Cynthia Thomason - Christmas in Key West

Abby smiled, thinking about the unique father-daughter bond they shared, a bond that had been tested over the years but remained strong because of weekly phone calls and genuine concern. But now, Abby had to admit her dad needed something more from her than a supportive, long-distance relationship. He needed to start behaving like a grown-up.

So, taking into account the month of personal days and vacation time she’d accumulated, Abby made a difficult decision. After turning over a mountain of paperwork to a colleague, and explaining her situation to the most vulnerable of her cases, she’d arranged for a leave from her job so she could stay in Key West through Christmas. Her involvement with the young women in her caseload didn’t end just because she was away, of course. She’d made sure everyone who depended on her had her cell phone number.

Leaving Atlanta had been difficult, but Abby was convinced she was doing the right thing for her family. If anyone could help Huey out of the mess he’d gotten himself into, it was her, not an island cop who thought he could change her dad by intimidating him. She only wished she could avoid Reese throughout her stay, as she had in the past, though she doubted that would be possible. Key West was, and always had been, a small town.

Thanksgiving Day was nearly over when Abby drove up to her old house with a couple of take-out turkey dinners on the floor of her car. She hadn’t told her father she was coming, for two reasons: she didn’t want him to worry about her making the long drive, and she didn’t want to answer questions about why she’d planned the trip.

As she pulled up the cracked cement driveway, she encountered debris that spread from the lawn into the street.

Much of it was charred and unrecognizable—and an indication that things were as bad as her mother had said. Abby parked, got out of her car and wrinkled her nose at the foul odor from the garbage.

Then she gazed up at the two-and-a-half-story house she’d grown up in. At one time she’d been proud that the 1857 mansion had been built by her great-great-great-grandfather Armand Vernay, a self-made millionaire during the island’s infamous shipwrecking days. Today, eleven months since her last visit, Abby only sensed decay and desperation around her, emphasizing even more the painful memories of the choices she’d made thirteen years ago, and the consequences she’d been forced to live with.

Scraggly oleander bushes, once brilliant with pink blossoms, now reached heights of more than ten feet and invaded the wraparound porch. Bare limbs chafed the delicate rippled glass in the ancient windows. The wide brick pathway, where once two people could walk arm in arm to the front door, barely allowed one person to climb the three steps without risk of scratching ankles on unkempt brambles. Most of the windows were shuttered, giving the house a sad, deserted feel.

Clutching the turkey dinners, she picked her way toward the porch, half expecting Huey to burst through the door. He always seemed to have a special radar where she was concerned, somehow knowing when she was around. Disappointed, she walked in the door, which was never locked, and called his name.

Silence. She stared into the parlor, noting the disarray. Mail, mostly flyers, littered Huey’s desk. Dust lay thick on the old mahogany pieces she used to polish with such care. She progressed down the hall, again calling for her father. Once in the kitchen, she set the turkey dinners on the table and peered out the window. Maybe he was in the backyard. She glanced at the overgrown bushes and a large, darkened patch of dirt that looked as though it had been burned—confirmation of Huey’s run-in with Reese.

Abby shook her head and returned to the hall. Maybe Poppy was napping. She’d go upstairs and awaken him, she decided, just before her cell phone rang. She pulled the phone from her jeans pocket, read the digital display and answered. “Mom?”

“Hi, honey. Have you arrived at Huey’s yet?”

“Yes, I just got here.”

“Good. I didn’t want to call and upset you while you were still on the road. I was afraid you’d drive too fast to get here.”

Abby sat heavily on the bottom step of the staircase. “Mom, what’s happened? Poppy’s not here.”

“I know.” Loretta paused. “Now, don’t think the worst, but he’s in the hospital.”

“The hospital?” Abby rose and hurried to the front door. “Why? What’s wrong with him?”

“He fell, Abby. He’ll be okay, but he’s got a few bruises and a concussion. The doctors want to keep him overnight for observation.”

“My God. Poor Poppy.” She picked up her purse, which she’d dropped on the hall stand, and went outside. “I’ll head right over. Are you coming, too?”

“I went when I first heard, but once I knew Huey was okay, I came to work. You can call here at the Shack if you need me.”

“Okay. But wait, Mom, don’t hang up. How did it happen? Why did Poppy fall?”

Loretta breathed deeply. “You won’t like hearing this, Ab.”

“Mom…”

“Huey says Reese Burkett attacked him.”

ABBY’S HANDS SHOOK on the steering wheel as she drove the mile to the island hospital. She tried to picture Reese Burkett with her fingers wrapped around his neck. But instead of popping veins on his forehead, and broken blood vessels in his eyes, all that came to mind was a youthful, cocky smile and heavily lashed green eyes full of confidence and invincibility. That was Reese then. She had no idea what he looked like now, only that she would experience an admittedly selfish gratification in discovering he’d packed forty pounds onto his athletic frame and lost most of his thick dark hair. How dare he manhandle her father? She’d meet him in court, facing an abuse charge!

The sun was setting as she parked in the hospital lot and entered the lobby. Mechanically, she showed the required identification, had her picture taken and patted the ID sticker onto her blouse. She was used to hospital security regulations. In the course of her job, she visited many hospitals in the Atlanta area.

Huey was on the second floor. Abby exited the elevator, quickly scanned the directional signs for his room number and headed to the end of the hall. She heard Alex Trebek read an answer on Jeopardy, then recognized her dad’s voice giving the proper response before the contestants could buzz in.

Huey snapped his fingers as she entered the room. He’d gotten the Jeopardy question right.

Abby hurried to his bedside, then stopped short when she saw the bruise around his closed right eye. “Poppy!”

He turned to her, and a huge grin spread across his face. “Well, I’ll be. Baby girl! What are you doing here? You found out I was in this joint?”

“Not until I got into town, about thirty minutes ago. Mom phoned and told me you’d been admitted.”

He stared at her with his good eye. “So what are you doing here? It isn’t Christmas yet.”

“No, but I came early, to spend more time with you.”

“What? You’re staying through December?”

“That’s the plan.”

“That’s not like you, Abigail—taking off work so long.”

“It’s fine, Poppy. Everything’s covered.”

“But you never stay more than a couple of days.”

“I know, but this is different.” She pulled up a chair. “Anyway, I don’t want to talk about me. I want to know what happened to you. How are you feeling?” She lifted the tube leading into his arm. “And what’s this for?”

He lowered the TV volume with his remote. “It’s nothing,” he said. “Everybody gets a drip of some kind, they tell me. That’s just sugar water or something.” He tapped the side of his head. “It’s the old noggin that’s giving me trouble. But they gave me something that makes Alex Trebek look like Loni Anderson.”