‘Guilty,’ I said. I stole a glance at Molly. ‘Not making any excuses for the bottle I drank last night, practically single-handed, but it seemed like a good idea at the time.’
Molly wrapped an arm around my waist, hugged me close. ‘I know you’re worried about the Parkers, sugar, but you shouldn’t let it get to you. Worrying yourself to death isn’t going to help anyone, least of all the Parkers.’
Angry tears pricked my eyes. ‘If Jaime Mueller is at the meeting, you might have to hold me back, Molly.’
‘Come on.’ She looped her arm through mine as we turned left and walked ‘Down Along,’ one of only two principal streets on the island, both so narrow that not even golf carts were allowed to drive on them. Where ‘Down Along’ split we took the right fork and headed up the hill, carefully negotiating the cracks in the concrete. We left Paul at Lighthouse Liquors to restock our modest liquor cabinet as he saw fit, and continued on to Vernon’s Grocery, a concrete, practically windowless building on Back Street. Its owner, Vernon Malone – Mr Vernon to you – was an island institution. His seven-times great grandmother, Wyannie Malone, had founded Hope Town settlement in 1785.
We were still downwind from the store when I stopped, breathing deeply. ‘Ohmahgawd, do you smell that?’
Molly grinned. ‘Coconut bread, I think.’
‘I hope we haven’t missed the key lime pie.’
We followed our noses to Vernon’s bakery, the Upper Crust, which was tacked to the side of his grocery almost like an afterthought. The door to the bakery stood open so we stuck our heads in, inhaling appreciatively. Key lime pies topped with mountains of golden-peaked meringue sat out on the table. Coconut pies, fresh from the oven, cooled on the windowsill.
I pressed my hand to my chest. ‘I think I’m hallucinating.’
The door to the grocery was behind us. Molly grabbed my hand and pulled me through it. ‘Quick, before you OD.’
Just inside, Vernon himself was ringing up a purchase on an elderly cash register. He glared at us over the tops of his eyeglasses. ‘In door’s over there. That’s the out.’
Since we were already inside the store, it seemed silly to leave, but I figured Vernon himself would stare us down forever until we did it his way. ‘Sorry.’ I bowed my head and backed out the way I’d come.
Giggling, Molly and I scuttled around the bag ice machine, past a stack of boxes and empty water jugs and pulled open a front door that reflected our bemused faces back at us, like a mirror.
Vernon, a wiry man somewhere in his mid-sixties, was bagging groceries for another customer. ‘Afternoon, ladies.’
All was right with the world now that we’d mended our ways.
A sign hung at eye-level caught my eye as we entered the store: If you’re looking for Wal-Mart, it’s 200 miles to the right.
More witticisms hand-written on pages torn from legal pads, four-by-five index cards, and even computer printouts labeled ‘Off the wall… at Vernon’s,’ kept us chuckling as we poked along the narrow aisles making our selections. Mr Vernon stocked more than groceries, apparently. He also stocked a wry sense of humor.
The weather is here. Wish you were beautiful! as I reached for the M &Ms on the candy and mixed-nuts rack.
Dyslexics, Untie! under the Hearth Club Custard Powder and next to a lone box of star anise.
If you’re smoking in here, you’d better be on fire over the cash register as Vernon totted up our purchases. I reintroduced myself and said, ‘Are you going to the Save Hawksbill Cay meeting tonight?’
‘Yup.’
The answer didn’t surprise me. Grocer, baker, Justice of the Peace, lay preacher – Vernon Malone was deeply involved in the life of his community. It was probably genetic. From Wyannie Malone it was passed down the generations to Vernon, and from Vernon to his children. His daughter not only owned the liquor store, but coordinated weddings out of Da Finer Tings, and was a volunteer firefighter, too.
‘I’m just a second-home owner,’ Molly added, ‘but I’m hoping I can make some small contribution.’
Vernon boxed our pies and eased them into plastic sacks. ‘Second-home owners are the bread and butter of this place, Ms Molly. Most of you’ve been breaking your butts for thirty years to afford to come here. We need to make sure the island stays worth coming to.’
Clearly, an ally. ‘Thanks, Vernon. See you tonight, then.’
The three of us decided on an early dinner at Cap’n Jack’s, sitting on the deck overlooking Hope Town harbor where we munched on conch fritters washed down with Kalik. While Paul splurged on grilled grouper with macaroni and cheese – a spicy island version, light years away from Kraft in a box – Molly and I shared a Greek salad.
At five fifteen, we wandered up the road past the clinic and the post office to St James Methodist Church, a simple white, one-story structure built on a dune overlooking the Atlantic Ocean. The branches of a voluptuous cherry-red bougainvillea cascaded over the gate. We climbed the steps and went through the double doors into a cool sanctuary.
While Paul and Molly wandered off on errands of their own, I slipped into one of the dark wooden pews.
St Katherine’s needs this view, I thought, feeling a twinge of homesickness, suddenly missing my friend, Pastor Eva, and her little Episcopal church in West Annapolis. With the exception of the altar hanging, the entire eastern wall of St James consisted of sliding glass doors that framed a spectacular view of the Atlantic Ocean. Who needs stained glass when you’ve got swaying palms, cottony clouds and the gently rolling sea? The sermons here could be boring as dirt, but the congregation would sit rapt. Guaranteed.
My eyes strayed to the cross, and as people began to fill the pews in front and behind me, I said a prayer for Frank and Sally Parker, wherever they might be.
I had gone in search of Paul, when Henry Allen barged through the swinging doors at the rear of the church struggling with a notebook, a pile of printouts, and a canvas bag containing an LCD projector and a laptop computer. Cables dangled from the mouth of the bag like a tangle of black and white spaghetti.
I met him halfway down the aisle, relieving him of the notebook and printouts. ‘I’m sorry we didn’t get over to see your video, Henry, but with the wildfire on the preserve, things have been a little hectic.’
‘That’s OK. I’m showing it tonight anyway.’ He glanced around the sanctuary. ‘There’s supposed to be a screen here, somewhere. Oh, there it is!’
‘Need help getting set up?’
‘That’d be great. Thanks.’
A table had been centered about halfway up the aisle, so I set Henry’s LCD projector down on it while he went off in search of an extension cord. When everything was plugged in, we aimed the projector at the screen, hooked up his laptop and powered on all the equipment.
Henry watched the screen apprehensively, worry changing to relief when the familiar Windows icons finally appeared. He launched his PowerPoint program and soon the screen was filled with the title page of his presentation, ‘Hawksbill Cay Development: a Case Study of a Coastal Ecosystem’ superimposed over a swirly blue background that I recognized as the ‘Calm Sea’ theme.
‘Appropriate template,’ I said.
Henry smiled. ‘It’s the one I always use. Some of the other templates sound appropriate, like “Starfish,” but they make my eyes hurt.’
Henry clicked through the first few slides of his presentation, grunted in approval, then clicked back to his title page which included the URL for his website. I was reminded that I’d forgotten to ask him about the imposter website that linked to teen porn.
When I mentioned it, he scowled darkly. ‘Know who did it, but can’t prove it. Got an attorney trying to get the Internet provider to pull the plug, but nobody’s breaking any laws. Should have registered all variations of that domain name ourselves, of course, but…’ He shrugged. ‘Frustrating.’