Reunion (12 page)

“I expect you’re right,” Blue had replied. “They’ll have a grand time this week: we’ve got Meg Cabot on the set Monday, Jimmy Buffett on Tuesday, and Ernest Hemingway on Friday.”

The girl looked impressed, and then confused. “But—wait, are you sure? I thought Hemingway was dead.”

The guidebook claimed that at this time of day, many tourists—celebrity and otherwise—lazed under thatched cabanas called chickees, or at the counters of tin-roofed bars like the one Blue passed a block from her hotel, where four shirtless men with crude tattoos on their backs were singing Jimmy Buffett’s “It’s Five O’clock Somewhere.” In Greenland, if she had her geography right.

Dressed as she was, in oatmeal linen walking shorts and a white tank top, she could have been any woman with a ponytail and large dark sunglasses. By most external measures she was hardly different from the woman just leaving Fairvilla with two large bags. When Blue passed the
store she saw in their display window, beneath lingerie-clad busts with prominent nipples, a sign declaring that no one under eighteen was allowed inside. Those bags, then, would be filled with lots of amusements for grown-ups.

Okay, so she and the woman had less in common than she’d thought.

Still, like that shopper, she was youthful-looking and slim in that way middle-aged women could be if they worked hard at it. Without the benefit of expert hair and makeup, she was average-looking, or perhaps a little prettier, but nothing more. If she were now, say, an English teacher vacationing in the Keys, teacher-Blue might get an appreciative look, maybe even a wolf whistle if she leaned over where a certain type of man could see her. That would be the extent of getting noticed. As it was? As it was, she would put money on there being a photo of her wearing oatmeal linen walking shorts and a white tank top, ponytail, sunglasses, posted on some celebrity gossip website before California’s sunset, and in glossy newsstand print before the week was out. Exposure came with the territory, the same way box seats at Wrigley Field did, and offers of exquisite jewelry for the Emmys, on loan. And how absurd was it that the very things a person with her income could afford were, in so many cases, the things she now got for free?

With map in hand, she left Front for Simonton, stopping across from a building with a façade that reminded her of the Alamo. She read its sign,
Blond Giraffe Key Lime Pie Factory
, perplexed as to what giraffes and key limes had in common. Whatever it was, Peter was sure to quiz her on it later.

Farther up the street, she stopped in front of a small shop, an old cottage with pink clapboard that glowed neon bright in the afternoon sun. Arrayed on the tiny front lawn
(a postage-stamp lawn)
were metalwork birds in dazzling enameled colors: coral flamingos, posed in one-footed sleep; some black and white birds with large orange bills, prying at oysters; goldfinches perched on swaying daisies. Some were stylized, some realistic, and all of them were remarkable. She went up the short sidewalk and onto the porch, glancing inside through the open doorway. Smaller works were displayed on shelves and in cases, and hung suspended
from the ceiling by fishing line. A bright, multicolored bird atop a pedestal display caught her eye and drew her inside.

The shop encompassed the entire cottage, save for a small room at the back, probably what had once been the kitchen. The space was narrow and long, with only a few small windows. Underfoot were wood planks, freshly painted yellow to coordinate with the windowsills. Display cases and shelves held more birds, plus T-shirts and hats, jars of sauces, packages of candies, polished seashells, a vivid collection of dolls made entirely of fabric. She approached the display she’d seen from outside, noting with pleasure that she had the place to herself.

Unlike the upscale shops she was accustomed to, no music played, no strategic spotlights lit featured items, and no one approached her with a too-eager inquiry on whether they “might be of assistance.” The companionable sound of wind chimes on the porch, ringing with the light breeze, was all she heard as she took a closer look at the sculpture.

The bird was small—no larger than her fist—and made to sit on a branch, with deep green leaves offsetting it. Its shape was finchlike, but she’d never seen such a finch. Indigo head, scarlet breast, green wings, yellow back. A rainbow bird. A Gay Pride bird? A striking, appealing bird, at any rate.

