A Scone of Contention Read online

  “I got spooked and I panicked,” said Ray. “Turns out some kid popped a bunch of balloons, and I thought it was a shooter. That’s it, end of story.”

  And I could see that tonight, for him, that was the end of the story. But Connie’s anxious face told me there was a lot more to it. She circled her hand as if to ask me to try again.

  “Everybody gets spooked these days,” I said. “How can we help it? Every time you turn on the news, there’s a report of another mass shooting. I don’t blame you a bit.”

  He jutted his chin out, drank more beer, and said nothing.

  “Nathan’s got us all jacked up too,” I continued, “about how to react in a crisis.” I perched on the chair next to Ray and showed them my skinned knees. “I dropped and rolled, exactly as he prescribed. Only he didn’t predict that I’d end up in the nastiest gutter in town. And I think you’re supposed to roll if you’re on fire, not if you’re getting shot at.” I laughed a little, trying to lighten the mood. It wasn’t working.

  “How is it going with your show?” I asked.

  Ray had been a painter as long as I’d known him, and lately it seemed as though he might be on the cusp of breaking out. His artistic style had evolved over the last couple of years. Now he worked mostly in watercolors, which I knew were difficult. I’d taken a one-day class at the Studios of Key West, thinking I could learn a few tips and capture the Key West scenery. Instead, I’d ended up with a brown muddy mess on my canvas. Even the teacher, who, I was certain, hoped that her sweet support would garner good reviews from her students, was speechless in the face of my final product. I had not signed up for another class.

  For a wedding gift, Ray had painted a scene of our dock for me and Nathan. It encompassed all three of the homes I had lived in and treasured since landing in Key West—Connie’s place, Miss Gloria’s, and now ours. And the kindness and thoughtfulness of this gift brought me to tears.

  The artist’s life could be heartbreaking—no artist or writer I knew felt they were being paid or appreciated for what they were worth. But very few of them were willing to give up chasing that dream. I knew it broke Ray’s heart to see his wife trudge off every morning to work alongside her employees in her cleaning business. He would have much preferred being able to support her and their baby without her income. Even if she did insist she loved her customers and her job.

  He shrugged and let a sigh escape. “I’ve had a lot of people looking at the paintings, but no buyers yet. The prices are high—but I had to do that because the gallery’s commission is high too. And it’s the shoulder season. And they only hung my stuff last week. And I’m sharing the showing with Jag.”

  “His friend from art school,” Connie explained.

  He cast a worried look at Connie, and she responded with a reassuring smile. “They wouldn’t have asked you to show there if they didn’t think you’d sell. We knew this would be hard going in. But you’re going to make it big, I’m sure of it.” She paused. “What had you so jumpy? Why did you pull the gun?”

  She had to be working hard to keep her voice even, not accusatory, as I would have been. Ray didn’t answer, and I could feel the tension between them ratchet up a few notches.

  A flash of light caught my eye, and I glanced toward my houseboat and saw the headlights of Nathan’s SUV as he pulled into the parking lot. “Look, you guys take care, and let us know if you need anything. I better go check in with my husband.”

  Connie stood up to walk me out. “Have a wonderful time in Scotland,” she said. “We will keep an eye on the boats. Luckily, the weather report for next week appears completely benign. And I’m sure Nathan will have half the Key West Police Department doing drive-bys.”

  I kissed Ray on the top of the head and followed Connie down the stairs.

  “I didn’t even know he had a gun,” she hissed in a low voice when we reached the front door. “He’s worried about something, and he won’t say any more about it. He thinks he’s protecting us, but all it does is make me more anxious. And the timing could not be worse—with this big show on Duval Street. He could be on the edge of real artistic success, and instead, he’s breaking down and pulling guns, and that could ruin everything. Who wants to buy art from a gun-toting nutjob?”

  I hardly knew what to say, so I kept any advice to myself and gave her a big hug. “Listen, don’t hesitate to call me anytime. If I’m sleeping, I’ll turn the ringer off. Don’t think twice about it, okay?” I put my hands on her shoulders. “If you have any worries or questions, call the police department and ask for Steve Torrence. And I’ll find out right now whether Nathan’s heard anything, and I’ll text you instantly.” I squeezed her shoulders and then drew her into a hug. “Everything will be okay. Love you guys to death.”

