Fortunate Harbor (5 page)

“No. No, that’s not it. I…well, I think he’s kind of special, actually. And maybe…”

Wanda waited. When Tracy didn’t go on, she gave up. “Well,
if nobody else is going to speak up, I will. I just read a whole article on this in some women’s magazine when I was having my hair fixed. It was all about the excuses women on the verge of menopause make to avoid having sex.”

Tracy fumbled and dropped her fork. “I am not on the verge of menopause!”

“No? Didn’t you tell me a couple weeks ago, your periods are all screwed up? Maybe you wouldn’t be cruising toward the change in normal times, but could be your body’s forgotten what it’s supposed to be doing. You’re sure not using it the way God intended. No sex, no children—”

“Wanda!” Janya cleared her throat. “You are, perhaps, premature in your diagnosis. Tracy is much too young.”

“And you are much too opinionated,” Tracy said, narrowing her eyes at Wanda. “My periods would be as regular as clockwork, thanks, except I went off the pill, and now they’re confused.”

“Unfortunately, so are mine,” Janya said.

The table fell silent.

“What does that mean?” Wanda asked at last. “You’re trying to have a baby?”

Janya looked embarrassed. She gave the slightest of nods.

“Without telling us?” Wanda asked.

“Is that a prerequisite? Is that why it’s yet to happen?” Janya disappeared into the kitchen again.

Dana, who had been taking in the entire conversation, leaned forward. “Do you always talk to each other like this?”

Wanda sized her up for a moment, wondering how the other women saw their guest. Dana was in her forties, nice to look at, if not actually pretty. She was tall and willowy, with messy Meg Ryan hair, long face and large teeth that made for a spectacular smile on the rare occasions she at
tempted one. When it came to dress, the women of Happiness Key were an eclectic bunch. No matter what she wore, Tracy was designer chic. Janya preferred the flowing fabrics of her native country, deep rich colors and lots of gold bangles. Alice was fifties homemaker. Wanda herself liked bright prints and spandex—a woman couldn’t have too much spandex. She classified Dana as somewhere between sporty and classic. She would look equally at home hiking in the Adirondacks or processing a mortgage application at the local bank.

Wanda liked Dana, although her new friend was a shade too reticent. Most of the time Dana kept to herself, but Wanda could see their table conversation had shaken that right out of her. They had tried to catch her up on who was whom and what was what. Dana still looked bewildered.

“Sometimes we’re even worse,” Wanda answered, “but I’ll admit we don’t always have this much to talk about. Tonight’s a real surprise, what with Tracy heading for hot flashes, and Janya trying to get pregnant and all.”

Tracy pointed at Wanda with her fork. “I am not heading for anything except a catfight on Janya’s floor!”

Wanda liked to see Tracy all riled up. Color was flowing back into her cheeks. She’d been pale as an ice cube when she arrived.

“You might think on it,” Wanda said. “First those unpredictable periods. Then you lost your appetite for men. You’re gaining weight—”

“What?” Tracy shrieked.

Wanda was just as glad she wasn’t sitting next to her landlady. “Don’t pretend you haven’t. I was at Target with you when you bought those jeans, lady. Your other jeans shrunk? After what you spent on them back in California?”

“I think Tracy looks wonderful,” Alice said. “She is…blossoming.”

“I never said she didn’t look wonderful. She needed a little weight. Round her out a tad.”

“The power of suggestion can be strong.” Janya was clearly trying to reestablish decorum. “I think your former husband was on your mind, Tracy, and you saw movement on the road where none was to be expected. The man reminded you of him somehow. That is all that happened.”

Wanda figured they’d gone as far with Tracy as they could go, so she turned to Janya. “So, you’re trying to have a baby? It doesn’t always happen the first time or two you try.” She frowned. “And twenty-five is awful young.”

“You’ll be a wonderful mother,” Alice said. “You will have such…” As she sometimes still did, she had to search for the right word. “Energy.”

Tracy was still glaring at Wanda, but she addressed Janya. “You’re really ready? I mean, you’re doing so well with your murals. Everybody wants one.”

“Rishi has waited so long for a real family. I can give him this.”

They were all silent for a moment. Wanda didn’t know how to respond to that. She had no qualms about going after Tracy, but Janya was sensitive, and questioning her didn’t seem proper.

