Page 12 of Tangled Up

“Great idea. I think he’s staying off his feet, but you could bring him some scones or something. Coffee. His niece Sadie is staying with him for now.”

“Sadie Frost?” My eyebrows rise, and my bestie frowns.

“How did you know that?”

“I met her this morning at the toll booth, and she said to let her know if I need anything.”

“Well, I need to hit the feathers if I’m going to work tomorrow.”

We slide off our stools, leaving enough cash for our drinks and a tip. Walking slowly down the path towards my aunt’s house, I give my bestie a firm hug around the waist. “I miss this so much.”

She hugs me around the shoulders. “I miss you more.”

I wait at my aunt’s screen back door while she heads down the path towards the small cottage she inherited from her dad. It’s only a few short blocks away. When she’s out of sight, I switch off the kitchen light, walking through the old house that for so long I called home.

It’s comforting and secure. It’s full of nostalgia, and it almost makes me a little afraid. I don’t want this place to change. Knowing it’s here gives me the confidence I need to keep going. What would happen if it weren’t?

Lifting the window over my bed, I gaze out the screen at the lamplight lining the paths. The shush of the ocean is barely audible from here. It’s overshadowed by the cicadas emitting their high-pitchedscree. Frogs sing at a slightly lower tone. Nighttime in the south is never quiet.

I close my eyes, and he’s out there waiting for me on the path. In the beginning it was bicycles. He’d wait for me, and I’d chase him all the way down to the shore. When we got older, it was his daddy’s pickup truck. I say his daddy’s, but I guess it was his. He was the only member of his family to ever come this far south.

Pressing my lips together, I swallow the tightness in my throat. What am I doing? He’s long gone, and I’m here alone. Am I actually thinking I’ll find some resolution? Some sense of what happened to us?

No. This isn’t about sentimentality. It isn’t about closure.

I’m here to wait until Ronnie says I can come home.

CHAPTERFOUR

BECK

As I drive across the bridge out to Eden, the dawn is a mix of pale blue and neon pink.

After a long night of fighting with my sheets, I gave up and packed a weekend bag, made a thermos of coffee, and hit the road. No need to waste time.

I got out of Tampa quickly, heading past the newer developments, the fashionable places where young professionals have settled to build their homes, start their families. I can’t help noticing as the city continues to spread east, I feel more and more isolated from it.

The path to Eden cuts right through the center, all the way to the Gulf. It’s not the only hidden village you’ll find on the outer rim, places time forgot or places that are fighting back against evolution.

The small, wooden toll booth is dark and empty when I reach it, and as there’s no cash box or card reader, I assume it’s free to cross the short bridge connecting Eden to the peninsula after hours.

Leaving my window down, I shut off the radio so I can hear the sounds of early morning at the beach—quiet streets with seagulls crying overhead. A stray cat ambles along the roadway, disappearing into the short brush. An elderly man power-walks along the sandy path beside the road, and an old woman ambles with a long fishing pole and a white plastic bucket.

She waves, and I wave back. It’s so familiar, even though I haven’t been here in years, I feel myself falling back into the rhythm.

The tourist section is segregated at the entrance to the island, and there, past the last resort, three stories tall, is the Ocean Pearl. Steering my Rover on the red-brick driveway, I kill the engine and sit a moment outside the four-car garage.

When I was a boy, an entourage of staff and maids would immediately jump into action, unpacking the car, setting up the house, stocking the kitchen, preparing for my annual, summer stay. The first year, I thought it was a punishment, then I made friends. Then I never wanted to leave.

This morning, it’s quiet and dark. I’m the only one here. Opening the door, I step out and gaze around the empty lot. I’m not sure if I miss the staff, but I prefer having the place to myself for this trip. Hell, even with all the hustle and bustle, they were largely invisible to me.

The door opens with a hiss like a vault, and I step into the stark-white foyer, inhaling the familiar scent of clove potpourri and old books. Memories come rushing back like a flood.

Closing my eyes, I remember when she saw our first-floor library. Her eyes were so big as she spun slowly around in the center of the room, looking all the way up, up, up the white-painted walls to the domed ceiling.

“Do you even know all the books you own?” Her voice was full of wonder.

I didn’t. I wasn’t interested in books when she was around.

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