twelve
Sometime during the night, it had begun to rain, a steady downpour pelting the tin roof of Aunt Gert’s bungalow and lightly misting Peyton’s face. The temperature dropped a few more degrees, sending a brisk, cool breeze across the screened porch. Peyton could hear distant thunder and the sigh of palm trees rustling in the wind. Frogs were singing on the river. He could listen to those sounds forever.
When he and Aunt Gert had come home from the marina, she told him to put his things in her spare bedroom but offered him the option of her sleeping porch if he preferred it. The deep screened porch ran all the way across the back of the bungalow, which was painted purple with white trim. In the center of the porch were two twin beds made of cypress, just like the floors throughout the house. They were positioned end to end, running parallel to the back wall of the house to allow as much shelter from the elements as possible, but the thunderstorm that was rolling in now blew the rain farther into the porch than usual.
Peyton didn’t care. Pulling the covers higher to keep the mist off his face, he listened to the sounds of rain and thunder as the wind rustled the palms and thought of another rainy night back in March. He had invited Lisa to a St. Patrick’s Day concert in Forsyth Park. They caught the bus downtown and danced in front of the bandstand. Peyton knew he should insist that they leave when the early evening breeze gusted and he could see lightning off in the distance. But he couldn’t bring himself to end a night out with Lisa. By the time thunder rumbled and they felt the first drops of rain, it was far too late to make it to the bus stop. Peyton wrapped his arm around her as they sprinted to the front porch of a grand old mansion fronting the park. It was mostly dark inside, and Peyton could only hope the owners didn’t come home before the rain stopped.
He and Lisa were both drenched. As he frantically apologized and brushed her dripping red hair out of her eyes, she looked up at him, somber at first, but then her lips curled into a smile and she laughed.
Still fussing with her hair but now laughing with her, Peyton said, “I’m sorry, Lisa. I wanted to show you such a good time—”
“Who says you didn’t?” she said. She was beginning to shiver in the cool March air, so he took off his jacket and wrapped it around her. As he did, she slipped her arms around his waist . . .
Peyton drifted off to sleep, listening to a Florida rain splash against the river and the palms, dreaming of a girl with long auburn hair dripping wet and a beautiful face that felt so soft in his hands.
Hours later, when his dreams of Lisa were fading, he awoke to a strange tapping sound. Or was it whapping? He wasn’t awake enough to tell, but this much was sure—it was unrelenting. Whap . . . whap . . . whap-whap-whap-whap. Whap . . . whap . . . whap-whap-whap-whap. When he couldn’t stand it anymore, he sat up in bed to find the biggest, most gorgeous cat he had ever seen pawing at the screen door. For a couple of seconds, it would sit and bang the door with one paw. Then it would stand on its back paws and whap with its front ones, like a boxer going after a punching bag. Standing on its hind legs, the cat had to be three feet tall, with a thick coat of silver, charcoal, and white all blended together. Its long tail was as fluffy as a feather duster, and it had pointed ears like a bobcat.
Peyton got out of bed and opened the door. The cat paid him no mind, calmly proceeding across the porch, through a cat door, and into the house. Peyton went inside, stopping by his room to get dressed before he followed the smell of bacon into Aunt Gert’s kitchen.
“Mornin’, sleepyhead,” she said as she used her spatula to splash bacon grease on the eggs she was frying.
“Mornin’,” Peyton said.
“I guess I don’t need to ask if you slept good.” Aunt Gert cracked the oven door and took a quick peek inside.
“No, ma’am. That thunderstorm put me out like a light.”
“Well, good. You needed some sleep. I expect you’ve met Pirate?” She nodded toward the cat having his breakfast from a bowl underneath the table.
“Yes, ma’am.” Peyton eyed the cat’s bowl. “You fry your cat bacon?”
Aunt Gert pulled a small pan of biscuits out of the oven and set it on a pot holder on the kitchen table. “Not every meal,” she said as she brought a butter dish and a pitcher of orange juice out of the icebox. “He only likes it for breakfast. By the way, I don’t b’lieve in dirtyin’ up a bunch o’ dishes if I don’t have to, so help yourself to biscuits and butter and pour you some juice while I finish up the rest of it.”
