Keys to the Castle Read Free Page A

inquired, “Where is it that you sell these unwanted things to people who don’t need them?”
    â€œChicago,” she told him, finishing off her drink. “I work for Martin and Indlebright Marketing in Chicago.” She flipped a business card from her tiny vintage evening purse and gave it to him. “Call us sometime. We’ll make people believe you’re a good poet.”
    â€œChicago?” He seemed genuinely surprised. “How can you be happy there? You have the sea in your eyes.”
    That took her aback, but she recovered quickly, plastering another determinedly distant smile on her face. “It was nice to meet you, Daniel. Good luck with your poetry.”
    He fingered her business card thoughtfully as she turned to move through the crowd. “Good-bye, Sara Graves of the sad smile and the sea-watching eyes,” he said softly. “I will call you.”
    But it wasn’t that casual promise, which she did not expect to be kept, that caused Daniel Orsay, poet, to linger in her memory long after she left the party, after she left Manhattan, after she returned to Chicago and tried, with grim determination, to step back into the routine. It was that he knew. Even before she did, he knew that the life she had always believed she was meant for was over. And by the time he tried to call her, it was too late.

    Behind her, Sara heard the sliding glass door open, and close. She was surprised, because she knew Dixie was upstairs, wrestling the boys into the tub. And then she heard the click of a lighter, and smelled the first whiff of tobacco on the chill night air. Dixie liked to pretend she didn’t know Jeff came outside to sneak a smoke after dinner every night. Jeff liked to pretend he kept a secret. And Sara just kept quiet.
    She was in the lawn chair on the patio, bundled up in gloves, a wool scarf, and a stadium blanket, watching the wind toss the stars around overhead. The sound of the surf was like a distant sigh, in and out, in and out. And, from inside the house, there were muffled giggles, Dixie’s stern mother-voice, and a television somewhere in the background. Jeff stood silently in the shadows cast by the kitchen light on the patio, and smoked.
    In a moment he said, “It’s no trouble, you know. To drive you to the airport.”
    â€œIt’s a lot of trouble,” Sara said, “and I appreciate the offer. But I’d rather have my own car. Thanks.”
    After a moment, he came over to her. He was a big man, a high school football star now twenty pounds overweight thanks to Dixie’s good cooking. He owned his own construction company, which was no small thing on an island whose off-season sustenance depended entirely on construction and development.
    He sat down at one of the little café chairs drawn up at the bistro table near her, dwarfing it with his bulk. The tip of his cigarette glowed orange in the dark, and the fragrance drifted through the night. He said, “You know, it’s been good for Dixie, having you here.”
    Sara tried to smile, even though she knew he couldn’t see it. “You mean it’s been a royal pain in the ass, for both of you.”
    â€œI mean what I say.” His voice was mild, Southern-accented, quiet. “You’re her sister. She loves you. It’s been good for her, and the kids, too.” And he added unexpectedly, “I’m right fond of you, too, Sara.”
    Sara sat up a little straighter, surprised. She almost didn’t know how to respond. “Thank you, Jeff.”
    â€œWhat I’m trying to say is . . .” Again the flare of his cigarette tip, faint blue smoke diffusing in the air around them. “I know it’s got to be hard on you, flying over to France, doing what you’ve got to do . . .” Another brief orange flare in the dark. “And I know you haven’t exactly made up your mind, you know, about what you’re doing next.