Chapter Twenty-Nine

As I ate the oysters with their strong taste of the sea and their faint metallic taste that the cold white wine washed away, leaving only the sea taste and the succulent texture, and as I drank their cold liquid from each shell and washed it down with the crisp taste of the wine, I lost the empty feeling and began to be happy and to make plans.

—Ernest Hemingway, A Moveable Feast

Even with Maria’s condition upgraded, first from critical to serious and then late this afternoon to fair, and with Turner Markham ensconced in the Stock Island jail, I wasn’t much in the mood for a touristy party scene. Plus, my mother and Sam were sharing drinks with Miss Gloria and Connie on our houseboat deck to celebrate the end of the Havana conference and Turner’s capture, and I couldn’t think of a place I’d rather unwind from a difficult week. And the sign on the boat next door had been marked this morning in bright crimson letters: SOLD! We all wanted to cheer my housemate up about the unknown new neighbors. She was trying so hard to put on a sunny front, but we could all see her dismay, plain as daylight.

But Nathan had astonished me so thoroughly with his reservation for dinner at Hot Tin Roof that I couldn’t refuse. Especially after he’d described his schedule for the next two weeks. Because he was in charge of ten days of SWAT training for the whole department, this little window of time was his only real availability. Hot Tin Roof’s second-floor restaurant was located within the Sunset Pier complex only a stone’s throw from Mallory Square, and conversations could sometimes be overwhelmed by the music from the stage in the outdoor bar below. Definitely not Nathan’s style.

This time, fortunately, the performer was a well-known soul singer named Robert Albury. And Nathan seemed so pleased about having scored a table on the deck overlooking the water. We ordered appetizers and drinks—a mojito for me and a nonalcoholic beer for him—from a waiter with a Russian accent, and settled in to watch the busy scene below us. Our order came out quickly and we filed our dinner choices with the server. Out on the horizon, a variety of boats plied the harbor, taking advantage of the impending sunset.

“You see that yacht out there?” Nathan asked, pointing to the enormous blue-and-white boat moored farthest out. “I heard two different stories this week. One said there was a Russian oligarch who lost his wife and came here to drown his sorrows. The other claimed the boat is owned by Norton Revson, you know, the high-end cosmetics magnate? They say he loves drag bars and comes here to get his fix. Or is it café con leche that he loves?”

I tried to smile. He could tell I was down and he was doing his best to jolly me up.

“I know you’re sad about Maria,” he said, reaching for my hand across the table. “And after all her family suffered, it doesn’t seem right that she ended up almost drowned. But she’s going to be okay, right? That’s what the doctors said?”

I nodded and swallowed a big gulp of my drink, not wanting my words to wobble when I spoke. “The good part is that that awful man will really get punished, right?”

“He may think he’s got friends in high places, but the negatives are pretty damning,” he agreed.

The dinner food was delivered—crab cakes for me and a rare steak for him. He ordered me a glass of rosé. We ate in silence for a bit.

“How do they rate on the famous Hayley Snow crab cake scale?” he asked.

He was really trying to cheer me up—even pretending that he cared about food.

“Right up there,” I said, smiling. “Lots of crab, not much bready filler, and a crunchy crust. And their remoulade sauce is very good too, with a nice zip that sneaks up on you after finishing each bite.”

“And tell me again how you ended up figuring out that the medal was in the poker table,” he said.

“Really?” I asked, looking under our table and pretending to search. “Who are you and where did you hide Nathan Bransford?”

He smirked. “Yes, really. I’d like to hear how your complicated brain works.”

“Everyone wants to know that, but it’s a mysterious being, my brain.”

“Come on,” he said. “You’re good with words. Describe it.”

“It was like what I do when I’m working on a review. I don’t know immediately how I feel about a restaurant and its food and its chef. I taste lots of dishes and take notes about my reactions and pictures to document everything. And then I step back for a bit and let my subconscious go to work. And a couple of hours or days later, the truth is revealed. Maybe the chef was trying too hard to imitate a Michelin-starred restaurant. Or maybe the chef cares more about volume and money than he does about food. Or maybe the owner is too cheap to buy good stuff, when every home cook knows the end result can’t transcend lousy ingredients.”

The whole time I talked, I watched his face to see if he was listening, which he seemed to be. And then whether he cared. Which, who could really tell? That would come out in time. And as long as he cared about me, I could let the food part go.

