“I appreciate the chivalry,” I said ironically.
“And you should.”
His eyes were on mine. “I told him we had dated in a former life. I wanted him to turn you over to me. And he did.”
“And that’s the whole of it?” I said.
“I would like to think so, but I’m afraid my motives may have been mixed.”
“Mixed?”
“I think I was enticed by the possibility of seeing you again.”
“So you’ve said.”
“I wasn’t lying.”
“Are you lying to me now?”
“I swear to God I’m not lying to you now,” he said.
I suddenly realized I was still dressed in a polo shirt and shorts, my skin sticky, my hair a mess. I excused myself from the table and went into the bathroom. Half an hour later, I was swathed in my favorite terrycloth robe, and Mark was sound asleep on top of my bed.
He groaned and opened his eyes when I sat down beside him.
“Sparacino’s a very dangerous man,” I said, slowly running my fingers through his hair.
“No question about it,” Mark said sleepily.
“He sent Partin. I’m not sure I understand how he knew that Beryl was ever down here.”
“Because she called him from down here, Kay. He’s known it all along.”
I nodded, not really surprised. Beryl may have depended on Sparacino to the bitter end, but she must have begun to distrust him. Otherwise she would have left her manuscript with him and not in the hands of a bartender named PJ.
“What would he do if he knew you were here?” I asked quietly. “What would Sparacino do if he knew you and I were together in this room having this conversation?”
“Be jealous as hell.”
“Seriously.”
“Probably kill us if he thought he could get away with it.”
“Could he get away with it, Mark?”
Pulling me close, he said into my neck, “Shit, no.”
We were awakened the next morning by the sun, and after making love again we slept entangled in each other’s arms until ten.
While Mark showered and shaved, I stared out at the day, and never had colors been so bright or the sun shone so magnificently on the tiny offshore island of Key West. I would buy a condo where Mark and I would make love for the rest of our lives. I would ride a bicycle for the first time since I was a child, take up tennis again, and quit smoking. I would work harder at getting along with my family, and Lucy would be our frequent guest. I would visit Louie’s often and adopt PJ as our friend. I would watch sunlight dance over the sea and say prayers to a woman named Beryl Madison whose terrible death had given new meaning to my life and taught me to love again.
After brunch, which we ate in the room, I pulled Beryl’s manuscript out of the knapsack while Mark looked on in disbelief.
“Is that what I think it is?” he asked.
“Yes. It’s exactly what you think it is,” I said.
“Where in God’s name did you find it, Kay?” He got up from the table.
“She left it with a friend,” I answered, and next we were propping pillows behind us, the manuscript between us on the bed as I told Mark all about my conversations with PJ.
Morning turned into afternoon, and we did not step outside the room except to place dirty dishes in the hall and replace them with sandwiches and snacks we ordered sent up as the spirit moved. For hours we said very little to each other as we turned through the pages of Beryl’s Madison’s life. The book was incredible, and more than once it brought tears to my eyes.
Beryl was a songbird born in a storm, a ragged bit of beautiful color clinging to the branches of a terrible life. Her mother had died, and her father had replaced her with a woman who treated Beryl with scorn. Unable to endure the world she lived in, she learned the art of creating one of her own.
Writing was her way of coping, and it was a talent enhanced like artistry by the deaf and music by the blind. She could fashion from words a world I could taste, smell, and feel.