Peek

If You're Ever in Key West...

by Jane Dawkins

     "No good deed goes unpunished," Olivia muttered angrily to herself as she hurried along Hudson Street, head down against the cold December wind and rain, the flimsy, fold- up umbrella more liability than protection.
     With her other hand, already hampered by the heavy plastic bags on her wrist, she vainly tried to button a jacket that flapped in several directions at once. When she'd offered to take Alice's Christmas parcels to the post office it had been a dry, sunny, breezy day and after a very long, large lunch a good excuse for another brisk walk through Greenwich Village. Great walks were one of Manhattan's biggest attractions as far as she was concerned and something she looked forward to every year on these annual Thanksgiving visits to longtime friends, Monty and Alice.
     This particular outing, though, was also a good excuse to get out of the house to walk off some of her anger at her friends-well, Alice, really-she couldn't blame Monty for this one. How many times did she have to tell them to not, repeat not, try to set her up with somebody (read: any available man that happened to cross their path from one Thanksgiving to the next) every single year? They insisted they weren't but Olivia knew better. She also knew they meant it kindly, which made it even worse since they would have been deeply hurt if she had really let rip and told them to stay out of her life once and for all. She didn't want to jeopardize a long friendship.
     Like Phil, Olivia's husband, Monty was an academic, an American history professor now at Columbia. Phil, an English Literature professor, had also taught there but prior to that, their paths had crossed several times at various universities in the northeast as their careers advanced. A close friendship had developed between the four of them. Their children were also of similar ages and together they had enjoyed many joint family outings, suffered through ballet recitals, school choir and band concerts and cheered as they froze on the sidelines of football games and soccer matches.
     After Phil's untimely death, Monty and Alice had not only been wonderful supports but had offered practical help, too: Monty spoke to all the right people at Columbia to sort out and speed up Olivia's entitlements and had offered the services of their personal accountant to deal with the bewildering amount of paperwork that seemed to be part of the death process. Phil had always dealt with taxes and insurance and all that kind of thing and Olivia was completely baffled by it all. She began to dread opening her mail box, which daily spewed forth yet another plague of forms to be dealt with. It was a huge relief to be able to simply pass the plague along to Everett Sinclair. He told her where to sign and she signed. He told her when a cheque was required, for how much and where to send it, and she did. She referred to him as Saint Everett-he had, after all, not only saved her sanity but performed miracles with bits of paper.
     Alice had offered support of another kind: She possessed that rare quality (especially rare in Americans in Olivia's experience) of being a good listener. Unlike other no doubt well intentioned friends, Alice never felt the need to tell Olivia how awful she felt about what had happened, or worse, how God works in mysterious ways and how everything happens for a reason, or worst of all, what can I do? actually expecting Olivia to provide an answer. No, Alice was just there whenever Olivia needed a shoulder to cry on, or needed to rail in frustration at the injustice of it all. Alice had known instinctively when to suggest going out to lunch and when simply to make coffee and settle in on Olivia's sofa, for hours if necessary, either just to listen, or to offer advice if asked.
     Yes, they were true friends. Now that they lived at opposite ends of the country they only saw each other once a year at Thanksgiving, a visit each of them looked forward to and treasured. All of which made it very difficult to be cross with them when they insisted on going through this annual futile, embarrassing exercise. Except for that first, strange Thanksgiving after Phil's death, each year following they had magically produced someone they thought Olivia might hit it off with, usually some academic Monty knew from Columbia. The first time this happened, she was terribly hurt that they could have possibly thought, even for one tiny moment, that the widowed, elderly, balding, paunchy, retired dean of something or other could possibly replace her Phil, but said nothing.
     The year after that it had been a slightly younger, single, incredibly boring man from Monty's department, who'd held forth at great length on the Revolutionary War. Olivia assumed his monologue was mostly intended for her benefit since as a Brit she must surely want to be apprised of each and every mistake the British had made in each and every battle. By the end of the evening, even Monty and Alice were stifling yawns.