“Thank you,” Peyton said, buttering a hot, fluffy biscuit from the pan and filling the glass next to his plate. “Man, Aunt Gert,” he said after he drained his glass. “I never had orange juice like that.”
She slid two eggs out of her skillet and onto his plate. “Squeezed it myself. Got an orange tree right out back. There’s plenty more where that came from, so drink up.”
He refilled his glass as she loaded him up with bacon. Right before she sat down, she put a steaming cup of coffee next to each of their plates.
“Uh . . . I don’t usually drink coffee, Aunt Gert,” he said.
“That’s because you’ve never had mine.” She offered thanks and told him to dig in. “Well, go on,” she said, pointing to the coffee. “Give it a try. You don’t have to drink it if you don’t like it.”
Peyton had to admit, Aunt Gert’s coffee didn’t look like any he had ever seen. She served it in a glass cup. It was dark brown—almost black—with a frothy cream on top. He took a cautious sip.
She raised an eyebrow as she watched him. “Well?”
He broke into a smile. “That’s good stuff.”
“I know! Drink up. It’ll put hair on your chest.”
Peyton set down his fork and slapped his forehead with his hand. “Oh, man! I forgot to call her last night.”
“Your mama?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“I called her.”
Peyton sighed with relief. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. But if you ever forget to call me when you’re supposed to, I’ll tan your hide.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said as he dove back into his breakfast. “Did she say how Daddy’s doin’?”
“’Bout the same, but he’s not goin’ backwards, which is the important thing.”
Peyton buttered another biscuit and asked, “Is there anything you need me to help you with today?”
“Your mama told you to say that, didn’t she?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Ha! I appreciate your honesty, son. There’s plenty I’ll need help with, but not now. Today, I want you to ramble. Go walk around town and get your bearin’s. Take the Madame out and explore the harbor and the beach. Introduce yourself to St. Augustine.”
“Don’t you want to come?”
“I do not. You’re on your own. Here, take this money and stick it in your pocket for lunch in town so you don’t have to eat here and be tied to a clock.”
“Mama gave me money.”
“I know. But you’re my guest, so you eat on me. And that’s that.”
“Thank you.” Peyton stuffed the bills into his hip pocket. “I still can’t believe you let me drive the Madame.”
“Everything worth knowin’ has to be learned by doin’. And if there’s anything worth knowin’ in Florida, it’s how to swim, how to fish, and how to handle a boat. You can swim, can’t you?”
“Yes, ma’am. I’m a pretty decent swimmer.”
“And fish? You know how to cast a line?”
“Alright then. Master the Madame and you’re good to go. There’s fishin’ gear in the toolshed if you want to take a rod and reel out with you. Just stay on the shoreline for now. I’ll get Finn to show you the ropes in the deep sea, but you’re not ready yet, so stay where you can see the beaches.”
“Yes, ma’am. What are you gonna do while I’m gone?”
“None o’ your business.”
St. Augustine was a marvel. Peyton had grown up around historic architecture in Savannah, but this place was seriously old. Everywhere, you could see remnants of Spanish buildings—and others still intact and in use. Tourists swarmed the centuries-old fort on the waterfront. He picked up a map in a candy shop, where he couldn’t resist the aroma of chocolate, and wandered cobblestone streets while he nibbled on fudge.
Eventually, he made his way to the Ponce de Leon, a grand hotel built by the man who had dreamed up the railroad to Key West. It looked like something out of The Arabian Nights.
Following the map to the corner of Valencia and Sevilla, Peyton took a short walk to Memorial Presbyterian Church, which the railroad man built in memory of his daughter. According to the notes on the map, she died having a baby at sea. Such a sad story for such a beautiful church, but no sadder than that of his own grandmother—his real grandmother, whom he would never meet. Was his dad anything like her? Was Peyton?