“Painted Bunting,” said someone from the back of the room, startling Blue. She looked that way and saw what she’d missed when she came in: a diminutive black woman seated in the corner behind a crowded table, most likely reading the book she was just setting down.

“Oh. Thank you.” The feeling of solitude evaporated, and Blue smiled to mask her disappointment. “It’s beautiful.”

The woman stood up and walked over. She moved with such grace it was as though the air around her didn’t stir. “You’ve never seen one?”

“So they’re real? No, I haven’t seen one. Do they actually look like this?”

“Oh yes,” the woman said. Her voice was low and warm, a calming voice to match her calming expression, and the calming earth-toned pants and woven shirt she wore. “If you’d come down a month ago, you
might have caught a glimpse. This is the male. He is the most spectacular songbird you’ll find in the northern hemisphere.”

“But I’ll guess not in Chicago,” Blue said. “I live in Chicago.”

“Oh, hon, I know you do.”

Of course she knew. “Are you the artist?”

The woman nodded. “I come here from Dominica in, oh, 1963 I guess it was. My husband, he was a pirate.” She drew out the last word,
pi-i-rate
, reminding Blue of her mother’s warning from the night before.

“No kidding?” Blue said, stroking the bird’s wing with her index finger. “I thought all that pirate business was finished in, you know, the nineteenth century.”

“So it might seem,” the woman said. “But it’s still happening. People just don’t see things when they don’t want to look. Like little children, we cover our eyes and say, ‘I don’t see it, so it must not be there.’”

“You have such beautiful things here,” Blue said, an attempt to change the subject. “You’re very talented. I’m going to take the Painted Bunting here home with me, and I want to look around some more—he might like a companion.”

“Yes, he should have one,” the woman said, lifting the bird from the pedestal. “We should all,” she continued as she carried it to the checkout counter. “Don’t you think?”

What Blue thought was that the woman was striking nerves—proving what she already knew: that she, Blue, was stressed out and oversensitive, and needed a real vacation. Hiatus could not come too soon.

As she browsed, she was aware of the woman’s steady gaze. Well, when didn’t people stare? She tried to ignore it as she moved from one sculpture to the next, considering whether she should buy one for her mother’s birthday in June—a job usually accomplished with a phone call to Marcy, like so many of her personal tasks these days. Years, more like. God.

A Wading Heron? A pair of orioles on a copper birdbath? Or this, a large, regal red bird with a straw-like, curving beak?

“You brought it all with you,” the woman said.

“I’m sorry?” Blue looked up from the glossy, black-beaked bird, which was made to stand in a two-foot-wide cattail marsh.

“All of it. You brought it here. Most don’t.”

Blue fought off her initial reaction, that uncomfortable sensation that her thoughts were somehow discernible, that people could see through her mask of capability and accomplishment, see how weak and scared she was. She’d endured a lot of such moments in her life, enough to know that the feeling was only anxiety, that the woman was not referring to her burdened mind, but to the production crew with their cameras and cables and soundboards, the light towers, the reflectors—all the things that made Blue look and sound good when nature would have it otherwise. She said, “I guess I did. That’s the way it works, you know.”

“Does it work that way?”

Blue reached for her ponytail, took out the elastic, shook her hair, then began to bind it up again as she said, “What can you tell me about this bird? I’ve never seen one like it.”

The woman stared a moment longer, lips pursed, then said, “I think your mother would enjoy that one, yes, the Scarlet Ibis; you decide, and I’ll go in back and find a box,” leaving Blue standing with her mouth open. She had not mentioned her mother.

“On second thought, just the Bunting,” she called.

When the woman was out of earshot, Blue muttered, “No one can read minds.” Saying the words aloud gave them more weight, more reassurance.

