Page 82 of Lady and the Butcher
I dropped my suitcase by the sofa and went to wash my face. The mirror over the sink showed a woman who hadn’t slept right in too long. Clean skin. Eyes rimmed dark. I pressed cold water to my eyelids and breathed. When I came back out, Dad already had the keys in his hand.
We parked near the plaza and drifted into St. George Street. A street performer balanced on a folding chair and juggled flaming torches. A kid in a pirate hat demanded a sword from a gift shop where plastic blades leaned in a barrel. The old city wall threw shade like a blessing. Dad handed me a mango ice pop and took strawberry for himself. He ate like the stick was a tool and not dessert. I dripped down my wrist and didn’t care.
We walked to the Castillo because that’s what you do when you give yourself permission to be a tourist. The coquina walls breathed cool, even in late sun. A ranger in a straw hat told a group from Ohio about cannon schedules and Spanish soldiers. An egret stalked the grass like it owned the place. Dad leaned his elbows on the seawall and looked across the water toward the lighthouse. He didn’t fill the air. He never does. He lets the world talk first.
“Bridge lift’s at the half hour,” he said after a while. “Want to watch the boats make everyone late to dinner?”
“Yes,” I said. I wanted the small drama of a drawbridge and people with cameras who believed they were the first to notice it.
We stood on the rail with the rest of them while the sirens warned and the bridge split. A tall sailboat slid through with a captain who waved like a king. A kid clapped like air had been invented. Dad pointed out a nick on one of the lions’ paws and said it had been there forever. He might have been telling the truth. He might have been making a story because he knows I like stories. It worked either way.
For dinner, we ate shrimp at a place right on the water. Brown paper on the tables. Buckets for shells. A waitress who called everybody honey and meant it.
Dad said Grandpa had been talking about Matanzas Fish House all week and had informed anyone who would listen that their key lime pie tasted like the first time you realized summer could live in your mouth.
“Grandma made lemon icebox,” he added. “So he will be insufferable, whichever one you pick.”
“Both,” I said again. He nodded solemnly like I had brought wisdom down the mountain.
He didn’t ask why I was here. He didn’t ask about men. He asked if my car had oil and if my front porch bulb still flickered. He asked if the twins were eating anything besides pizza andprotein powder. He asked if Darla had decided to grow her hair out again or if she was still pretending a pixie cut was low maintenance. I said Stephen was tired in a way that worried me and he said he would call him tomorrow.
When we got back to the cottage, Grandma had let herself in with a pie and a scolding that didn’t land. She kissed my cheeks like she was checking for fever and then fed me a slice.
“Thank you,” I said as I ate.
Grandpa came in three minutes later with a weather report and a bag of boiled peanuts. He hugged me tightly. He asked about my shop and then asked about my tires again because he’s a man who trusts but verifies.
They left us with leftovers and a promise to pick me up for church if I wanted. Dad washed dishes and tossed me a towel. We moved easy in the small kitchen. I dried plates and stacked them right where they had always gone. The ordinary work let my nerves unclench, one notch at a time.
Later, I sat on the back steps with a mug of tea and let the night crawl in around me. The air smelled like pluff mud and citrus peels and something sweet I couldn’t name. A radio drifted from a neighbor’s porch.
Quiet that wasn’t empty. Quiet that had a pulse.
My phone lit with a text from Darla.Mom says the flowers bloomed. You okay?
I typedI will be. She sent back a row of hearts and a photo of herself with eyeliner on and a braid that meant she had tried. I said to tell the boys to hydrate and she said bossy and added a wink. She always manages to feel like she’s beside me when she hits send.
I stared at the screen and wished my body would slow its ridiculous ache. Not just for Atticus. For the version of me that didn’t think every knock meant trouble.
When had that started, anyway?
Stephen checked in next.You really go see Dad without me?
I wroteYou can come tomorrow. He repliedBusy. Then he sent a thumbs up that felt like a lie and I decided to let it be one for tonight.
No word from Atticus. I put the phone face down and then flipped it over because I’m an idiot. I typed,I am safe, and then erased it. The erasing felt like yanking your hand back from a hot stove.
I slept hard and woke early, the way I always do when I’m at Dad’s. I ran three blocks to the beach. The sand packed under my shoes, and I ran until my breath burned and my head was quiet enough to hear something like sense.
When I got back, Grandpa knocked with two fingers and walked in, anyway. “We going to The Bunnery or you going to make me eat cereal,” he said, already grinning. He wore his feed store hat and his good mood.
Before long, we sat at a diner with a tile floor older than both of us and let a waitress call us Sweetheart. He told me about the lighthouse when he was little and how the keeper used to let kids climb for a nickel when their mothers were not looking. He asked again about my work. I told him the truth that fit in public. The Nesting Place was running smoother than it ever had. I had hired good people and they had turned my shop into a humming thing. He nodded like that made sense. He didn’t ask why I had needed to leave town. He trusted that if the reason ever mattered, I would hand it to him when I was ready.
We drove past the lighthouse, anyway. He wanted to see if the wind flag was up. It was. We sat on the hood and watched the light swing through the mist and cut a clean path only it could see. I tried to borrow that steadiness. Turn. Return. Same arc. No matter the weather.
Back at the cottage, Dad had set out a little cooler. Two orange sodas. A bag of peanuts. A handful of napkins eventhough he knew we would still wipe our hands on our shorts. We took it to the beach and set our chairs at the edge of the reach. He put his hat over his face and slept for a while with his mouth open.
In the afternoon, we climbed the lighthouse because I wanted to feel my legs burn. The steps wound tight and the air cooled the higher you got. At the top, the wind slapped my hair across my mouth and made me laugh. I leaned into the railing and looked out over the island. Marsh stitched to river stitched to ocean. Houses like dollhouses. Cars like beetles. The bridge small as a toy. The lighthouse didn’t care who looked. It did the job and did it again. I pressed my lips together and let that sink in.