“Interesting,” he said. “You work bits and pieces of information around until it all drops into place—like a detective would do. Or maybe even a psychologist.”

“You’re full of surprises,” I said, sipping the last bit of wine from my glass.

“I like to keep you guessing. What say we move downstairs for a nightcap?”

“Really? You want a drink here?” I gestured at the crowd below, swilling, smoking, yakking under bright-yellow umbrellas on a finger of the pier that extended out into the water. “You can’t even indulge tonight anyway.”

“I like Albury’s music,” he said a little sheepishly, anticipating my astonishment.

This was altogether strange. He wasn’t the kind of man who liked lingering in a crowd. Especially in a crowd of tipsy tourists. Too many bad possible outcomes circled through his mind, and he preferred to be on the outside watching for one of them. I was certain he’d already pictured the panic that could occur if something went wrong and the crowd tried to crush farther inland for safety. Bottlenecks and potential problems waited everywhere, as customers could only get to the bar via narrow boardwalks. But he paid the bill quickly, then grabbed my elbow and led me downstairs.

“Look,” he said. “Our lucky night. That couple is leaving.” He pointed at two brightly painted stools close to the stage that had just been vacated.

“Isn’t that Officer Ryan?” I asked.

“Oh, maybe you’re right.” Nathan waved at the other cop, and we made our way over to sit. “I’ll have to thank him for his excellent timing when I see him tomorrow.”

He ordered us drinks from a chipper waiter as we watched the singer. This performer was quintessential Key West—an older black man, dressed in baggy shorts and a T-shirt, crooning his heart out with old bluesy classics. He had the most soulful, pained expressions on his face as he met the eyes of various women in the audience.

“He’s working the crowd,” I said.

Nathan laughed. “He’s a master. I could learn a lot from this guy.”

“This next song,” said the singer in his deep and husky voice, “goes out to Hayley Snow.” He looked over at me, winked at Nathan, and began to wail: “Try a little tenderness.”

I felt tears prick my eyes. “You set this up?” I asked Nathan, moving now from a little surprised to utterly stunned.

“I got scared in the Little White House yesterday. Scared I might lose you,” he added. “I wanted to do something special.” He took my hand and squeezed. “You seemed so pressured this week, and sad about Maria and Gabriel.”

I nodded; their story was so tragic. “You can’t imagine how painful it was to hear Carmen talk about what had really happened those years ago. And Gabriel dying while trying to avenge his mom—that was the exclamation point on an awful story,” I said, squeezing back.

“There’s more, isn’t there?”

I bit my lip, weighing whether to tell him. “It’s not only Maria. And this will seem so ridiculous in comparison to what they lost. The houseboat next door sold,” I said. “Miss Gloria is really worried about the new neighbors. I know it sounds silly to you, but it matters to me if she’s happy. And she’s happy on Houseboat Row. For now, anyway.”

He nodded and looked back at the stage. He’d tried hard with the impromptu dinner and the special song, but he wasn’t an emotional man, and I needed to accept that if I planned to stick with this relationship.

“It’s not sentimental, no, no, no,” belted Robert Albury, staring right at me.

When he’d finished the song, I looked back at Nathan to thank him. He handed me a pale-blue box, about the right size for a watch or a necklace—definitely not a ring—tied up with a white ribbon.

“I have something for you.”

“What’s this?”

“Open it,” Nathan said.

I untied the ribbon and took off the lid. A key. I looked up, feeling confused. I already knew where he hid the spare key to his equally spare apartment. Not anywhere a normal person would choose, by the way. Not underneath a potted plant by the door or hanging from a nail on the fence, for example.

“What is this for? Don’t tell me you bought me that yacht after all?”

“I bought the houseboat next door to yours,” he said. “You’ve made it very plain that you won’t move out, so I’m moving in.”

“But you hate Houseboat Row,” I said, still not understanding why he’d even consider such a move.

“You’ve probably noticed that my job isolates me. But you bring me back to the world. I see the worst that people do to each other. And you see the best.”

He continued, “You’ve stayed at my apartment. I’m not good at making a place feel like home.”

He was right about that—guy-style leather furniture, a minimally stocked kitchen, and nothing on the walls. One time earlier in our relationship, I’d stayed over and offered to make scrambled eggs in the morning. I’d found his kitchen lacking butter, salt, pepper, and a spatula. Even his little dog, Ziggy Stardust, spent as much time out of the house as he could manage.

