At trial, the state, along with Tidal Breeze, would attempt to discredit her story and claim that there was simply no proof of anything she had said in either her book or her lawsuit. There was no record of anyone ever having lived on Dark Isle. No proof of a settlement, buildings, roads, cemetery, of anything, other than the suspicious stories of an old woman.
In their view, Lovely was an opportunist being used by others to litigate a false claim. The attorneys for Tidal Breeze had made enough off-the-record comments for Steven Mahon to know that they suspected he and his organization had latched on to Lovely’s claims as the easiest way to block the resort.
By the time Mercer read the deposition for the second time, she had a knot in her stomach. There were too many conflicts between what Lovely wrote and what she was now remembering. At trial, the lawyers would pick her apart.
One advantage to teaching creative writing was the avoidance of final exams. If Mercer so chose, and she always did, she could require one last short story of, say, 3,000 words to be turned in before December 1. After then, she had little to do but read the damned things and give grades. On December 2, she and Thomas left Oxford for a month’s holiday at the beach. She was still determined to paint the cottage and save the $20,000, but her husband seemed to be hedging.
Thomas really couldn’t see himself on a ladder, on the wrong end of a paintbrush, in the sun, for a month. He’d had little experience with contract labor, if that’s what it was called, and had been scheming of ways to avoid the work. He had yet to find the Russian submarine, but there were some records at the Naval Institute in Annapolis that might need to be reviewed. His article had gotten off to a slow start and things had not picked up.
Thankfully, the rains set in as soon as they arrived on Camino Island, and painting was out of the question. The cottage had not been decorated for Christmas in many years, and Mercer insisted they put up a tree, a few lights, and some garlands. They hosted Myra, Leigh, Bruce, and Noelle for a long dinner party, and two nights later went to one at the fine home of Amy Slater. They visited the bookstore every day and drank lattes as they read Mercer’s final batch of stories from her students.
When the skies cleared, she announced it was time to start painting the cottage. She dragged Thomas to the hardware store and spent two hours choosing the right color. “Why not just keep it white?” he asked more than once, and when he finally got the hard frown he shut up and found some rat traps to study. She eventually settled on “chalk blue,” which, in his opinion, looked very white, but he let it pass. She bought six gallons from stock and ordered six more. The salesman said two coats would be needed because of the salt air, and Thomas wondered how often he had used that line to sell more paint. But again, he bit his tongue and began hauling supplies to the car: paint, brushes, rollers, roller pans, extension poles, sandpaper, a sander, caulk, caulking gun, scrapers, drop cloths, and two stepladders. He had never used such tools and materials and doubted his wife had either.
The bill for their first load was almost $3,000, and Thomas asked himself, again, if it was really cheaper to do it themselves.
The following morning they woke early to clear skies and temps in the fifties. Perfect for painting, according to Mercer, who finally admitted that her only experience with a brush was touching up a crappy apartment she once had in Chapel Hill. Now, though, she had somehow become an expert. She decided they would start on the front side facing the street and away from the morning sun. Thomas just grunted and began fetching supplies.
The island was decorated for Christmas and the cooler temperatures helped the holiday spirit. When the weatherman in Jacksonville predicted a slight chance of flurries in two days, the entire island went wild and braced for a blizzard. Grocery stores were packed with frantic people afraid they might miss a meal. A retired couple from Minnesota unpacked their old snowblower, called a reporter from
Bay Books hosted an afternoon party each Christmas Eve, with plenty of drinks and food for all ages. Santa was there taking requests, posing for photos, and worrying about hustling off to get ready for his big night. The kids were giddy as they grabbed one book after another for their mothers to buy. Bruce, Noelle, and the staff wore festive sweaters and elf caps and worked the crowd. With snow on the way and the first white Christmas in history virtually guaranteed, the customers were bundled in layers suitable for skiing in Vermont.
Were they really in Florida?