  I trotted back up the finger to greet my husband.

  “I wondered where you got off to,” Nathan said when I walked in. “I knew you couldn’t be far because the scones were here. But the furry gentlemen wouldn’t tell me anything.”

  I threw my arms around his neck and gave him a big kiss. “The truth is, this vacation can’t come soon enough. I don’t care how many kooky relatives are cramming themselves into our honeymoon or how bad the weather is or how much golf you have to play. I need a change of scenery. And some time with my new husband.”

  A smile lit up his face. “Same back at you. Now what in the devil was going on this afternoon with your friend and his gun?” He tipped his chin in the direction of Connie and Ray’s home.

  “I was going to ask you that. He wouldn’t tell me anything. Why is it,” I wondered, “that a person in trouble with the law won’t explain why they did what they did?” I was remembering incidents with both my friend Lorenzo and my psychologist friend Eric, when their insistence on keeping secrets private made them look guilty as hell.

  “Usually,” said Nathan, “they are covering up some kind of secret that feels worse than what is known. The problem here is that he brandished a gun in a public place. And balloons or no balloons, that’s a serious charge with serious consequences.” He frowned. “I don’t know Ray that well—”

  “But I do,” I broke in. “He’s the sweetest, kindest guy, with not a violent bone in his body. He had to have been feeling threatened. Although why in the world he was carrying a gun …”

  “You’d be surprised to know,” said Nathan, “that not everyone shares your views.”

  He wasn’t really smiling, and we were both exhausted and edgy about the trip, so I made the smart decision to head this conversation off before we got into a fight. I wasn’t even going to ask whether he planned to bring his gun to Scotland. Not tonight anyway. I nudged the conversation in a different direction.

  “Speaking of secrets, I didn’t get a chance to ask you what is really going on with your sister. Why does everyone think she’s losing it?

  “She’s jumpy,” Nathan said. “That’s the biggest symptom. She keeps trying to tell her husband that someone’s trying to sabotage her project. And he keeps thinking she’s having PTSD. Which would be understandable considering what she went through as a teenager. It’s been almost fifteen years.”

  I had recently learned that Vera had been abducted by a killer many years ago, but managed to escape. Another girl had not been so lucky. Surely that was enough to make a person jumpy, especially, as Eric liked to point out, at a time like an anniversary of the original horrific event.

  Chapter Four

  Tasting a sauce, the master dipped first and second finger, tasted his forefinger and held the second finger to be licked by Apollo. Thus the chef knew the cat’s taste and moreover had great respect for its judgment.

  —John Steinbeck, The Amiable Fleas

  I woke early the next morning to finish packing, water the plants, and give Ziggy a decent walk. Walking would help me as well, burning off some of my travel anxiety. The plane from Miami to Edinburgh didn’t leave until seven o’clock this evening, but because any small accident could shut down the mostly two-
lane road that traversed the Florida Keys, travelers were always advised to build in extra time. Lots of it.

  As it turned out, we had an easy enough time getting to the airport—getting through security, not so much. Nathan had suggested I go through the line first, Miss Gloria next, and him at the end to help with any stray luggage or other issues. I sailed through, collected my shoes and suitcase and laptop and liquids in their clear bag, and waited for my friend.

  “Whose bag is this?” a stern TSA agent asked, holding up Miss G’s pink backpack.

  “That’s mine,” she said, waggling her hand in the air and grinning. “Is there a problem, Officer?”

  But he only grunted and motioned her to the stand at the end of the rolling belt. “Do you have anything sharp inside?” he asked.

  She looked thoughtful and then guilty. “The penknife my husband gave me before he died. It’s tiny though. It would not work for a hijacking.”

  I groaned and clapped a hand over my eyes. We should have gone through her carry-on bag as well as the suitcase.

