What a Mother Knows (23 page)

A Harley-Davidson howled past. Michelle shuddered. She should have let Noah ride his damn bike home, then she wouldn't feel responsible. Or maybe she still would. She remembered the sound of the rain, his shouts of protest as she closed her hand around his keys. Now, he was part of the local legend and her name was a rock 'n' roll footnote.

The car crept across the creek bridge then emerged on the ocean side, where the cliff edged the opposite lane. They drove down, down, down until her ears popped. Michelle's heart slowed to a steadier beat as they rounded a few more curves, farther and farther from where Noah had died.

Lexi pointed at the puffy tail of a deer bouncing up the mountain beside them. Michelle felt the pressure lifting as they reached the flatland, where lacy ferns lined the creek bed. And there it was, the shimmering sea. Seagulls cawed as they dive-bombed the deep blue water. Barely a whitecap was visible from here to the horizon. Michelle smelled the salt air and felt a sweet rush of relief.

Lexi coasted toward the intersection. “Which way?”

Michelle smiled at the simple choice of turning left or right at the sand. The Pacific Ocean was the ultimate guardrail. They could drive along the edge of the continent and never fall off.

Commuter planes flashed like sardines swimming across the sky above the Key West airport. Michelle pressed her nose to the steamy window and watched until her eyes burned. Ten hours after leaving California, she could smell sweat through the layer of baby powder she'd shaken down her back, but she didn't dare find the ladies' room to freshen up. Drew's flight from Miami was an hour late and every minute mattered.

She fanned herself with the postcard she'd written to Wes, wondering if she dare call him for moral support. Here she was, following a hunch that felt crazier by the minute. That missed call from Florida lingered in her mind long after her drive through Malibu with Lexi. When she got home and found the disco ball earring, she could no longer resist calling back. An electronic recording answered, but it was the same exchange as the bed and breakfast run by her stepbrother. It had to be him. When she reached him, he denied making the call. But she couldn't let it go. They were rarely in touch beyond birthday cards, so why wouldn't he simply ask how she was doing? And if it wasn't him, then who was it?

For three days, Michelle had done her husband's bidding and compiled information for the real estate agent. She wanted to go through the motions of cooperating until she could see Drew in person and talk him out of selling the house. That's when she realized she could talk to him here. If there was nothing to her suspicion about Nikki, they could at least have a family vacation and no one would be the wiser. But that call couldn't be a coincidence. Michelle knew in her bones, there was more.

Michelle fanned herself one last time. Wes wouldn't get the message until she had already missed her next appointment, so phoning was the polite thing to do. Then again, Kenny had warned her about cell phones. The GPS signal could be tracked so far that she had used a gum-encrusted payphone to call Frank. She dropped the postcard in the mailbox.

Michelle looked past the display of shell horns used by ancient sailors, then rolled her suitcase under the bright Welcome to the Conch Republic banner. A map of southern Florida hung on the wall next to the window of blinding blue sky. Michelle imagined Drew pointing out the airplane window, showing Tyler the white ribbon of road winding from island to island over the mint-colored sea.

On their honeymoon, Michelle and Drew had rented a convertible in Miami and sped the entire 113 miles south on the Overseas Highway. They'd imagined moving to a house hugging the shore and fishing for dinner from a rowboat. Drew would quit the film biz to sell bait. “Crickets?” she'd teased. He'd worn a Dodgers cap over a full head of hair, but his face was fried by the time they reached the Seven Mile Bridge. Michelle remembered falling silent as the car climbed high above the sea. The endless pool of aquamarine seemed to seep right into the sky with no horizon. It felt like their love would last forever.

No doubt Tyler would be more impressed by the marvel of engineering than any romantic stories she might share. But there was a toll on every road, so many turns you never took, then you found yourself here, alone in a tiny airport, watching happy families come and go. Soon, Michelle prayed, the Masons would be among them.

Flight 117 was finally announced on the tinny loudspeakers. She pulled the collar of her silk blouse away from her slick skin and tugged down her long sleeve. Then she fluffed out her hair and rolled her suitcase outside where lush palms lined the runway.

When the aircraft door clanked open, Tyler was first to appear. His hair hung below his Yankees cap and he seemed to have grown another inch since she'd last seen him. When the wave of heat hit, he whipped off his letter jacket, tightened his grip on his duffel bag, and rambled down the rollaway stairs.

Michelle put her arm around his shoulder and kissed his cheek. Passengers bunched up behind them until she pulled him aside. “Where's your father?”

“He couldn't get away,” Tyler said. “It's lucky I made it. I was about to go on a school camping trip.”

