Postcards from Cedar Key by Terri Dulong

the subject.
    I watched him reach for a slice of cheese and shook my head.
    â€œNo. I told the women at the knitting group my mom’s name, but it didn’t seem to ring a bell with anybody.”
    â€œIt’ll probably just take time for somebody to remember her. This is very important to you, isn’t it? Finding out why she came here?”
    â€œIt is. Even if I find some answers it won’t change anything. I mean, my mother came here, stayed the summer, went back to Salem, and life went on. But I just feel, in here,” I said, tapping my chest, “that I need to know her story. It’s like something has been missing all of my life in my relationship with my mother, and maybe by knowing why she left . . . it’ll help me to understand better.”
    Saxton nodded. “I see what you’re saying. And I applaud you for having the strength to do this.”
    â€œStrength?” I said with surprise. “Why would you think it required strength to try and find some answers?”
    He took a sip of wine and then let out a deep sigh. “Well, many times the answers aren’t pleasant. But you accept this and still, you’re willing to forge ahead. That requires strength on your part.”
    Okay, so this man had now redeemed himself. He might feel that I’m rigid, but he also complimented me by saying that I had a strength I wasn’t at all sure I possessed.
    â€œThank you,” was all I said as I stood up. “That casserole’s ready to come out of the oven. Give me five minutes and we’ll be all set to eat.”
    Â 
    Saxton took the last sip of wine in his glass and then smiled. “That was a delicious dinner, Berkley. Thank you. I really enjoyed all of it, and you’re quite the chef.”
    I laughed as I stood to remove the dishes from the table. “Not really. Just basic home cooking. Let me get these dishes washed and then we can have dessert and coffee.”
    Saxton stood to help and followed me to the sink. “I’ll dry,” he said. “Where’s your dish towels?”
    A man willing to help in the kitchen? He had definitely redeemed himself.
    â€œOh, right there,” I said, pointing to the closet. “Third shelf on the left.” I heard him chuckle and turned around. “Something wrong?”
    â€œNo. Not at all.” He had opened the closet door and stood staring inside.
    My sight took in what he was seeing. Each shelf perfectly arranged with dishcloths, dish towels, tablecloths, linen napkins—each item perfectly folded, lined up, according to color and size.
    I joined his chuckling. “Hmm, you mean to tell me that your linen closet doesn’t look like that?”
    In answer he came toward me, pulled me into his arms, and kissed me. “You’re special,” he said. “Very, very special.”
    â€œAnd you,” I whispered, “are a very good kisser. Very, very good.”
    Following the kitchen cleanup and a slice of my almond cake, we were sitting next to each other on the sofa enjoying our coffee.
    â€œThis was nice,” Saxton said. “Not just the dinner—but being with you. I enjoy your company.”
    I smiled and shifted to better see his face. “Thank you, and I like being with you too.”
    â€œI’ve been thinking,” he said as I saw his expression grow serious. “I’ve been giving some thought to maybe contacting my daughter.”
    I remained silent to allow him time to continue.
    He took a sip of coffee. “Resa probably doesn’t even want to bother with me. Why would she? It’s been thirty years, and not only did I make no attempt to contact her, I willingly allowed her to be adopted by Muriel’s husband.”
    â€œYou thought you were doing the best thing,” I said softly.
    He nodded. “True. But many times a child doesn’t see it that way. She easily also could have considered it a