“If Houseboat Row is home to you, I know it will become home to me.”

“So what,” I joked, “you can borrow a cup of sugar from our kitchen when you need it and call the cops if we’re having too much fun?”

And then he blurted it out. “Do you want to get married? We can live next door to Miss Gloria and you can keep an eye on her and have coffee on her deck every morning. She can come to dinner every night if you want. And I can stay awake all night because of the incessant rocking of the damn boat and the yakking of your oddball neighbors.” He crooked a heartbreaking smile.

I leaned back, flabbergasted, trying to process the words. I certainly hadn’t guessed this when he’d asked me out for drinks and dinner. I was almost embarrassed to admit—even to myself—that I’d thought maybe he needed me to go undercover in one of his pending cases.

Robert Albury rumbled into his microphone, “I believe this fellow asked you a question. Something about getting married.”

“Married?” I started to giggle hysterically as it sunk in. “You and me?”

Nathan’s face got very stern. “You and me. Though we should probably talk about the fact that I’m a cop, and what that might mean for you, as my wife.”

His wife? My head said, Slow down and think about it, but my heart said something altogether different. “Absolutely!” I threw my arms around Nathan and gave him a big kiss. The crowd around us cheered and clapped.

He let me go and glanced at his watch. “I’ve got to get to the station for the SWAT training. I can’t skip it because I’m in charge. How about you talk to your ladies and get back to me with the details? No monkey suit, remember? That one’s nonnegotiable.”

I could feel myself grinning from ear to ear. “No monkey suit; it’s a deal! Can we walk out through Mallory Square so I can tell Lorenzo?”

We forded the crowd, which had diminished since the sun set, leaving behind the harder-core party people and the buskers and vendors. We passed a man juggling fiery pins and a man preaching doom and damnation from a worn Bible. Lorenzo’s table was set up on the small alley perpendicular to those lined up along the water. I remembered that spaces were assigned according to seniority and who showed up when on a particular night. Maybe he’d arrived late, or maybe he preferred the modicum of privacy this allowed his customers. His current customer was getting up from the table, wringing Lorenzo’s hand and thanking him profusely. I waited until he was gone, then stepped in to hug my friend.

“We won’t keep you,” I said, “but wanted to let you know that we’re getting married.” Wow, those words sounded weird coming out of my mouth.

Nathan flashed a shy smile and Lorenzo clapped and then blew him a kiss. “Seems to me you drew a two of cups in your last reading. I may have even asked if something was up.” Eyes twinkling, he came out from behind the card table to hug me again. I watched as he then hugged Nathan and planted a big kiss on his cheek, which was absolutely crimson.

“You’re always a step ahead,” I said to my friend. “More to come on plans later. I have to go tell Mom and Miss Gloria.” I paused, glancing between the two men. “Hey, what about tarot readings at our wedding reception?”

Nathan winced and Lorenzo and I burst out laughing.

Nathan dropped me off in the Tarpon Pier parking lot, then got out of the car to give me a sweet kiss.

I felt another huge grin nearly splitting my face in two. “Are you sure you don’t want to come to the boat with me and make the announcement?”

“I’d love to, but I’m already late.” He quirked a little Nathan smile, pointing at his watch. Then he wheeled around to his cruiser, which he’d left running.

And I went skipping up the finger to our houseboat, squealing like Snorkel the Pig, another of my favorite acts on Mallory Square.

“Guess what?” I flung my arms around my mother, and then Connie, and Sam, and finally my octogenarian roommate, Miss Gloria, nearly knocking the glass of wine out of her hand. “I’m getting married.”

“To whom?” Miss Gloria asked with a poker-straight face.

Then she burst into cackles of laughter and leapt up to join Connie and my mother in a group hug.

“So he finally popped the question,” said my mother. But then a worried look flitted across her face. “Don’t tell me you asked him.”

“Not to worry.” My mother had a major superstition about asking men for their hand in marriage. According to an informal survey of her friends and their daughters, all the marriages that started that way had ended in divorce within the first year.

So I described how Nathan had set up the night with the singer and the dinner and how two people had vacated their seats at just the right moment. “I think I recognized one of them. He must have arranged for them to hold those stools until we arrived and then get up and leave.”

“Who knew he was a romantic deep down inside?” Connie asked. “Where is he, anyway?”