Michelle's heart felt as if it had fallen and stuck to the soft tarmac. “I'm sorry it was so last minute. I wasn't sure Frank had room during high season.” She led him toward the taxi line.

Tyler steered both bags to the end. “Is he really your stepbrother?”

“Technically no, but he still sends birthday presents,” she said. “Nana was only married to Frank's dad for a few months, but he was a good guy. He came to her rescue once upon a time, like a fairy tale.” Funny how infrequently Michelle thought about that period of time after she left for college. Elyse had eventually married the handsome detective who visited her in the hospital. Michelle shrugged it off and smiled at her son. “Frank is the one who sends disco ball earrings and—”

“Salt water taffy,” Tyler finished. “You said our dentist loves him.”

Michelle laughed. “Which reminds me, I have something for you.”

“I have something for you, too,” Tyler said, “but you go first.”

Michelle pulled his old Dodgers plate from her suitcase. “It's silly, but I thought you might get a kick out of it.”

Tyler grinned and took the plate. “This makes me hungry for a Happy Meal.”

“Will you settle for a shrimp taco?” Michelle asked.

They climbed into a sweltering cab with a Rastafarian driver. Tyler stuck his face in the bleating air vent, then turned to Michelle and shouted over the reggae blasting from the radio. “Dad says if you watch the sunset toward Cuba, you'll see a green flash. Can we do that?”

“Absolutely,” Michelle said. She peered out the window between ships' masts at the marina where the afternoon sun glowed like a burning fuse across the Atlantic. They slowed for a clutch of chickens on a road lined with pastel houses, then turned up Duval Street, the main drag in Old Town. The street was clogged with tourists trawling between bars.

“What's the drinking age here?” Tyler asked.

“Older than you,” Michelle said. She smiled as the taxi careened around the Conch Train Trolley on the cobblestone street. She scanned the sun-burnt families until Tyler noticed and put his arm around her.

“Don't be sad. We'll have a good time even without Dad. Just the two of us.”

Michelle couldn't bring herself to tell him the real reason they were there. He deserved her full attention. She saw several cats lounging in a patch of sun by a patio restaurant and remembered his allergies. “Did you bring your inhaler?” she asked.

“Of course. I'm not a baby,” Tyler said.

Michelle was about to say he would always be her baby when they pulled into the circular driveway at the historic Curry Mansion. Tyler whistled at the sight of the gracious white Victorian. From the New England widow's walk to the Southern columns, the inn was a testament to the treasures plundered from turn-of-the-century shipwrecks. Ragtime music was playing from the grand piano on the wraparound veranda, and a bear of a man growled from the porch.

“Mademoiselle Michelle!”

She waved, then let Tyler help her from the taxi.

Frank finished pouring a pitcher of mojitos into cups for hotel guests, then hurried down the wide stairs to welcome them. “And Master Tyler! So grown up!” He paid the cabdriver, then carried their luggage up. “Where's hubby?”

“Stuck in New York,” Michelle said, following Tyler up to the porch.

“What a shame.”

She nodded, grateful that Frank hadn't mentioned her bad arm or how bedraggled she must look. She surveyed the tables ringed with hotel guests enjoying the daily happy hour. Had any of them seen her daughter?

Frank poked at the albino cat sleeping on the porch rail until she stretched out a six-toed paw. “See the toes? Descendent of Hemingway's cat, Snowball.”

Tyler petted the cat, then sneezed. “Dad said to make sure to see the Hemingway House. There's a jillion cats there, right?”

“At least—and we'll see them all.” Michelle gave him a smile, then glanced over his shoulder at the old man in a tuxedo playing ragtime at the piano by the serve-yourself bar. His Afro was now a cap of white curls, but his keyboard style was unmistakable. “Is that Bojangles?”

“Who else? He'll outlast us all.” Frank opened the glass door to the house, where a welcome blast of cold air met them in the dark maple entry. Tyler whistled at the eighteenth-century furniture in the roped-off parlor. The dining table was set with so much crystal and gilded china that it seemed dinner would be served any moment.

“It'll be a few minutes until the Madame Deveraux Suite is ready, but if you're hungry, there are peanuts on the veranda.”

“Deveraux?” Tyler asked. “As in Nana? She comes here?”

“A few weeks every winter. She's very popular.” Frank led them through the narrow hallway lined with framed sepia photographs of the historic building. “Especially with my dad.”