  As the agent began pulling things out of the pack, I saw a look of dismay cross her face. She had added a bottle of her special anti-wrinkle cream, definitely larger than the 3.4 ounces allowed. She patted her face with one hand. “Oh, my goodness, that’s too big, isn’t it? Look what happens when I do use this—I’d hate for you to be responsible for how I look when I don’t.”

  The man finally cracked a smile. He ran his wand over the top of the bottle, then opened it, sniffed, and replaced it in her bag.

  She flashed a big grin and leaned closer to him to whisper. “I won’t tell if you don’t.”

  A few hours later, we took off without incident and were served a plate of rubbery chicken and a tipple of wine. Once the dinner trays had been removed, Miss Gloria tilted her seat back and went to sleep in an instant. Her ear rested on my shoulder, and I could feel my shirt getting damp from sleep drool. On the other side of me, Nathan had dozed off, too, and was snoring, though he looked miserable, his arms crossed and long legs cramped by the seat in front of him.

  I was too wound up to sleep, worried about Connie and Ray and the gun incident, also concerned about our animals and whether they’d mope about being left alone. And I didn’t like leaving my mother and Sam behind when I was certain they too would have enjoyed the trip. And finally, I tried not to think about how we were in a metal tube hurtling over the Atlantic Ocean with not a shred of control over our destiny. Even with all those thoughts clogging my emotional channels, I must have dozed off during the night, as I was woken by the pilot’s announcement to return seats and tray tables to their upright and locked position. I could smell coffee, but I’d slept right through breakfast.

  As we circled the city and approached the airport, Miss Gloria sprang to life, chattering about her two other trips to Europe and how much she was looking forward to Scotland. My brain felt slow and mushy, like something Evinrude might have dragged in from the parking lot and left as a gift on the deck. I ran my fingers through my curls and hoped I rallied in time to make a decent first impression with my new in-laws.

  The head flight attendant came down the aisle and asked Nathan in a hushed voice whether his grandmother needed a wheelchair. Miss Gloria leaned across me to look the woman in the eye.

  “My hearing is crackerjack—probably better than yours, young lady. And I am not his grandmother, he is my boy toy. And no, thank you, I don’t need a wheelchair,” she announced. “Unless you need a ride somewhere—then I’ll be happy to push you.”

  The flight attendant turned a bright pink, and we all burst out laughing. I squeezed my friend’s hand, grateful again that we’d stumbled into such a wonderful friendship.

  We landed smoothly, filed out of the plane, and set out toward the baggage claim. I recognized Nathan’s sister, Vera, without introduction. She looked like a younger version of her mother—tall, slender, and lovely, only with a curtain of wavy brown hair and green eyes like Nathan’s. I felt suddenly tongue-tied. She rushed up to give Nathan a hug, and he introduced her and her husband, William, to Miss Gloria and me.

  “I am so pleased to meet you finally,” she said, holding me by the shoulders after a brief hug. “I can’t believe Nathan didn’t tell me he was getting married until after it had already happened. We probably couldn’t have made it to the wedding, as we’re both in the last throes of big projects. But isn’t that just like a brother not to say a word? And as you probably heard already—or maybe not, as Nathan’s not the greatest communicator—my mother and I have not been in the closest touch lately, so she didn’t mention it either.”

  I hardly knew what to say to that, but luckily the men returned with the luggage, so I was spared the possibility of saying the wrong thing. Miss Gloria and I nodded off in the backseat, the lull of conversation between Nathan, Vera, and William a comforting backdrop.

  I woke again as the car tires bumped over what felt like cobblestones. Then we turned into a lane lined with stone houses, the stones a pale yellow that made the homes glow when the sun hit them, and a small driveway leading to a sweet detached garage. We trundled into the backyard, which was surrounded by orderly stone walls and lined with flower gardens.

  “This is beautiful!” exclaimed Miss Gloria. “It’s like something from a fancy house and garden magazine.”

  “It’s a little early for the best display of flowers,” Vera said apologetically. “We really hit our stride in July.”

  The home was constructed of stone as well, with a chunky red tile roof and a bright red painted door. We followed our hosts into a cozy kitchen. The back wall behind the six-burner gas stove was brick, weathered to a soft pink as if it had been there for years. There were tall ceilings and exposed dark beams and beautiful views out the front windows of more gardens and more stone homes.