“I was fired,” Wanda said, to change the subject once more.

“What?” Tracy’s annoyance visibly vanished. “Are you making that up?”

“Nope. They’re changing the Dancing Shrimp into a tapas bar and calling it Gaylord’s. Like in this economy people have the money and appetite for teensy little plates of food. People want lots to eat, and a bargain to boot. So it won’t stay open more than a month. Remember I said so.”

There was a round of indignation, then another of sympathy. Wanda enjoyed both.

Janya looked relieved to be off the hot seat. “Will they not need servers?”

“None my age. Dana’s been asked to continue. I was put out to pasture.”

“The new owners haven’t one bit of talent or sense, but they’re rich in opinions.” Dana patted Wanda’s hand. “She’s the best server in the place. I don’t know what the Dancing Shrimp will do without her.”

“Too bad,” Wanda said. “I’m gone for good. Left yesterday, and I don’t regret it.”

Everybody got up to get a slice of one of the pies, and Janya took orders for coffee or tea.

In a few minutes they were all seated in Janya’s small living room. On a rainy winter day in January, Janya, who liked to experiment with color, had painted the walls a deep sage green. The wall behind the low platform sofa was now a mural of the Taj Mahal, but painted as if Monet had joined her for the experiment. Prints in brass frames adorned the other walls, and plants sat anywhere they received even a ray of light.

Wanda noticed that talk of weight gain hadn’t deterred Tracy from a slice of French silk pie.

“Should we call the girls?” Dana still sounded worried.

“We’ll save them some,” Wanda assured her.

Alice rolled her eyes in pleasure. “This German chocolate tastes like pie must taste in heaven. I think you should sell these, Wanda. We can’t buy good pies. Those expensive ones at the Sunshine Bakery? They aren’t even as good as the frozen pies…you know, at the grocery store. I bet you could make them for the owner to sell.”

Wanda was flattered. Talking to Alice was a little like playing the lottery. Sometimes you struck out, and sometimes you won big. Tonight, Alice was on a winning streak.

“As much as I hate to be nice to you right now, Wanda,” Tracy said, a smudge of chocolate on her lovely chin, “Alice is right. There’s no good place in this town to buy a pie. Everything at that bakery is just okay at best, but her pies aren’t even
that
good. Of course, you’ve spoiled us all.”

“You really think anybody would buy them?”

“I think anybody who ever had a slice would be lined up at her door.”

“Well, it would give me something to do while Kenny’s in and out.”

Dana interrupted. “Kenny’s your husband?”

“Right. A cop. Officially he’s Sergeant Gray, but he’s Ken to everybody else.” She glanced at Dana, who looked surprised. “Didn’t I tell you about him?”

“I don’t think so.”

“He’s the best kind of cop, too.”

“What kind is that?”

“The kind that does his job real well.”

Dana looked vaguely uncomfortable. Wanda knew cops did that to people, and she was used to it. Some poor woman who was driving the speed limit suddenly started crawling ten miles below it when she saw a cop, sure she was going to be arrested just for sitting behind the steering wheel.

“So Ken’s sort of a bonus out here? Your own watchdog?” Dana asked.

“Don’t worry about Kenny clocking your car with his radar gun, or checking to be sure your county sticker’s up to date. He’s not like that. He just makes sure nothing’s
going on around here that shouldn’t be. Only he’s not going to be around much for a while. He’s going to be training up in Georgia.”

The others asked about Ken’s training, and Wanda told them what she knew.

“Don’t let any of this sway you from renting the cottage,” Tracy told Dana. “We don’t have problems out here. I probably just saw a fisherman or something. We watch out for each other. Even without Ken around all the time, you’ll be safe, and I hope happy.”

The girls came charging back inside, and there was a flurry as they chose which pie they wanted and got milk to go with it. The talk turned to lighter things; then it was time to clean up and leave. The women thanked Janya for the wonderful meal, and divided the leftover pie to take home.

Wanda figured that even for Happiness Key, this had been a pretty exciting night. Tracy’d had an adventure. Janya had dropped a bombshell about her personal life. She herself had gotten some well-deserved sympathy and maybe even an idea for the future. And Dana had gotten the introduction of a lifetime.

Nobody could say the woman didn’t know what she was in for if she moved out here.