Michelle hadn't known, but it made sense. He pointed to a newspaper clipping of her mother wearing a cape and a crown as she rode in the annual bed race, being pushed by a royal court of drag queens. “She didn't come until April last year and everybody missed her so much, she was appointed Queen of the Conch Festival. She judged the Key Lime Pie Contest.” Frank tapped the top button of his bowling shirt. “I won.”

Michelle pointed at a photo of a burly man on a live-aboard sailboat. “Is that your dad?”

He nodded. “He retired from the force and moved down here—about the same time your mom started visiting. He still does a bit of surveillance on the side.” Frank grinned, then opened the door of the office. “Even checked out my partner here, before I took him on. Sterling, this is Madame Deveraux's daughter.”

“Ah, VIPs,” he said, pushing a stack of proof sheets aside to reach for her limp hand. Michelle startled as he pressed his lips against it.

“Nice to meet you, Sterling.” Michelle pointed to the proof sheet with shots of the Curry Mansion. “You're not changing the postcard, are you? That watercolor is classic.”

Frank nodded. “Unfortunately,
classic
means ‘outdated' in the tourist trade. While our guests enjoy our escape from modern life, they do make reservations online. We need to keep the website current.” He handed her a postcard from the shelf of discount fliers by the office door. “Collector's item.”

Michelle smiled and surveyed the tourist attractions. “Tyler, why don't you take some brochures out to the veranda and plan our week while I check in. Which do you recommend, Frank? Aquarium? Cheap cruise ship connection to Miami?”

Frank shook his head and gave a few fliers to Tyler. “Deep sea fishing, that's the ticket.”

Michelle smiled. “Tyler, get yourself a cold drink and I'll meet you out there.” Michelle waited until Tyler was out of sight, then addressed Frank directly. “Thanks for having us on such short notice. The truth is, I'm looking for my daughter. After that call—I was hoping there was more to it.

Frank rubbed his beard. “Nikki's the one who sends thank-you notes written with purple ink?”

Michelle smiled. “That's her. Has my mother mentioned anything…amiss?”

“She's been worried about you, of course, but she hides it under that regal bearing. She seemed a bit tired this year, but I figured it was the arthritis. What's up with Nikki?”

“I haven't seen her since I got out of the hospital. Since you know everybody in town, maybe you could call around? I'm hoping she called home, then just got nervous. If she is here, I don't want to scare her off. I just want to see her.”

He nodded and shut the office door so Sterling could get back to work.

Michelle headed out to the front porch where she scanned the couples sipping rum drinks. Tyler was sipping a sweaty beer from his perch on the wooden railing by the cat. She swiped the bottle. “Get a couple of sodas, will you? Request a song, if you want.”

Tyler frowned. “Like what?”

Michelle rubbed her arm absentmindedly and spotted the pile of cocktail napkins by the tip jar. “Let's see what other people requested.” She dug out some cash and walked over to the piano. Tyler stopped halfway at the self-serve bar. Michelle made sure Tyler was pouring soda into his cup before turning to Bojangles. “How are you, Mr. B? Holding down the fort?”

“You got that right, Miss Michelle.”

“How'd you remember my name?”

“I'd recognize those eyes anywhere. The windows to your soul.”

“So I've heard.” She stuffed a twenty in his tip jar. “What's your favorite song?”

“Happy Birthday.” His long fingers trilled up the keyboard. “Every time I hear it, I know I'm still here.”

Michelle smiled, but the song no longer made her think of celebrations. It reminded her of the Roadhouse video, of the band singing the song to Nikki. She flipped through the soggy pile of napkins with requests written on them. The first was “Girl from Ipanema.” Michelle held it up, but Mr. B shook his head. He'd played it enough. The next song, “Margaritaville,” was so popular that she didn't even ask. The next title was more unusual. And it was written in purple ink.

All at once, Michelle felt the oppressive heat, heard the drunken laughter, and smelled the too-sweet drinks. She wondered if she was having a heart attack. She squeezed her eyes shut, then focused on the words printed on the napkin. This was Nikki's handwriting, complete with circles dotting the
i
's. Michelle held it up to Bojangles.

He tapped the keyboard, as if the song was right there waiting for him to play. She didn't recognize the jazzy Jose Feliciano introduction, but soon the music settled into the familiar melody of “Light My Fire.” A drunken woman behind the piano garbled the first line: “You know that it would be untrue…” Michelle's entire body flushed. She ran inside, letting the screen door slam behind her.

“Mom?” Tyler called after her.

Michelle ran through the lobby toward the office. “Frank?” She ran down the paneled hallway past the office to the homey kitchen, where a drunken game of Marco Polo echoed from the pool area in back, and found Frank standing at the back door.