     Since they'd all seemed to be in agreement on this one, Olivia felt the time was right to ask them to please stop trying to fix her up, adding that she was perfectly happy on her own and was not on the lookout for a replacement Phil to complete her life. She thought she'd said it very diplomatically but Alice burst into tears and Monty, who didn't deal well with emotional outbursts of any variety, left the room. There followed protestations from Alice that it had been kindly meant; they just wanted her to be happy. Naturally, this necessitated equally fulsome protestations from Olivia that she hadn't meant to upset them, and on and on. This exchange eventually resulted in tears all round and a truce was thankfully declared, each side assuring the other of their love and friendship.
     Unfortunately, that hadn't stopped Monty and Alice coming up with a different man each year since. Some of them had actually been pleasant and/or interesting-she'd even gone to the movies or the theatre with a couple of them during her stays, but it was never anything more than that on either side. For the most part, she now accepted that these annual dinners, sometimes lunches, to which 'somebody we want you to meet' was invited, were a small price to pay for the pleasure of a week with her friends in New York but this year she was close to being very, very angry indeed.
     This year, there had presumably been a supply shortage of widowed, single, or divorced men of a certain age at Columbia, the source of most of the invitees, but rather than break with ghastly tradition, they'd clearly felt obliged to produce somebody. A woman in Alice's book group had a brother, Peter, vice president of something or other at a large hospital. The two of them lived together in Queens and had done so happily for most of their adult lives. So what was the point? It turned out that Peter (all three hundred pounds of him, encased in a pea-green polyester suit and sporting a dyed black mullet-style hairdo, further adorned by a large horseshoe-shaped diamond ring on one fat, hairy hand, and on the other, another ring with the letter P picked out in diamonds) was clearly under the impression he was doing a great favour for his sister's friend! Not that he'd said so outright but it wasn't difficult to read between the lines of his self-satisfied, overbearing, smug, opinionated comments. His wandering hands underlined these qualities.
     Olivia didn't know how the invitation had been phrased and didn't want to know, frankly. Alice had been apologetic, explaining she'd never met Peter before but his sister was nice and who'd have thought she'd have such an asshole for a brother? As Alice apologized, Olivia was tossing up whether to keep quiet, or risk all by telling Alice what she thought of her, her friend and her friend's brother. How dare they, especially Alice? As she debated the point, Olivia smiled through clenched teeth and fists, which hurt where her nails bit into the palms of her hands, but decided to say nothing though she had rarely felt so insulted. She could still feel the imprint of the oaf's palm on her thigh. Alice had misunderstood the smile and thrown her arms around Olivia, thanking her for being so understanding. Olivia had tossed and turned most of the night and was still livid the next day. A good walk might allow some of her pent-up steam to escape, she reasoned. "No good deed goes unpunished," she repeated.
     The cold air that had felt so invigorating when she'd first set out was now anything but, and needless to say, when the wind picked up and the rain began to sheet towards her, she was too far from the apartment to turn back.
      "Shit!" she yelled as yet another taxi sped past drenching her with its wake. "Shitshitshitshitshit."
     Her feet squelched in her sodden shoes. Turning her back to the post office entrance to shake off her useless umbrella before going in she screamed again, this time in pain, "Oh, no! I've been stabbed. Help! Please help me, I've been stabbed! Help!"
     She looked this way and that in desperation as people rushed past her, heedless of her cries.
     "No, no, no! Please!" came a voice from behind her. "You haven't- I'm so sorry-oh, God! I didn't mean it-I was opening my umbrella and didn't see you-I'm so sorry-it was my fault-oh, my God, are you hurt?-I'm so sorry!"
     Turning to see a man gesticulating with an umbrella (one of those expensive affairs, she noticed at a glance, with a long point at one end tipped with brass, and a beautifully turned wood handle with a copper collar at the other) brought momentary relief, immediately followed by renewed anger and frustration, not only at the idiot's carelessness with his fancy umbrella, but by the uncaring attitude of the people who had just hurried on by when she'd called for help. If she actually had been stabbed and was now standing in a pool of blood, she doubted it would have made much difference.