“Ready to see the cottage?” Tracy asked Dana and Lizzie, when everybody was ready to go.

“I want to live here. I don’t care what the house looks like!” Lizzie and Olivia had clearly plotted strategy while they were outside together.

Dana didn’t look as convinced, but Wanda figured once she finally went inside the house, she would say yes. Even a one-room hut with outdoor plumbing was better than the Driftwood Inn, and the cottage topped that by a mile. Best of all,
Lizzie would be safe and happy on Happiness Key. And if she knew anything about Dana, Wanda knew Lizzie’s happiness was right at the top of her list.

Just to be certain Wanda didn’t have a point, Tracy went home Sunday night, turned on her computer and read everything she could find on menopause. At thirty-five, she was sure she was too young to be going through it, but Wanda had gotten under her skin.

Afterward she felt better. Her periods were irregular but not greatly so. She only had hot flashes when she stepped from air-conditioning into Florida’s violent sunshine. She might occasionally have mood swings, sure, but those were always due to PMS. She slept like a rock at night, still craved sex, and wasn’t losing hair or growing more in places she didn’t want it. Nope, there was nothing physical happening to her, nothing premature. Wanda had been trying to get a response, and she had succeeded.

Still, she lay awake too long thinking about Friday. She had half expected Marsh to call over the weekend, but her phone had been silent. She was pretty sure she had hurt his feelings. And why wouldn’t they be hurt? She’d been as jumpy as a
virgin. He had come for a good meal—okay, the meal had been the least of it. He had come to spend the night, and instead, she had been thinking about CJ, a man who, without remorse, had dropped her into the worst mess of her life.

Tracy had made a mistake by not telling Marsh what she thought she had seen. At least then they could have talked. She could have admitted she was spooked by her past. Marsh was divorced. He would have understood. Comfort would have turned to something far more interesting.

On Monday morning she woke even earlier than usual and dressed casually for a day at the rec center. Spring vacation was over. Marsh would be busy getting himself to work and his son to school, but she thought he might spare her a few minutes. She would stop by to explain and ask his forgiveness. She would tell him that any time he could get away again, he had a standing invitation to come to her place. She gave herself an extra half hour to get to work and took off.

Marsh lived on the other end of Palmetto Grove Key, near the bridge to the mainland, in a house his family had owned for four generations. She passed both the island’s Indian mound and an abandoned fish camp; then she wound her way through forest scrub that reminded her of her unfortunate search and destroy mission yesterday.

Someday soon she would have to find her way back to that spot and look for her golf umbrella, which she had abandoned after nearly clubbing earth-tone man over the head.

Marsh called his rambling home a Cracker house. It sat on brick pilings, high enough that when storms blew through and flooding ensued, the house usually withstood both. The tin roof jutted over screened porches for shade, and windows had been placed for maximum ventilation. Once in the fall, she, Marsh
and Bay had camped out in mosquito-net-draped hammocks on one of the porches, listening to insects and the remnants of a faraway thunderstorm. She had fallen asleep, drugged by the fragrance of citrus blossoms and the faint sulfur of distant mangroves. The unlikely combination had been intoxicating.

Gratified when she saw that Marsh had not yet left, she pulled her vintage BMW convertible to a halt beside his pickup. A Chevrolet sedan with Florida plates sat on the other side. She remembered that Marsh’s cleaning lady came on Mondays.

She climbed the steps and opened the screen door to the porch where they had camped that night. She crossed and rapped on the front door. About to pound a little harder and call through the open windows, she was surprised when the door opened.

Tracy took a step back. The woman in the doorway was about her own age. She had pale blond hair and a porcelain complexion that proclaimed the hair color—or at least some version of it—was natural. Her features were narrow and perfectly aligned, and her eyes were almost violet. Tracy examined her quickly, hoping for something that wasn’t perfect, to pump up her diminishing confidence, and decided the lovely eyes were spaced too close together.

That did not, of course, offset the fact that she was dressed in a bathrobe the same shade of violet.

“May I help you?” she asked sleepily, tying the belt of her robe around a Scarlett O’Hara waist.

Tracy was at a complete loss for words. Obviously this woman, whoever she was, had spent the night here.

In whose bed?

She was expected to say something. She settled for the perfunctory. “I was looking for Marsh.”

