Page 1 of Key West Promises

CHAPTER 1

Leah Lawrence had always been a morning person, but lately dawn felt less like a beginning and more like an accusation. The laptop screen glowed in front of her: $157.43. Their remaining balance. The electronic statement showed a parade of recent transactions—each one a testament to their dwindling grip on reality:

WITHDRAWAL—CUBAN COFFEE QUEEN—$14.75

WITHDRAWAL—SUNSET SAIL ENTERPRISES—$75.00 WITHDRAWAL—KEYS ELECTRIC FINAL NOTICE—$147.32

She clicked through their other accounts, each one telling the same story. Credit cards maxed out. Savings depleted. Their "emergency fund" reduced to loose change in a decorative rum bottle they'd bought during their first week in paradise. The money their sister Chelsea had given them the year before was gone, and Leah’s guilt about that was more than she was able to carry.

A rooster crowed outside their yellow bungalow—one of the scrawnier ones that usually raided their forgotten herb garden. This particular bird, dubbed "Ernest" by Tess because he looked "literary," had outlasted their attempts at growing basil and mint for Tess's never-launched cocktail catering business. Now he strutted through the withered remains of their container garden, pecking at the expensive organic soil they'd bought in a fit of agricultural optimism.

Through her reading glasses, Leah watched early morning joggers pass by their rental, their expensive athletic wear and bouncy ponytails reminding her of the life she'd left behind in Boston. A year ago, she would have been one of them, power walking along the Charles River before heading to her sensible job with its sensible 401(k). She'd had a standing morning coffee date with other professionals—women who discussed investment strategies and retirement plans over perfectly foamed lattes.

Now here she sat in worn yoga pants and a faded t-shirt that proclaimed, "Life's Better in Flip Flops," trying to make sense of how she and her sister had managed to burn through their savings in pursuit of what Tess called their "island dreams.” The shirt had been part of a bulk order—another of Tess's business ideas. "Tourist-wear with a personal touch!" The remaining boxes still cluttered their small, detached garage, along with other remnants of their abandoned enterprises.

Leah shook her head and was glad their other sisters, Chelsea and Gretchen, weren’t here to see how bad things were.

"Any luck with the numbers?"

Her younger sister appeared in the kitchen doorway, honey-blonde curls wild from sleep, still wearing the flamingo pajamas she couldn't resist buying last month—even though their electric bill was due. At fifty, Tess radiated the same effervescent energy she'd had when they were kids and could talk Leah into anything. Like moving to Key West to "find themselves" at an age when most people were planning for grandchildren and retirement.

The smell of coffee filled their tiny kitchen—bargain brand now, not the special island roast they'd once justified as a "business expense" for Tess's coffee cart scheme. That particular dream had died around the same time they discovered that mobile food licenses required more than just a cute logo and matching aprons.

"Define luck," Leah said, closing the laptop. No point staring at numbers that wouldn't change. She watched Tess float around their kitchen, somehow making even impending poverty look like the beginning of an adventure. That was Tess's gift—finding silver linings in hurricane clouds. It was what had gotten them through their parents' divorce, through failed relationships (Tess's) and failed promotions (Leah's), and now, apparently, through financial ruin.

Their kitchen told the story of their year in paradise better than Leah could ever write in the novel she hadn't started. Mason jars filled with shells from Captiva beach walks they took when visiting Chelsea lined the windowsill, catching the morning light like broken promises. Coffee mugs from every bar on Duval Street crowded the open shelving—souvenirs of nights when they still believed their money would last forever. The ancient air conditioner wheezed asthmatically, fighting a losing battle against the Key West humidity that made everything feel slightly damp.

Their tiny kitchen opened into what Tess optimistically called their "great room," though there was nothing particularly great about its dimensions. The furniture told its own story of their declining fortunes—a wicker sofa they'd found at an estate sale ("It just needs some love, Leah!"), mismatched chairs from various thrift stores, and a coffee table that had once been a wooden cable spool ("Industrial chic is very in right now!").

Above the sofa, their "vision board" hung like an archaeological record of abandoned dreams. Photos and magazine cutouts created a collage of everything they'd planned: Tess teaching cooking classes on the beach, Leah writing her novel in quaint coffee shops, both of them hosting sunset cruises for tourists seeking "authentic island experiences." Beneath the board, a stack of business cards gathered dust, each representing a different failed venture:

"Island Inspirations - Bespoke Beach Events" (Three inquiries, zero bookings)

"Keys to Success - Professional Life Coaching" (Their one client had moved to Tampa)

"Sunset Sisters - Making Paradise Perfect" (The website had crashed and taken their hosting fee with it)

The Key West that greeted them a year earlier bore little resemblance to their dreams. The pristine beaches they'd imagined were nowhere to be found, and the fishing boats they'd hoped to charter sat in the marina, their rental fees far beyond reach. One by one, their plans crumbled like ashes, carried away on the salty breeze along with their hopes of building a life in this island paradise.

Tess opened their "pantry"—really just a set of decorative shelves they'd installed during their home improvement phase. The remains of their groceries looked like modern art—creative arrangements of whatever had been on sale, plus the endless supply of rice they'd panic-bought during the last hurricane warning.

"We still have cereal," Tess announced brightly, rattling a nearly empty box. "And, half a banana. Want to share?

"We could always sell the paddleboard," Tess suggested, pulling out their chipped tourist wine glasses, the ones with "Key West: Paradise Found" written in fading letters. The glasses were part of a set of six; the others had met various ends during what Tess called their "entrepreneurial experiments," including one memorable attempt at hosting a wine-and-painting night at Fort Zachary Taylor State Park.

"The one you've used exactly twice?" Leah adjusted her reading glasses, a habit from her corporate days that surfaced whenever she was stressed. Her glasses, like her resume, needed updating, but both were victims of their dwindling resources. "Besides, it's eight in the morning."

"It's five o'clock somewhere!" Tess paused at Leah's expression. "Too soon for Jimmy Buffett quotes?"

The paddleboard in question leaned against their tiny porch railing, its cheerful tropical design already fading from the relentless Florida sun. They'd bought it during what Leah now thought of as their "active lifestyle" phase, right after the failure of their beach workout club but before Tess's brief career as a sunset yoga instructor. The only thing that had gotten a real workout was their credit card.

Through their glass louvered windows, Leah watched another tour group cycle past on their rented bikes, their matching helmets bobbing like tropical birds. The tour guide's voice drifted in, explaining the history of their street, embellishing facts with the kind of colorful stories tourists loved. Once upon a time, Leah and Tess had thought about starting their own tour company. They'd even printed brochures—now serving as coasters for their wine glasses.

"We need jobs," Leah said finally. "Real ones. Not selling those questionably scented candles at the tourist market."

"The candles weren't that bad," Tess protested, though they both knew better. Their garage still held boxes of unsold inventory, each candle a waxy reminder of their failed crafting phase.

"You named one 'Midnight at Margaritaville' and it smelled like tequila and regret." Leah remembered the craft fair vendor who'd suggested, kindly but firmly, that perhaps scented candles weren't their calling. "And let's not forget 'Paradise Breeze.'"

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