Not since he’d picked up Lisa for their very first date had Peyton been this nervous. He had spent so much time getting ready at the Miami firehouse that the whole company was giving him grief. They had already loaded his bike onto one of the trucks and offered to drop him off a couple of blocks from Lisa’s relatives. His mother had passed along the address—relayed by Lisa—and now he was ready to go.
“Get the lead out, Romeo, or she’ll be married to somebody else before you get there!” Captain Sanchez called.
All the other firemen laughed and made catcalls when he joined them.
“Lookin’ snappy, Bike Boy!”
“Go get ’em, Georgia!”
“Might as well take a preacher with you!”
“Gimme a break,” Peyton said, rolling his eyes.
“You won’t get any mercy from this crew.” Captain Sanchez laughed. “Climb aboard, Peyton. Your hour of reckoning is at hand.”
As promised, the captain dropped him near Lisa’s aunt and uncle and helped him unload his bike. “Good luck to you, my friend,” he said as he shook Peyton’s hand.
“Thank you, Captain. Somethin’ tells me I’m gonna need it in a few minutes.”
“Don’t let those people rattle you. Get on in there and show ’em what you’re made of.”
They waved goodbye, and Peyton pushed his bike a couple of blocks to a Mediterranean-style house surrounded by palm trees. He smoothed his shirt and ran his fingers through his hair before parking his bike on the sidewalk near an iron gate that led to the front entrance. His hands felt sweaty as he rang the bell.
A housekeeper in uniform came to the gate. “May I help you, sir?” she asked.
“Yes, please. My name is Peyton Cabot, and I’m a friend of Miss Lisa Wallace. I wondered if I might see her?”
“Won’t you come in?” The housekeeper escorted him to a sunroom that looked like it was lifted from some island hotel. Everything was new and color coordinated, as if all the furniture and every picture on the walls had been bought from the same store on the same day.
Peyton tried not to fidget, but it was hard, after all the time he’d spent waiting to see Lisa. He couldn’t believe it was about to happen.
“So you’re Peyton Cabot.”
He turned to see a woman who looked older than his mother standing in the doorway. “Yes, ma’am. I’m pleased to meet you.” Standing to greet her, he offered his hand, then awkwardly lowered it as she didn’t let go of the book and newspaper she was holding.
The woman was dressed the same way her house was furnished—as if she had opened a catalog, turned to the Miami section, and ordered everything there. She was wearing slim pants that hit above the ankles and high heels, both in a bright shade of coral, with an ankle-length, coral-and-blue, sleeveless coat sort of thing over them. Big jewelry, big hair that looked dyed black. Lipstick and long fingernails—both the exact color of her pants. She had what Peyton’s mother called a “nothing-better-to-do tan”—a dark hue that could only be achieved by doing little else besides sunbathing.
“Have a seat,” she said.
Peyton sat back down on palm-print cushions as the woman took a seat in a matching chair across from him.
“I gather you’ve seen this?” She laid a newspaper on the glass-topped coffee table between them. It was a copy of the Miami Herald with a big picture of Peyton on the front page. He was sitting at a table by the pool at The Breakers. No doubt Peggy Martell had snapped it when he wasn’t looking.
“I don’t understand,” Peyton said.
“Oh, I think it’s pretty clear. You told this reporter that you were making this journey in hopes of a rendezvous with a mystery girl you call your very own Venus.”
“Beggin’ your pardon, ma’am, but I didn’t say that. She said it—the reporter, I mean.”
“I’m curious as to when and how a boy your age would have seen a painting of Venus, Mr. Cabot?”
“I haven’t, ma’am. That’s what I’m tryin’ to tell you. All I said was that Lisa—I didn’t call her by name—was a beautiful girl with red hair. The reporter called her that—that Venus.”
“Well, just so you know, here is the image that my young, innocent niece apparently conjures in your lascivious brain.” She opened the book she had been holding—some kind of art encyclopedia—and turned it around.
“Good grief!” Peyton stood up in shock as he saw the painting of a woman with long red hair—and not a stitch of clothing—reclining on a bed. “I’d never talk about Lisa like that! Especially in a newspaper!”
“But you think about her like that all the time—don’t you?”
“Is Lisa here?”
“No. Once I told her about this article so she’d know what you’re made of, I sent her home where her parents could keep her safe.”
“Look, I don’t know you, ma’am. And you don’t know me. If you did, you wouldn’t think so ill of me. I care a lot about Lisa. And I have a lotta respect for her. You got the wrong idea. And you’re listenin’ to a newspaper reporter who’d prob’ly lie about her own mama to get a headline. I’ll be goin’ now.”
Lisa’s aunt stood up. “I’m not through with you.”
“Yes, ma’am, I b’lieve you are.”
Peyton hurried out of the house, grabbed his bike, and feverishly pedaled to get as far away from that awful house as he could. He stopped at a gas station to get directions back to A1A, changed into his shorts and a T-shirt, and grabbed a quick sandwich from a little lunch counter in back before getting change for the phone.
His heart pounded faster with each coin he dropped into the slot. He dialed Lisa’s number and counted the rings. One . . . two . . . three . . .
“Hello?”
“Judy? Is that you?”
“Peyton? Where on earth are you?”
“I’m in Miami. I came to see Lisa, but your aunt said she sent her home.”
“My aunt lied. And in case you haven’t figured it out, she’s an evil troll, but you’ll never convince Mama of that. Lisa’s not here. Get this—she’s in Key West.”
“What? You gotta be kiddin’ me!”
“Nope. That’s probably why Aunt Marilyn told you they sent her home. They don’t want you looking for her down there. But dear Auntie did tell Lisa about that article, and said she put it in the mail to my parents. Sis was pretty sore, but she was too embarrassed to tell me why. What on earth did you say?”
Peyton fed more coins into the slot. “Listen, Judy, that reporter put words in my mouth. And now your aunt thinks I described Lisa like this painting called Venus. But I swear I didn’t. That reporter did. Judy? Are you laughing?”
Judy was laughing so hard she couldn’t talk. “Peyton, honey, you can get yourself into some scrapes! I studied that painting in art class. Ol’ Venus is as naked as a jaybird!”
“I know! The reporter tricked me into sayin’ I had a special girl and that she’s beautiful and has red hair. That’s when she came up with that Venus business, and now your aunt thinks I’m sittin’ around picturin’ Lisa . . .”
Judy was laughing again.
“You’ve just gotta stop laughin’, Judy, this is serious!”
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I’ll straighten up. But one o’ these days, I promise you’ll laugh pretty hard yourself. Meantime, I can’t help you much with Key West because I don’t know where they are. Our great-aunt owns a vacation house on the island and invited Lisa and our cousin Bobbie Ann to come down. I don’t remember where it is, but I’ll see if I can find out.”
“Thanks. And promise me you’ll set your parents straight about that article. Please?”
“I can’t do that right away because I can’t let them know we’re talking. But I’ll straighten it out as soon as I can.”
“Thanks, Judy. I owe you. Guess I better get goin’. You take care.”
“No, you take care. Heavens to Betsy, Peyton, I’m in your corner, but your luck needs to change. You and Lisa are wearin’ me out. Call me if I can help you.”
Emotionally drained but determined to put Miami behind him physically, at least, Peyton mounted his bike and returned to the highway that would take him to his last stop on the mainland—Homestead.