I explained about the emergency SWAT training.

“Is there a ring?” Miss Gloria asked. “Don’t mean to be greedy, but we’d love to see if he delivered the goods. And I’m aware it’s not fair that men are judged on the quality of their proposal and engagement ring. By the way, Nathan gets an A, maybe A minus, for his. I would have liked to see a ring on your finger.”

“We’re going to pick that out later. He was afraid to choose something I wouldn’t like. And he didn’t ask you, because he suspected that none of you would be able to keep a secret.”

My mother and Miss Gloria immediately began to protest.

“Don’t take it personally. Remember, he’s a cop. That job would make anyone suspicious about leaks. But in the meantime, he gave me something even better.” I pulled the box out of my pocket and handed it to Miss Gloria. She held it to her ear and shook it, and the key inside rattled against the cardboard. She took the lid off.

“What’s this?”

“It’s a key to our neighbor’s houseboat.” I pointed next door, where the dreaded SOLD! sign hung, flapping in the little breeze that had kicked up. “He bought it so we could move in and live next door to you, forever.”

Her eyes filled with tears. “He hates Houseboat Row.”

“I know, but he loves me and he knows that I love you.” I tucked her into a full-body squeeze.

“I’m impressed with that man. That’s the sweetest proposal I’ve ever heard,” said Connie.

“Ditto,” said Mom, passing her phone off to Sam and taking her turn with a hug. “Will you call Eric and Bill right now and ask them to bring over some champagne? This is so exciting! Where and when will you get married and who will officiate?”

“We haven’t gotten that far,” I said. “I don’t mean any offense, but not during the hurricane season.” I winked at Sam. “But definitely Reverend Steve Torrence.”

“Hadn’t you better call him right away?” my mother asked.

I thought we probably had time, but on the other hand, it was so much fun to tell this news. So I dialed him up. “Nathan proposed and I said yes! Did you know about this? Did you coach him on how to do this? Because it was very, very romantic. And of course, I want you to do the ceremony.”

He sputtered with laughter and assured me he’d had nothing to do with it. “Of course I’ll do your wedding. I’ll make sure to be available. Congratulations. I hope you’ll be very happy!”

Bill and Eric arrived at our place shortly after with a couple of bottles of prosecco. After another round of hugging, Bill said, “I’m sure I could get you a discount on a wedding at the Little White House. Bob couldn’t be more grateful. Two of the attendees at the opening party came through with surprise donations. Massive donations that could fund our future for decades. Instead of getting canned, he’s receiving a special letter of commendation from the board. And they’ve asked the mayor to read a similar proclamation.”

“But take your time,” Eric said. “Hopefully you’ll have only one wedding, and you should enjoy the process.”

“You’re so smart,” I said to Eric. And then I reached for the hands of Miss Gloria and my mother. “I can’t wait for one more second to see what Nathan bought.”

“Let the ladies go first,” Sam suggested. “It doesn’t look big enough to hold all of us.”

I hopped off the deck, with Miss Gloria and my mother and Connie and the two cats behind me, and then onto the deck of the boat next door. My hands were shaking as I inserted the key into the lock and pushed open the door.

A living area lay just inside, separated from the kitchen by a short bar. The walls were paneled with the kind of old-fashioned faux-wood that people used to plaster over the cement walls in their basements, and the floor was covered with orange honest-to-god shag carpet. It smelled like someone’s cellar, too. And the prior owners had clearly never turned on an exhaust fan while frying.

“Wow,” I said, my heart sinking like a grease-saturated fritter. “This place is a dump.”

“It needs lots of work—lots of things need to be ripped right out and replaced, and you’ll need some decorating advice from your mother,” said my mom.

After a quick tour of the two bedrooms in back and the small bath, all of which my mother and Miss Gloria insisted could be fixed, we headed back home.

“It’s a dog, but we’ll renovate and send the bills to the fiancé. Quickly, before he changes his mind,” said Miss Gloria, giggling. “But as my Frank would have said, it’s got excellent bones. Imagine cedar or reclaimed Dade County pine on the walls and floors. Built-ins everywhere. And a whole new kitchen with a double oven. Not a Kidcraft mini-kitchen like you have at my place.”

“I love your place,” I said. “It’s home to me.”

“This will become home,” she said, beaming. “And people say you’ve got the best neighbors!”