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Bailey woke up to sunlight striking her face, and a screaming headache. A weight pressed against her hand, and she forced her head to the side. What she saw made her smile and temporarily erased the pain. Jonathan sat in a chair by her side, head resting on the bed. The clock on the far wall said it was almost eight. She assumed from the sunlight it was morning. Did the storm pass?
Jonathan stirred and looked up. His hair stuck up in every direction, pale stubble covered his chin, and he had a red mark on his cheek. He looked sexy as heck, and it reminded her of the conversation the night before.
He gave her a tired smile and scooted back to stretch. “How do you feel?”
“Like a cinderblock shelf fell on me.” She forced a laugh.
“Are you two decent?” Dr. Phillips called, seconds before stepping into the doorway. “How do you feel?”
She’d already used her joke. “Like crap.”
“To be expected.” He strolled past Jonathan, fitting his glasses on as he walked, then pulled a mini-flashlight from his pocket. He held her eyes open and shone the bright light in one and then the other. He tapped, poked, and tested her responses to various stimuli. “The storm broke a few hours ago. As long as you’re up for it, you can go home. But you can’t be alone for the next twenty-four hours. Will that be an issue?”
Last night she would have said it’ll be fine in a heartbeat. Now she wasn’t sure where she and Jonathan stood.
“Not an issue.” Jonathan spoke up.
Dr. Phillips didn’t look surprised. “As long as the weather is calm tomorrow morning, I want you in my office... God willing, it’s still standing. Until we can get you to the hospital, I want to do an X-ray and make sure everything is where it should be. Both the arm and the head. No driving yourself, and he has to wake you up every few hours to make sure you’re responding.”
“Yes, sir,” she said.
“Good. Take your time getting up. No standing quickly. No heavy exertion.” He glanced at Jonathan, and Bailey’s cheeks heated. “Be careful.”
An hour later, Phillips cleared her to leave. Mrs. Phillips loaned Bailey a tank-top that could be pulled on around the cast without too much effort. A small thing to be grateful for, but Bailey would take whatever she could find.
The room spun when Bailey sat up and then stood, but it righted itself quickly. There was nothing sexual about the way Jonathan helped her into the top. He cradled her arm, ensuring it wasn’t jarred, and when he tugged down the hem, he glided his fingers over her skin with a tenderness she wasn’t used to when he tugged the hem down.
On the way out, Mrs. Phillips handed Jonathan a paper bag that looked weighed down. She told him it was leftovers and to make sure both of them ate. She pulled Bailey aside while he took things out to the car. “I’m so happy to see the two of you together. You deserve it.”
The simple comment, as well intentioned as it might be, sent a cascade of emotion to clutter the inside of Bailey’s head. She didn’t have the strength to correct the older woman, so she simply smiled and thanked her for the hospitality.
Bailey fell into her own thoughts on the short drive back to Nana’s, and stayed there as she and Jonathan made their way inside. He got her settled on the couch and opened a couple upstairs’ windows, to clear out the lingering smoke.
Jack and Ale. Up until the point Bailey got engaged to Danny, everyone here assumed she’d end up with Jonathan. Sometimes it was embarrassing, but mostly younger-her loved it and fell into the same fantasy. Now the presumption nagged at her. It was one of the things she both loved and hated about living in such a close-knit community—everyone knew everyone else’s business and that certain things would happen, because people expected them to.
No one here knew Jonathan anymore, but he’d been a nice boy, and heaven forbid she stay single. The bitter thought bothered her. Or maybe what sat at the heart of it all disturbed her more than anything. His offer echoed over the questions and doubt. It was sweet, despite being misguided. Turning him down was the right thing to do, and once she convinced all of herself, this muddled mess would clear up.
“You want lunch?” Jonathan’s question carried from the kitchen.
Her stomach growled. Had it really been more than a day since she last ate? The last twenty-four hours seemed as though they lasted an eternity. “Yes.”
Moments later, he handed her a plate with pasta salad and fresh vegetables. “Note to self.” He settled into the overstuffed easy chair. “Always visit the house with a backup generator when we forget to stock up for a big storm. I mean—” His head shot up.
“I know what you mean.” Hello, awkwardness.
Most of the meal passed in silence, interrupted by Jonathan telling her he’d finish the clean-up work and sorting. She had to tell him what was worth auctioning when he asked. He cleared away the lunch dishes, and she made her way upstairs. The sky was graying again. There was a good chance they’d ridden out the eye of the storm and were in for Round Two tonight. They’d have to shutter the windows again soon, just in case.