     Sorry? Sorry!" she yelled over the noise of the rain and the traffic. "You just frightened the living daylights out of me. Why didn't you look where you're going? Typical bloody New York-it's all 'me, me, me, get out of my way,' and never mind anyone else. Look at me-I'm soaking wet from head to toe-and if that weren't enough, some idiot stabs me in the back with an umbrella!"
She shook the rain off her own umbrella again in exasperation.      "Actually, I think you look quite charming but absolutely have to agree that I am very definitely an idiot. Look, please allow me to buy you a cup of coffee, or a drink or something to make amends. Let's go inside now, you mail your packages, I'll hold your umbrella, then we'll find a cafe and I'll apologise properly."
     "What?" she said angrily.
     "I said-"
     "I know what you said," she muttered.
     "So?"
     Such a gentlemanly offer with a British accent and a smile when she was primed to go a few more rounds of blame back and forth at full New York volume quite took the wind out of her sails. Her anger dissipated and she began to feel a little silly as her words echoed in her head.
     "Please, that's not necessary," she replied. "It was an accident. I apologise for my language. I overreacted."
     "Of course you did, you thought you had been stabbed! Who wouldn't have? No, I insist on making amends."
     "Honestly, it's not necessary. My parcels are in plastic bags, they are barely damp-that's the main thing. They're not mine, you see. I'm posting them for someone."
     (So why am I explaining myself to this man? she asked herself. Who cares?)
     "I'll dry out in no time-if it ever stops raining, of course," she added with a smile to show there were no hard feelings, and turned to go.
     "Please, on the contrary, it's absolutely necessary-for the full restoration of my self-esteem," he insisted with a smile. "After all, as a Brit, the one thing I ought to know is how to handle an umbrella properly, right?"
     Without further ado and giving her no time to reply, he took her arm and escorted her into the post office where the wretched parcels were finally dispatched after a very long wait in a very long line of people, all similarly festooned with parcels of various shapes and sizes. Rejoining him, she asked, "Do people ever say No to you?"
     He grinned. "Not often, especially if they know me well. I seldom take No for an answer."
     With that, he tucked her arm in his and insisted they share his oversized umbrella. It was still drizzling on Hudson Street but at least the wind had dropped. She couldn't help noticing how tall he was, six-three at least. She was five-ten and it didn't happen often that she had to look up at a man. It was nice when it did, though. (I could even wear high heels with this one, she thought to herself. Yes, it felt very nice indeed.)
     Warming her hands on a mug of hot chocolate a little later in a cafe on Bleecker Street, she noticed he was very good looking, too. Lovely floppy dark curls with that slightly unkempt look that probably cost a fortune to achieve, she reckoned. Even wet it looked good-dammit- and she ran her hand over her own wet locks, which she knew did not. Large, dark eyes and what they call a 'generous mouth'. He'd excused himself to make a phone call, allowing her thoughts to ramble: Probably lives in Manhattan-upper East Side, or a brownstone in Greenwich Village. Banker? Maybe. Definitely an English Rose wife, a couple of kids and a nanny and, of course, a place in the country. And a black Lab. I bet the English Rose snapped him up in a hurry with her blue eyes, long blonde hair and perfect peach complexion. Hmm. Could be gay, though-he's certainly good looking enough. Unlikely. Hope not. What a waste that would be! Her reverie continued in this vein until he returned.
     "Sorry about that," he said as he sat down, "but I said I'd be on the 5.20 and didn't want anyone to worry that I'm going to be late." She set her mug down.
     "You have no idea how very stupid I feel. I'm sorry I called you an idiot and ranted like that. Now I've made you late for your wife and family and I feel that I'm the prize idiot."
     "First of all, my wife and I have been divorced some years now. Happily so, I am glad to say. Secondly, I have no children and no parents-no living ones, I mean. I have one aunt on my father's side in the U.K., and one uncle and one aunt on my mother's side over here- my mother was American. It was my Aunt Eva I was calling. I'm based in London but I'm usually in New York at this time of year, partly to keep up a tradition-Eva sings in her church choir in Westport and every year they take part in a huge Handel's Messiah with choirs from all over the area. It's wonderful. I won't miss the performance, just her usual cocktail party which, frankly, I'm not too sorry about. It's always the same people: her bridge friends and their husbands, mostly, and we invariably have the same conversations each year-another kind of tradition you might say," he added with a grin.