  “I’ll light a fire in the living room,” said William in a charming brogue, “while you show our guests to their rooms. And then Nathan and I have to look over the golf club situation. If he doesn’t like what I have in the garage, I’ll have to make some calls.”

  “I thought I was staying in a motel with Helen?” asked Miss Gloria.

  “We have two extra bedrooms, and it seemed silly not to use them,” said Vera, waving us toward the back hall. She turned to look at me. “William and I were thinking we would move out of our master suite upstairs, and then you could have your private bathroom,” she said to me. “The honeymoon suite. Nathan never did like to share with girls. Growing up, he complained bitterly about how much space my beauty potions took up.” She smirked and patted her cheeks.

  Miss Gloria and I laughed. “He’s over that. If you could only see the space where we lived with Nathan when we first got married. We have sharing a bathroom down to a science,” I said. “Please, we’d feel more comfortable without bumping you out of your room.”

  “This room is for Gloria,” said Vera, leading us into a small bedroom with a blue-flowered quilt on the four-poster bed. At the end of the bed, two glossy gray tiger cats were sleeping on a pale blue afghan, making me feel instantly homesick for Evinrude. One of them opened his green eyes and blinked, then bolted off the bed and disappeared down the hallway.

  “That was Archie,” Vera said with a fond smile. “He loves me and only me, I’m afraid.” The second cat jumped off the bed and began to wind around Miss Gloria’s legs, talking loudly in secret cat chirps.

  “This is Louise,” said Vera. “She’s highly opinionated, so my advice is do what she says.”

  Miss Gloria scooped up the big cat and rubbed her cheek on the distinctive black M on her forehead. “I don’t know if you believe in signs from the universe,” she said to Vera. “But I sure do. And cats on the bed are speaking to me. You take the first shower,” she told me. “I’ll stretch out with this lovely Scottish kitty for a few minutes.” With Louise draped over her shoulder, she headed for the bed.

  “She’s darling,” said Vera as we started down the hall to the second bedroo
m. “I’m really so pleased to meet you both.”

  “Same here. I’m sorry we didn’t ask you to the wedding,” I said. “I didn’t even know for the longest time that you existed. Nathan finally told me why you’d moved to Scotland, but I had to squeeze it out of him.”

  She gave a little laugh, though the situation wasn’t all that funny. “I don’t know what is wrong with my family. Somewhere back in our history, our ancestors decided they were safer keeping their own counsel. And now we seem to be doomed by our ridiculous inability to talk about anything important.”

  As she passed by a brass sconce on the wall, I noticed that she looked tired, with gray circles under her eyes, as though she, too, had flown on a red-eye. We turned into the second bedroom, which had its own fireplace, and robin’s egg–blue walls and a four-poster bed covered with a fluffy white duvet.

  She crossed the room and flipped a switch on the wall. “This fireplace is gas,” she said, “so we don’t have to keep up with stoking two fires.”

  “I may never leave this room,” I said. “It’s so lovely. Your home is incredible and so cozy.”

  Her smile lit up her face. “Come out to the kitchen when you’re ready, and I’ll make you a cup of tea and we can have a proper chat.” She disappeared into the hall.

  It felt glorious to wash off the grit of traveling. I washed and dried my hair and dressed in clean clothes slightly more stylish than the yoga pants I’d worn on the plane. Then I headed down the hall toward that beautiful kitchen, feeling a bit more normal and definitely hungry. I stopped outside the kitchen door when I heard raised voices. Were Vera and William arguing?

  “I can’t believe you’re going off for three days and leaving me to entertain—you know how stressed I am about—”

  I tried to back away, but it was too late. They’d heard me. Vera whirled around to face me with a frozen smile of welcome on her face.

  “We’ll have an early dinner, something light, if that’s all right,” she said after a beat of silence. “I figure it’s always best to get on the time zone of wherever you are and not stress the digestion. I made cream of vegetable soup and some cheese scones. I feel a bit badly that I didn’t make a roast or something fancier, but usually when I get off a plane, I’m not in the mood for a big meal or a big hunk of meat.”