley's signature clam chocolates. He made a point of telling everybody that the rich, dark delight had magical qualities that Berkley had added to the recipe. So much for magic, I guess.