She locked herself in the bathroom and let the silence and solitude wash over her. Pale light bled in through the window—enough to see without power. She let the water run until the cold stung her hand and numbed her skin, then splashed her face. The chill gave her something external to focus on and drew her out of her thoughts. It was getting crowded in her head. She looked up, and her reflection stared back. Bleary eyed, with messy hair and the hard lines of a frown etched everywhere.
If she looked into her own eyes long enough, would she find answers or simply get lost? She flung the cabinet door open in frustration, not wanting to see the image. Three shelves greeted her. This was better. Boxes of bandages and bottles of vitamins, allergy medicine, and acid reducers didn’t care if she was indecisive.
The cabinet would need to be cleared, and most of this could be thrown out. She grabbed the plastic trashcan from the floor, set it on the counter, and began to fill it. She pulled the items from their shelves one by one, liking the simplicity of the action.
When she reached an empty prescription bottle, she paused. Nana never threw away memories, but an empty bottle was a different story. Bailey frowned when she saw the prescription name on the bottle, for the same painkiller Dr. Phillips gave her this morning. Where Bailey only had five pills—enough to hold her over until they could do more tests—this said it was for fifty. She never realized Nana suffered that kind of pain.
Bailey’s curiosity and confusion grew when she saw the date on the bottle. Written and filled less than two weeks ago. She struggled to match the information to the time she’d spent with Nana, as she set aside the bottle and moved to the next. It was half full. A drug Bailey didn’t recognize. Or did she? The name tickled her thoughts, but she couldn’t grasp the association. Whatever it was, Nana had been taking it a lot longer. The bottle had three refills left, and the prescription was written ten months ago.
She set the two orange bottles aside and continued her cabinet cleaning, letting the question roll around in the back of her head. It was a much better place for her focus than trying to figure out what to do about Jonathan.
When the pieces clicked, she frowned. She knew the drug name because Margaret mentioned it one day, when Bailey was at the art gallery. It was a new Alzheimer’s drug Margaret’s father was on. But Nana didn’t have...
Crap. More of the picture formed in Bailey’s head. The lapses in memory that started to show over the last few years. Nana asking where Jonathan was, then laughing it off later as a joke. Prodding Bailey about her marriage, then shaking it away as a lingering concern. There was more, too, but Bailey couldn’t wrap her brain around how the two bottles were connected. What were the odds Dr. Phillips would give her information during her visit tomorrow? Nonexistent, most likely. It wouldn’t stop her from trying.
She filed away the questions for later and opened the bathroom door. She came up short when she almost ran into Jonathan.
“You all right?” He searched her face. “You look pale.”
“Other than the concussion? I’m fine.” She stopped short of telling him what she found. The knowledge wouldn’t change anything, and she didn’t know what she’d say. I think Nana had Alzheimer's and never told anyone. It felt like there would be more to that conversation. The statement felt incomplete.
The microwave beeped, and lights flickered on around the house. She was grateful for the distraction. A twisting in her gut asked if she should dig deeper into the pill question. She didn’t want to, but she needed the whole story.
*
JONATHAN STARED AT the attic in frustration. With everything reorganized, it was easy to tell what types of things were where, but he wanted a specific item. He poked his head through the trap door. “Bailey.”
“Yeah?” She’d grumbled about being mostly confined to the couch, but acquiesced when she figured out it gave her an excuse to make lists of the auction items they uncovered.
Having the power back on made it easier to get through the outstanding work. Especially since an awkward silence hovered in the air every time he and Bailey were in the same room. He didn’t regret making his offer last night, but it changed things. Where did it leave them? Friends? Nothing?
“Did you come across that old movie projector?” The note he found in the bottom of the safe sat in his wallet now, not offering more answers than when he first read it. He could decipher one riddle, though–what was on the film reel under the old photos.
“To-sell stack. Probably on the bottom.”
That gave him what he needed. Moments later, he unearthed the gray box and hauled it from the pile. Something else tumbled to the ground, and he frowned. A small, velvet jewelry box. He flipped the top, to expose a gold ring, inlaid with diamonds and engraved with delicate leaves. He recognized it. It was Nana’s mother’s wedding ring. An heirloom, passed down for generations. He was glad it wasn’t lost.
