"Forgotten Coast indeed," I muttered as I drove along Florida’s Highway 98 coastline which was dotted with new pastel painted stilt houses. They were lined up like lollipops along the Apalachee Bay on the Gulf of Mexico. After a weaving stretch of densely forested road, the sight of the bay had emerged like a shimmering gem in the late afternoon sun. I passed through Medart, saw the sign to Wakulla Springs State Park on SR 319, and promised myself a visit to the famed springs.
The cell phone jangled as I passed a narrow strip of beach along the shoreline. I pulled off onto the adjacent shoulder. I hated using the damn phone under any circumstances, and I was nervous using it while driving.
The ringing sounded insistent as I plucked the phone from my handbag and got out of the car. It felt good to stretch my legs after the four hour drive from Gainesville.
"Hey Lorelei, what’s going on? I got a message at the plant lab you were looking for me."
"Jeffrey? It’s about time you returned my calls. Don’t you use your cell phone anymore?" I leaned against the car door and took a deep breath of the cool sea air.
"I’ve changed companies—my old cell stopped working. Anyway, my boss sent me to check out a lab at the University of South Florida in Tampa. I’ve been pretty busy."
"Knowing you, I’m sure you managed to get in some party-time."
He laughed, "I’ll admit, I did get in some visits with friends. Hey, Louisa Monterosa asked about you."
"That’s nice," I said, and wondered if the friends included his former lover, Eduardo Sanchez. It was hard to know where Jeffrey’s sexual preferences were after the shooting which landed him in the hospital. He was always so secretive about his love life.
"So, Red, what’s up?"
I scanned the sparkling blue bay and took another deep breath.
"What’s up is that I’m on the road to Apalachicola. I’ll be there for about six weeks—in a play," I said. The bay air held only the faintest fishy odor. No one was on the little beach except an occasional seagull running along the water’s edge as the waves ebbed and flowed.
"Apalachicola? How lucky can you get? It’s one of my favorite towns."
"Yes, mine, too. Bill and I…"
"Lor? Are you okay? It’s been a while since we’ve talked. Have you started dating? You need to find someone your own age. Someone passionate crazy about you. You do remember what passion feels like, don’t you?"
It was the same tune Jeffrey had been singing since he showed up in Gainesville two years ago.
"Of course, I remember. I suppose you mean someone like you."
"Not so passionate anymore," he said. "Besides, I’m focused on my doctorate. Life’s not quite as exciting as it used to be."
"Exciting? If that’s what you call it when you got shot in the head and nearly died on me? Anyway, the reason I was trying to reach you was to let you know I was leaving town for a while. Just in case…"
"In case what?"
"I don’t know. I guess I just feel better if friends know where I am. I’m counting on this time away to be peaceful—so I can figure out what to do with my life."
"Without Bill? C’mon, Lor, you know…"
"Please Jeffrey, don’t tell me again how much better off I am without him."
"Okay," he said, and lowered his voice, "I know it’s been rough, but you’ll pull through it. Is there anything I can do to help?"
"Just stand by. You may get a late night call or two. By the way, let me get your new cell number."
He gave me the number, and I jotted it down on a gas receipt.
"So what’s the play?" he asked.
"Renee’s directing her own adaptation of Ibsen’s An Enemy of the People. I’m going to play the wife. It’s not much of a part, but…"
"You’re kidding me."
"Okay, wise guy. I get it. The new widow playing an old wife."
"Sorry, Lor. You’re breaking up—are you on your cell?" he asked. "You’re not driving now are you? I remember that road. It’s pretty narrow in spots."
"No, I’ve stopped along the beach," I said, feeling comforted by his concern. "It’s so unpopulated, Jeffrey. There’s some development, but it still looks like old Florida. I can even see shrimp boats moving out to the gulf."
"Maybe I could make time to come up and visit you for a couple of days. See the play and…"
I knew what he had in mind, but I still felt too vulnerable to entertain the idea of Jeffrey bunking in with me. "You’re welcome to come up, but you’ll have to find your own place to stay."
He said, "Hey, I just thought of something. I have a friend around there. I’ve kind of lost track of where he lives, but he’s cool—a geologist and an environmental policy wonk. Graduated from USF. We worked together once in Tampa."
"How can I find him if you don’t know where he lives?" I asked, thinking it would be nice to get to know someone local.
"Good point. Let’s see, last I heard he was working for FPIRG—the Florida Public Interest Research Group. You could ask around. Wait a minute…he’s a diver, he used to teach at a dive shop in Carrabelle. You’ll like him, Lor, and if you get lonely..."
"What’s his name?" I asked.
"Hadley. Alex Hadley. Just tell him I said to take good care of you."
"Thanks, Jeffrey. I’ll do it."
Before getting back into the car, I picked up a broken conch shell from the grass. I lifted the shell to my nose, and touched the hard outer part to my tongue, before dropping it back on the ground. The taste triggered childhood memories of the beach.
Along the coast, on the way to Eastpoint, I was shocked by the amount of storm damage. A boat had settled on top of a building, other buildings were off their foundations, fish packing houses lay in ruins, water front restaurants were closed, and one dilapidated store had a sign, "We have not moved." Many of the destroyed properties had "For Sale" signs on them. Hurricane Dennis’ storm surge had made a wreck of the area.
I drove past the bridge to St. George Island and through East Point, which looked pretty much intact. I was surprised to see condos and a marina in this town prized as a fishing village. I finally crossed the bay causeway and the John Gorrie Bridge. It exited right in the heart of town.
It had been years since I visited the Panhandle. Bill and I had stayed at the quaint Cape San Blas Inn on the St. Joseph Peninsula. We enjoyed solitary walks across the wild dunes and the white sandy beaches. I planned to revisit the areas where I had once been happy.
The town of Apalachicola looked like I remembered it. The historic Gibson Inn stood at the foot of the bridge. Its spacious porches and Victorian trim lived up to the claim in its brochure which described Apalachicola as a "Victorian fishing village." I drove two blocks, lined with small stores and restaurants, and turned right down Avenue E. The old fashioned marquee displayed "Dixie Theatre" in large letters. It was where our play would be produced. I parked and got out of the car.
A petite old woman was reading a poster at the theatre entrance. She wore a small red suede hat with silk flowers on the brim, and carried a matching bag.
