Randy White - Seduced

Thankfully, my mother’s stories always ended there. As she is aware, there is a fine line regarding details of the king’s visits not to be crossed or I might believe she truly is crazy, which would mean I can no longer leave her alone.

Loretta hates having a nurse in the house after sunset. As a result, she proves her sanity on a daily basis by editing her ramblings with care.

Tonight, she chose the ghosts of Indian maidens as a topic. “They were singing to me earlier; prettiest wood flutes I’ve heard-beautiful flutes, carved from bamboo-while the men danced around a fire. Naked as jaybirds, they were. God only knows what might’ve happened next-if you hadn’t barged in.”

I listened patiently. She was in bed, sitting up, a sheet and blanket over her legs, while I fluffed pillows.

“I wish you’d respect my privacy. Just because you don’t date, or can’t keep a man in your life, doesn’t mean there aren’t normal women who enjoy good singing and a fire. There’s nothing in the world wrong with socializing with friends, even if they are members of the opposite sex.”

“Was the king dancing, too?” I asked.

“What king?”

“The Indian chief. You know who I mean.”

“The hell I do. I got no idea who you’re talking about-and keep your paws off that man, whoever he is. Where’s the channel changer?”

On the dresser was a small TV with cable reception. I found the History Channel and placed the remote within reach. “I think I’ll run my skiff across to Sanibel and get some dinner. Loretta… Loretta”-I had to say her name twice-“pay attention in case I have motor trouble. I won’t, but you never know. The tide’s flooding, so I’ll cut behind Chino, then cross from York Island to Dinkin’s Bay. Can you remember that? If I need a tow, you’ll need to send someone.”

“If I knew where the damn channel changer was, maybe I could think straight. Do you listen to a word I say?”

I placed the remote on her tummy. While I was neatening up and checking windows, she spun through a dozen channels until she found a Cary Grant movie, black-and-white, with Katharine Hepburn in a sequined gown.

“That’s the way a woman is supposed to dress. I met her many’a time-Miz Hepburn lived on Boca Grande, you know. Your uncle would bring her by in the boat after they’d shucked a mess of oysters. She was a true lady, that one, but Miz Hepburn loved her a mess of raw oysters as good as any man.”

“I remember her,” I said, which was true. “If you need me, all you have to do is call or walk down to the dock. Bang on my boat’s cabin, so you don’t scare the fire out of me. I should be back before midnight. You got all that?”

“When I was dating,” Loretta replied, “gentlemen would pick me up in a car. A decent girl wouldn’t be caught dead buzzin’ around in a boat at night alone, especially dressed in those Boy Scout clothes of yours. Often, the gentleman would come in a limousine-the most beautiful black Lincoln you’ve ever seen. I have dated a king or two, now that you bring the subject up.”

I stopped messing with the curtains. Until then, she hadn’t said a word about Harney Chatham’s death, nor referenced what had happened today.

“How is the king getting along?” I asked in a gentler way.

My mother’s sharp blue eyes blazed, then dulled as she blinked and thought back. “He’s dead,” she said. “The king’s dead as he can be.”

“Is that right?”

“You known damn well he is.”

“That’s too bad,” I said, still unsure. “When did he die?”

She blinked and stared. “Don’t matter. We all die before our time. It came to me in a dream-this was before them beautiful wood flutes and singing. I don’t want to talk about it.” Her eyes returned to the television, blinking faster. It was a while before she spoke again. “The king went out happy. I can guarantee you that much.”

I refused to respond to that.

“Happiness is a rare thing, Hannah. Especially for a man or woman who suffers this life alone. That’s another reason I worry about you so.”

The woman had a knack for offering the kindest advice in the meanest ways. This told me she was wide awake. I resumed what I was doing. “Suffering is a choice I’ve yet to make,” I countered. “Should I bring an extra bottle of water? I’ve heard smoking grass makes people thirsty, if they can stay awake long enough.”

“It’s your smart-aleck ways and prudishness, too, that worries me. Has the law been snooping around?”

“They’ve got no reason,” I lied. “How about that water? Tea would keep you awake.”

“Tell me the truth.”

I stood to leave. “If you’re talking about Mr. Chatham, isn’t it a little late for the truth?”

Bleary blue eyes blinked up at me. “Don’t be cross about something you can’t understand. He loved me, you know.”

I replied, “Yes, he did, Mama,” and gave her a kiss on the cheek.

Melancholy followed me out the door.

Outside, I glared at the stars while a dark wind stirred the mangroves with the distant hooting of owls. The idea of a trip across the bay, alone, had lost some of its luster, but I wasn’t about to give in to self-pity.

Who could I phone to urge me on? My best friend, a woman sheriff’s deputy, was visiting her wealthy aunt in Palm Beach-she would have been my first choice. Nathan Pace, a weight lifter, was my second, but he was traveling with his boyfriend. Then Marion Ford came to mind. Never had I met a man who disappeared, then reappeared, without so much as a warning, but he might be at home, working in his lab tonight.

No, I decided. In my current state, I couldn’t be trusted. The two of us were like gunpowder, if left alone in a room. One touch of his hand, I would be guaranteed a lengthy search for my underwear and shoes come morning. A safer choice was his friend, Tomlinson, who also lived alone on a boat. On the other hand, unlike me, Tomlinson was seldom alone.

While I stood there battling indecision, the lights of a pickup truck angled around the curve, where a giant mastic tree shields a view of docks and miniature cottages known as Munchkin Land. The truck wasn’t local. It was traveling slow like someone lost. When the vehicle stopped in front of the house, I walked toward the road, eager for the distraction of a driver in need of directions.

“Hannah?” a man called out the window. “I thought that was you.”

I recognized the voice, and the face.

“Kermit!” I replied.

“This is embarrassing,” he said, getting out. “I was restless, and was hoping some of the old orange groves were close to the road. Turns out, I was right, so don’t think I’m stalking you.”

I laughed at that.

Under the circumstances, I was as pleased as if I’d chanced upon an old friend in a foreign land.

I could lie to myself, as I often do, and pretend I felt no physical attraction for the grove manager until after we were in the cabin of my boat, me elevated in the captain’s chair with a glass of white wine, him in the settee booth with a Diet Coke.

This was not true. We had spent an hour hiking around, inspecting citrus trees, both of us with flashlights. By day, there would have been no need for the occasional hand-on-elbow contact that darkness and bad footing require. By day, that small familiarity would have seemed less intimate, and unacceptable.

After dark, though, the briefest contact can become a secret communication-all deniable, of course, depending on the message and the response.

Among trees my great-grandfather planted a century ago, that’s where I first felt a chesty, respiratory tension and an awareness of Kermit Bigalow. It was easy enough to hide, of course, because our conversation remained strictly on a formal, friendly plain.