He pocketed the box and hefted the projector down the ladder. He paused in his room to grab the film, and then made his way to the living room.
Bailey looked up from her notes. “What’s that?” Before he could respond, she added, “Besides a projector.”
He raised his brows, entertained. “I found a movie. I want to see what’s on it.”
“Government secrets?” Her words were playful.
He dragged the coffee table to a spot close to an outlet but far enough from the blank wall on the far side of the room, that the image would show up. “My money’s on deleted scenes from Gone with the Wind.”
“Original director’s cut of Casablanca?”
“Shirley Temple auditions.” He almost expected one or all of the above. Or hoped for it. With all of Nana’s stories about her adventures when she was younger, it would be amazing if the film was something rare and fantastic. He plugged the projector in, loaded the reels, and dimmed the lights. “Ready to watch history... of some sort?”
“Bring it on.” Bailey laughed.
He flicked the switch. Crackles filtered through the ancient speakers—not caused by sound from the movie, but by the age of the film and player—and a sepia image covered the wall. It was Nana, looking identical to the woman in the photos upstairs. Fortunately this moving version was fully clothed.
“Wow.” Awe filled Bailey’s voice. “Is that really her?”
“Yes.”
“In that case, better than all of the above.”
He agreed. There was no sound, as the woman on the wall moved about. The room she stood in was familiar, but he couldn’t place it. It wasn’t any of the houses around here, that he remembered. A man strolled into the frame. The same older gentleman as in the pictures.
“Is that Papa Hemingway?” Bailey’s question flipped a switch in Jonathan’s head.
“I think it is.” That was why he looked familiar, as did the room. Ernest Hemingway’s historic estate sat on one of the other Keys. The home of the American poet was a tourist attraction now. It all rushed back—Nana’s tales about her torrid affair with the much older man; how she used to tease Jonathan’s dad about being an illegitimate child; the way she insisted Hemingway killed himself. Accident, cleaning his gun—my ass, she’d say. He knew he’d seen the best of life and wanted to go out on a high note.
On screen, the man approached Nana. Jonathan almost choked, when Hemingway swept her into an embrace and kissed her passionately. Nana cupped the man’s crotch, and Jonathan muttered, “Oh, God.” Her partner tore her dress from her shoulders and groped her breast, and Jonathan flipped off the projector. “Nope. We’re done.” Historic documents were one thing, but there was no way he was watching his grandmother in some sort of late-forties amateur porn movie.
“Holy...” Bailey trailed off. “That wasn’t real. There’s no way.”
“I’d like to agree.”
“Can you imagine how much that’s worth if you can prove it’s legit?”
Jonathan glared at her, and she held up her hands. “Teasing. Seriously. Where did you find it?”
In the closet of shattered childhood delusions. He kept the sarcastic thought to himself. “In a safe upstairs.” He stalled on the part about the note for him, and wasn’t sure why. Maybe because, if Nana left the letter there, she intended for him to discover all of this.
“Do you think... That is... Were her stories about your real grandfather true?”
“No.” He shook his head until his brain rattled. “Those were to fluster Dad; I’m not the illegitimate grandson of...” He couldn’t say the name. It felt like sacrilege.
She sank back into the cushions. “How many more of her tales do you think are real? If this one happened, all bets are off.”
“I’m going to go with all of them at this point.” He dropped to the other end of the couch. Bailey shifted her legs to make room for him, then rested her feet on his thighs. “Hell. I think I want that treasure map and to go check out the far end of the island, to see what that iron key belongs to.” He was being facetious. It was easier than processing the awe and disbelief. His entire life he thought he knew the woman who raised him, but apparently he had no idea.
She meant the world to him. Gave him more support and affection than his own parents. For as long as he remembered, her existence seemed to revolve around him, and he took that for granted. Yet, before he came along, before his father, she’d lived a rich life.
Ernest-Fucking-Hemingway, for God’s sake. An author—an artist—who influenced the world. Jonathan struggled to reconcile the sweet old woman who led him on fake treasure hunts with the vibrant young girl in the movie looking up adoringly at her lover.
She’d lived. What was he doing with his life as a thank you for the time she gave him? Working. Earning. Ignoring anything inside that threatened to hurt. Was there something to her letter? Not that he thought he was running from fate, but was he letting life pass him by?
For the first time since hearing about her death, joyful memories of her flitted in without the grief. He wanted to hang onto this feeling for as long as he could.