He continued his downtown ramble, and again his nose led him into temptation. He followed the aroma of fresh bread into an old Spanish bakery, where he didn’t recognize anything on the menu and had to ask for help. A pretty dark-haired girl behind the counter recommended the empanadas. She selected three for him, which he took in a paper bag, and then he made his way back to the dock and the Madame Queen.
Every time he started her up, the sound of her engine made his heart beat a little faster. While he knew it was only his imagination, he liked to think that the old boat was as ready to run as a Thoroughbred coming out of the gate. Soon Peyton and the Madame were gliding across shimmering water lit by a late morning sun.
He loved speed and always had—a trait his mother found worrisome. He wasn’t reckless by nature, nor was he drawn to danger. It was the movement—the way the world looked different when it was zooming past and the feel of the wind in his face. That’s what he loved. Cars and bikes and horses were okay, but speed was always better when it came from a source beyond the ordinary—like the Madame Queen or a roller coaster.
The best speed Peyton had ever experienced was in an airplane. His father had bought them both a ride in an open cockpit biplane when he was about ten years old, and he’d been hooked. From then on, he got an airplane ride for his birthday every year. Even now, he couldn’t name a better present than the thrill of climbing in, hearing the engine start, and watching the propeller begin to spin, knowing that any minute now, the plane would shoot down the runway and climb into the air.
For now, the waters of St. Augustine would have to be his runway. Since he was still new to them, Peyton retraced the route Aunt Gert had shown him—up the Matanzas River, through the pass, into the Atlantic, and down the coast to Anastasia Island, where he did a fair enough job of backing the Madame next to the dock and tying her up.
He decided to leave his food and cooler in the boat and take a walk on the beach. Kicking off his shoes, he rolled up his khakis and walked along the water’s edge, letting the waves give him a splash now and then. Every time planes from one of Florida’s many bases flew over, he stopped and looked up, shading his eyes to see if he could spot any Mustangs.
Airplanes aside, whenever he let his thoughts drift in their chosen direction, they always carried him straight to Lisa. Though he had given up hope of spending any time at all with her this summer, she was always there, in the back of his mind. He could close his eyes and picture her in the gown she had worn to the spring formal.
Before the dance, Peyton had asked his father to quiz him on all the rules he was supposed to remember: The young man stands here, the young lady stands there . . . Halfway through, his dad stopped mid-sentence and said, “Son, they’re teaching you everything except what you really need to know.” And then he said something Peyton never forgot: “What most boys your age don’t understand about girls is that they’re not trophies to show off or points to score. They’re people. You want to win over a special girl like Lisa? Listen to her. Pay attention to her—what she says and what she does and what she thinks and what she feels. And don’t so much as glance at another girl when you’re out with her. She deserves better than that. All girls do. Treat Lisa like she’s the only person in the room, and I promise you, she won’t care whether you bow or curtsy.”
The night of the dance, Peyton was allowed one of his grandparents’ drivers so he wouldn’t have to be taxied to and from a big date by his dad. When the car arrived, his father winked at him and said, “You remember what we talked about. I told Floyd to take you anywhere you like, as long as you behave yourself and get Lisa home on time.”
Peyton had never been more grateful for his father’s advice than he was that night. Lisa looked so beautiful in the emerald dress that brought out the little green flecks in her blue eyes. And she was like a feather in his arms, so easy to dance with, be it a waltz or a fox-trot. When they were twirling to the music, Lisa seemed happy and content, but between dances, when they were surrounded by all the other couples who had grown up together but were still strangers to her, a lonely cloud would cross her pretty face.
“Would you like to get some air?” Peyton asked her. That brought back her smile. He asked Floyd to drive them to Forsyth Square, where tourists were always posing by the grand old fountain, taking pictures to send home. Peyton laid his jacket on a park bench to protect her dress, and the two of them sat in the moonlight and talked—really talked—until it was time to take her home. For the first time, Peyton realized what it was like to be with a girl he couldn’t bear to part from.
But they were parted—had, in fact, been forced apart. And while Peyton knew there were far worse places to be stuck than St. Augustine, stuck was stuck. All he could do now was mentally calculate the distance between here and Miami and get himself ready to take a ride.