“Well, he’s a popular guy. I’m sure you aren’t the first woman who’s come looking for him.”

The woman did not have a voice that went with her general appearance. Tracy had expected a Southern drawl, something soft and purring, like melting butter on moist corn bread. Instead she clipped her speech, as if each word knew it was allowed only so much time to hang in the air. Tracy pictured a spreadsheet. She pictured graphs.

“Is he home?” Tracy asked at last, although she wasn’t sure why. Confronting Marsh here and now was one of the worst ideas she’d had in a few days filled with them.

“I’m sorry, but Marsh is getting our son ready for school. I would call him, but I know he doesn’t want to be interrupted. We both take Bay’s education very seriously.”

Sylvia Egan. Now Tracy had a name to put with the face. Marsh had told her all about his ex-wife, Sylvia, or at least she’d thought so. He had just neglected to mention that Sylvia could have been Miss America.

Or maybe she had been. Maybe Sylvia had put herself through law school on all those scholarships. Because Tracy knew that when she wasn’t standing around in a bathrobe, Sylvia was a hotshot criminal attorney in Manhattan. Marsh
had
told her that Sylvia was a phenomenon, a woman who sent prosecutors running to jobs in private law firms, just to avoid facing her.

What he hadn’t told her was that Sylvia the shark was also Sylvia the temptress.

“So, you’re Bay’s mother,” Tracy said. “I’m Tracy Deloche. I know Bay from the recreation center.”

Sylvia looked blank, as if she couldn’t imagine how that had anything to do with her.

“I was in charge of his program last summer,” Tracy elaborated. “We got to be good friends.”

“Oh, right. His little youth camp. I think he told me about it.”

Tracy felt a flash of anger on behalf of the little boy. Bay had been enrolled for the entire summer. Of course he had told Sylvia about it. What else did a nine-year-old talk about except the things he did every day?

“Are you here to talk to Marsh about Bay?” Sylvia asked. “Because I can certainly relay the message. We share
everything
and always have.”

Tracy schooled her jaw not to drop. Sylvia had just declared war, woman to woman. Tracy might not understand everything about the world, but she’d learned
those
dynamics in preschool.

“No, it was more personal than that.” She sent Sylvia her most enigmatic smile. “And not something he’d want me to share with you.”

Sylvia was well armed, but she wasn’t impervious. Tracy’s salvo hit home. Tracy could see it in the narrowing of the other woman’s pupils. “I’m sorry your little tête-à-tête will have to wait, Daisy, but I’ll be sure to tell Marsh you stopped by.”

Tracy didn’t correct the name. This was probably a trick Sylvia had learned in court, a guaranteed route to make a witness feel inconsequential.

“Oh, don’t bother,” she said, as if she really didn’t want to disturb the other woman. “I have his private line at work. I’ll just give him a buzz. I know he’ll be interested we finally met.”

“Finally?”

“Yes. More or less historic, wouldn’t you say? The woman from his past and the woman from his future.”

“You toss beanbags with nine-year-olds and tell fortunes, too?”

“Lawyers aren’t the only people who can put facts together
and draw conclusions.” Tracy glanced at her watch. “As fascinating as this has been, gotta go. Give Bay a hug for me.”

She told herself not to say it. She told herself to bite her tongue, but unfortunately, she didn’t listen. “If you’ve finally learned how to hug him, that is.”

Then, angry at herself for stooping so low that she’d use a little boy as ammunition, she took the fastest route to the screen door, took the steps two at a time and started toward her car.

She was heading down the driveway when Marsh emerged from the house. He was alone. Maybe Sylvia was inside hugging Bay. Maybe by the time Marsh went back inside, Sylvia would have hugged him so hard the kid would need CPR. Tracy considered sailing right past, but she’d already chalked up one immature act for the day, and it wasn’t even 8:00 a.m.

She stopped beside him and rolled down her window, leaning over the empty seat. “Lovely morning,” she said sweetly. “I hope Sylvia made you a big pot of coffee.”

“Turn off the engine and get out, okay?”

She considered. Maybe, just this once, she could allow herself two immature acts before breakfast. Everybody needed a break from routine. In the end, though, she got out and walked around the car, leaning against the passenger door with her arms folded.

“You never told me how stunning she is,” she said.

“I know how this looks.”

“Good. Because finding the words might take me most of the day.”