     "Enough about me though. Tell me about you. I can't imagine you're a full time messenger of packages to the post office, are you? My name's Owen, by the way, Owen Chamberlain."
     He reached his hand across the table. She had a 'thing' about limp handshakes and his firm, warm hand was definitely another plus. Not to mention that smile, which creased the corners of his eyes very pleasingly.
     "Olivia Weston, pleased to meet you. No, my trip to the post office was an excuse for a brisk walk to get some of that good, cold New York air under the guise of doing a friend a favour."
     "Yes, I love winter walks myself and New York is such a great city for walking, isn't it?"
     "Definitely one of its many charms, though preferably not in a gale-force storm," she felt obliged to add.
     "Quite," he agreed, with another of those disarming smiles. "And you're a fellow Brit by the sound of it."
     "Yes, a long time ago now, though. Dorchester, actually."
     "Ah, Thomas Hardy country. But you didn't get that tan in Manhattan, I know. Or Dorset. Just back from a holiday in the sun?"
     "Oh no, this is a vacation-coming to New York I mean. It's my annual visit to see old friends for Thanksgiving. We've been doing it for years now-another tradition."
     "So where is home?" he asked, looking at her over the rim of his mug of coffee.
     "Key West, in Florida. As far south as you can go and still be in the United States, though Cuba is actually closer than Miami."
     He looked at her in surprise as he put the mug down.
"Really? What an amazing coincidence! Believe it or not, I know exactly where that is. My uncle, whom I mentioned earlier, Uncle Robert, lives in the Keys. In Sugarloaf-you must know it. It's only a few miles from Key West, isn't it?"
     "Yes. That's what we call a Key West moment, by the way-those kinds of coincidences. They happen all the time in Key West. The island is only two miles by four but you'd be amazed at the number of dots that get joined up there. No, I've driven through Sugarloaf dozens of times going to and from the mainland, but I can't say I know it. So you probably know the Keys pretty well?"
     "No, I don't, I'm sorry to say. I've only been once," he replied. "Just for a couple of days. I really should go more often and I'd like to-Uncle Robert's really nice and I'm very fond of him but-oh, I don't know, life just seems to get in the way sometimes, doesn't it?" "Does it?" she asked, puzzled. "Only if you let it, I think. It's been such a long time since I was on an office treadmill that I've forgotten what it was really like. But I learned a long time ago that life is way too short to squander even a minute of it. It can turn upside down in a split second, too, so I try very hard to make the most of it and not waste time on things that really aren't important. Sorry," she added, "I didn't mean to lecture."
     She looked down into her empty mug and felt suddenly shy.
     "No, no," he reassured her. "You're quite right, of course, and I'm sure I could arrange my time much better if I tried harder," he admitted. "I just don't seem to be very good at it. I get caught up in the cut and thrust of business life, which I have to say I do enjoy-most of the time. But I agree, it's important to make time for the simple pleasures of life as well-which I enjoy very much, too, by the way-but they tend to get pushed to one side as less important."
     "So what do you do for relaxation?"
     "Swim," he said simply. "Laps. Wherever I happen to be. There's always a pool in hotels and I find it's a great way to start or end the day. And when I'm at home, there's a health club a few minutes' walk away. I find swimming laps is also a great way to clear my head if I have a problem to solve, or an important meeting coming up."
     "Hmm. Speaking of important, forgive me, but you don't look the sort of person who waits in line at the post office."
     His eyebrows shot up in surprise.
     "Really? So what sort of person do I look like then?"
     "Well," she began, wishing she had kept her mouth shut. "Well- OK, you look to me like the kind of man who has a team of elves standing ready to do his bidding. All those menial tasks, like queuing up at the post office on a rainy day, for instance, while you sit in a large office at a large, polished desk with a wonderful view and do important things."
     "And what sort of important things do you imagine I do?"
He was enjoying this.
     "Let's see... Oh, I don't know. Something that involves enormous amounts of money and negotiations with the higher echelons of government. With top security clearance, too, of course."