There was an easy explanation for what seemed like clairvoyance: When the woman knew the show was coming to town, she’d studied up on her Blue Reynolds facts, easily found on the Internet. Blue wouldn’t be surprised if there were sites devoted solely to birthdays of celebrities’ family members. The woman had recognized her when she came in, watched her while she looked around just now, and simply made a lucky guess.

It had to be something like that. Her pulse slowed, but the sensation of vulnerability, like an aftertaste, remained.

itch encouraged his father to narrate their tour around the island, from fish market to grocery store to pie shop. Brenda, who found Daniel completely charming, was the ideal audience for a man who’d become a teacher because, he said, he liked to hear himself talk.

“Turn left here,” Daniel directed, as they headed back from their last stop. “We’ll go give you a peek at Mallory Square, where some of the cruise liners dock—it’s impressive, the way they dominate the waterfront. The
Enchantment’s
about to sail, so things’ll be quieting down a little. You wouldn’t believe the circus, when these ships first put in.”

Mitch didn’t bother to remind his father that he and Brenda had seen cruise ships before, that they had sailed on them twice with their spouses of the past. Those had been good trips, kicking around San Juan, spelunking in Curaçao … In the Bahamas, Brenda had loved the Royal Victoria Gardens, while Angie complained that she hadn’t gone to the Bahamas to see grass and trees, both of which were plentiful in Chapel Hill. She had a good point. Still, Brenda had seemed to bloom amongst the blooms there in Nassau. Her perspective was, Who had time to notice such things at home?

And here was something he’d forgotten until just now: The next night, while he and Craig sipped whiskies in the ship’s casino, Craig had been compelled to tell him how versatile Brenda was in bed—on the night before, and in general. Uninhibited, as if all her study of Victorian morality had worked as a warning. “Whatever the case,” Craig said, elbowing him, “I’m damn lucky for it!” Mitch had been embarrassed; that
kind of candor was for lesser men, for locker rooms and seedy bars. That said, he had to admit he now felt lucky too.

“We’re on the northwest corner of the island here, and if we went down to the opposite end, on Whitehead,” his father was saying, “that’s where you’d find the southernmost point in the continental U.S. Now Hawaii, at about nineteen degrees south latitude, has the southernmost point altogether—I tried to compare them from the Shuttle on my final trip, just to see for myself, but the fact is, both are pretty much invisible from orbit.”

Mitch glanced over his shoulder at Brenda, to see whether she’d noticed his father’s slip. She smiled at him and shrugged. She was a tolerant person, the type to take lemons (of which there were many in academia) and make not only lemonade but also lemon bars and lemon drop martinis. A good trait. He really did like her. He might even love her, the way you loved any friend who’d stuck by you for so long—which could become something more, sure it could.

Would Craig sanction him and Brenda as a couple? Was he up there in English professor heaven nodding in approval? Mitch wasn’t the best of her prospects; while he was considered good looking, he wasn’t as accomplished or well-connected as some other single men he could name, which made him wonder—again—what drew her. He supposed she simply
liked
him, always had and, like he with her, now liked him … more.

His father, still chatting away, was saying, “Maybe Mitch will take you over there—to the point, not to Hawaii—well, maybe Hawaii, too—but anyway, don’t be fooled by the touristy claims. It’s not the honest-to-god southernmost point, even on the Key. That’s over farther west, on Navy property.”

“How interesting,” Brenda said. “You have such a wealth of knowledge about Key West—I’m glad Mitch brought me along.”

Mitch liked the rapport his father was forging with Brenda, even if at times it was Ken Mattingly who forged it. Whereas Renee had been … tempestuous, and Angie had been … flighty, Brenda was sensible
and solid, attractive, dependable, kind. She’d make an ideal daughter-in-law, if it ever came to that.

“Oh, there she is,” his father said. Mitch, looking seaward down Front Street, saw the cruise ship,
Enchantment of the Seas
, rising majestically from behind the small buildings at the corner.

Brenda said, “That’s her? How can you tell?”