“She showed up yesterday morning. Just like that. Seems she lost a big case, something she and her firm were sure she was going to win. She’s devastated.”

“So you gave her solace and a place to stay.”

“I wouldn’t have given her
anything
, but we share a kid, remember? And you know how much Bay misses her. Could you see me explaining that I don’t want his mother anywhere near us? If this was summer, she could take him on a vacation somewhere far, far away. But he’s in school. This is the only way she’s going to be able to spend any time with him.”

She considered that. It made sense.

“We aren’t sleeping together,” he said, when she didn’t respond.

“Neither are
we.
”

“I’m aware of that.”

“That’s why I came over.”

“To sleep with me?” Just the faintest hint of a smile touched his lips.

“No! Well, not right now, anyway. I, well, I just needed to explain what happened the other night. At least as well as I understand it.”

“Give it to me in a nutshell.”

She considered. “Okay. Friday night when I was crossing the room to the sofa to sit with you, I thought I saw CJ on the road in front of my cottage.”

“There’s that name again.”

“Marsh! At least CJ’s not sleeping in my house.”

“Touché.”

“It was my mother’s phone call, I guess. Stirring up all kinds of stuff. And you being there, and me being kind of…” No sane woman told a man she was nervous about getting into his bed, because that gave him all kinds of power. “Kind of wanting to make things perfect,” she said lamely.

“You really thought you saw him?”

“You want to hear something stranger? He actually
is
out of jail, holed up somewhere in California, working with his at
torneys to make sure he stays that way. If I’d actually listened to my mother’s phone call, I would have known. I guess she thought I was aware of it and she wanted to harass me.”

“And that’s why you went all squirrelly?” He rested his palms on the car, one on each side of her head, and leaned toward her.

“‘Squirrelly’ is an exaggeration.”

“Could it have been him?”

“Not likely. I thought I saw him again yesterday but I tracked that man down. Not CJ.” She declined to tell him the rest of the story, since admitting to visions of her ex-husband was embarrassing enough. “I guess all this just brought up a bunch of memories. But they don’t have anything to do with the way I feel about you.”

“And how
do
you feel, Miss Tracy?”

She smiled a little. He was smiling exactly the same amount. Both of them waiting, she thought, for the other to make the first move.

“Like we missed an opportunity,” she said softly, her gaze dropping to his lips. “And there are so few opportunities in this life, we should never let that happen.”

“You know, now that Sylvia’s here, I have a built-in babysitter.”

“We should take advantage of that.”

In the end, he was the one who covered the slight distance and kissed her.

When the kiss ended, she opened her eyes and looked beyond him. Sylvia was standing on the porch watching, her expression a complete blank.

“We have an audience,” Tracy said.

He straightened and turned.

“Marsh?” Sylvia called. “Hate to bother you, but I don’t know where you keep your bread, and I need to make Bay a sandwich for lunch.”

“You go,” Tracy told him. “We’ll make plans later.”

“I’ll hold you to that.”

She watched Marsh walk back to the house. Now Sylvia was smiling sweetly. She lifted a hand and gave Tracy a half wave.

Tracy’s elation vanished. Silhouetted in the doorway, Sylvia was the woman every man dreamed of coming home to.

Marsh might think Sylvia was here to lick her wounds and visit her neglected son, but Tracy had grown up with too many women just like her. She was sure war had been declared, and Marsh was the prize.

Wanda spent Monday morning baking. She wasn’t one to sit around and think about things until she was so confused she didn’t know where to turn. She liked the idea of baking pies for the Sunshine Bakery. Of course, she figured getting hired to do it was a long shot. The owner probably thought her own pies were just fine, but baking took her mind off the Dancing Shrimp, and besides, she needed to contribute.

There were only so many books a person could take in. To be considerate she’d let Alice teach her to crochet, but how many granny square afghans could she foist off on her kids and grandkids? Sure, she couldn’t survive without
All My Children
, but that was why God had invented TiVo, and Ken had surprised her with one for their anniversary.

No, baking was the thing, though she could foresee a serious problem if she didn’t find a way to sell all the pies she was planning. Ken could only take so many to work, even when he was home. Her neighbors were game, but not enough to
double their weight—although Tracy was trying. No, selling the pies was the answer, and Sunshine was the place to start.