     "Stop! Stop!" He roared with laughter. "Next thing, you'll have me as personal confidante to the prime minister on a personal mission to the president of the United States, who is meeting me incognito at the post office in Greenwich Village!
     "I'm so sorry to disappoint you but I am none of the above. As to elves," he chuckled, "I only have one to call my very own-my secretary in London. I must remember to tell her, though she'll probably insist on a little green hat with a bell on the end of it and little felt boots that turn up at the toes."
     His laughter was so infectious that she joined in.
     "But I still haven't answered your question, have I?" he remembered. "OK. I'd been sitting in meetings all morning downtown and decided to walk home-I have a flat, just a small one, here in the Village, on Charles Street. I used to work here in New York and kept the flat on when I returned to London. I come here fairly often and it's nice not to have to stay in a hotel for a change.
     "Anyway, when I got home, I saw that a book I'd ordered had come-it hasn't been published in the UK yet and it's a Christmas present for my aunt in England. I decided to walk over to the post office, even though it had just started to rain, and post it to her-just to get it out of the way-so that I wouldn't have to think about it again. Sorry, not very interesting. I hope you're not too disappointed." She returned his smile and shook her head.
     "Not at all."
     They held each other's gaze a split second too long, resulting in a slightly awkward silence from which they were rescued by the waitress approaching their table. Olivia declined a second hot chocolate and Owen asked for the bill. Olivia glanced at her watch and looked up quickly.
     "Goodness, I had no idea we'd been here so long. I hope I haven't made you miss another train."
     He looked at his own watch.
     "No, plenty of time. Olivia, are you sure you wouldn't like something else? A glass of wine, perhaps?"
     She liked the way he said her name and realized that she would have enjoyed an entire bottle of wine and more conversation with him. That she was having such a nice time with a complete stranger surprised her.
     "Thank you, Owen, but no. This has been delightful but you have a train to catch and no doubt my friends are wondering what's happened to me."
     She excused herself and went to the bathroom. She glanced up at the mirror as she washed her hands and her jaw dropped. Not unexpectedly, her hair had frizzed into a complete disaster from the rain, but she saw with horror that her mascara had run and was smeared all over her face. All that time she had been sitting with a drop-dead handsome man looking like-omigod!-something that had escaped from a Halloween display. She found a crumpled paper tissue in her bag and hurriedly repaired her raccoon eyes as best she could but decided nothing could remedy the bird's nest of frizz. A touch of lipstick and a scowl at her reflection and there was nothing for it but to summon what was left of her ego and saunter back nonchalantly past the tables whose occupants had probably already had a good laugh at her expense, and attempt to give the impression that raccoon eyes and bird's nest hair were actually the cutting edge of fashion this season.
     He was just putting on his raincoat (Burberry, she noted. Of course. What else?) as she approached their table. He smiled and politely held out her own (damp, tatty, purchased years ago on sale at Filene's Basement) so there was plenty of activity and she didn't have to look at him directly. She had rarely felt so hot and embarrassed and just knew her face must be beet red. She already imagined him telling the entire story to his aunt and her friends, and could hear the ensuing peals of laughter that would doubtless encourage him to repeat it at the office in London with a few added embellishments. She couldn't wait to get back to Alice and Monty. They would hear only a severely edited version of the afternoon's events, no question about that.
     Having settled it that they were heading in opposite directions, they said their goodbyes outside the cafe. The rain had finally stopped. "Thank you again for allowing me to make amends for my idiotic behavior," he said with a smile.
     "And thank you, too, for making amends so beautifully," she replied with a shy grin. She tucked her umbrella under her arm and was about to put on her gloves when he took her hand and kissed it.
     (Who the hell is this man, she wondered. He must be from another planet.)
     Flustered, not knowing quite what the correct response was to such a chivalrous gesture, to cover her embarrassment she simply said, "If you're ever in Key West, do look me up. I'm in the phone book." It was the sort of thing that people who lived in Key West said all the time. "How very kind of you," he said, wished her a safe journey home, turned and disappeared into the early evening crowd.