Christmas in Key West. Cynthia ThomasonЧитать онлайн книгу.
jutted her thumb toward the house. “Has the bear wakened yet?”
“Oh, yeah. We’ve already had a close encounter of the Reese kind this morning.”
Loretta grabbed Abby’s arms and looked deep into her eyes. “Oh, honey, running into Reese can’t be easy for you.”
“It’s not so bad,” she said. “In fact, it was probably good that he showed up at the hospital last night. At least this morning I’d already gotten over the initial shock of seeing him. I didn’t fall apart, and a few minutes ago Poppy didn’t shoot him.”
Loretta pointed to the porch. “Speak of the devil.”
“For Pete’s sake,” Huey hollered. “Can this day get any worse?” He stomped down the steps and stood with his fists on his hips. “Doesn’t the good brother have some kegs to tap and fritters to fry?”
Abby winced. She knew Uncle Phil was here to please her mother. This reaction from Poppy would only antagonize Phil.
“Nice shiner, Huey,” Loretta said.
Phil, a younger, softer, beardless version of his brother, leaned on the hood of the car he cherished, and glared. “It’s not ten o’clock yet, Huey. Even the worst of the worst on this island don’t start drinking this early.”
“Then get off my land and go irritate somebody else until it’s time to fire up that week-old grease.”
Phil shook his head, walked around the front of the car and got in. “Come on, Loretta. We’re leaving.” He smiled at Abby sympathetically. “Sorry, cupcake. I’ll see you later—someplace where the air’s a little easier to breathe.”
Loretta tugged Abby toward the car. Before getting in, Loretta whispered, “So what did you think of Reese? How did he look to you after all this time?”
“Don’t ask, Mom. I’m just glad I’m not stupid and eighteen again.”
Loretta glanced up at Huey, who was tapping his foot impatiently. “Oh, sweetheart, even when we grow up, we can still be stupid.”
AN HOUR BEFORE SUNDOWN, the migration toward Mallory Square began. Cars, bicycles, motor scooters and pedestrians headed along the narrow streets of Old Town toward the harbor to enjoy the decades-old celebration of sunset in Key West. And Huey roused himself from the ancient wicker rocker on the veranda and went inside to get his keys.
“I’m going with you,” Abby said, grabbing a ball cap from the hook by the front door.
“You don’t have to. I feel fine, and I’ll only be two or three hours, depending on the crowd. I’ll call when I’m through, and you can meet me at the Bilge Bucket for supper. My treat.”
“The Bilge Bucket idea is fine, but I’m still going with you. I just brought you home from the hospital last night.”
“I don’t need any help. I’ve been selling the same crap for years. Having you alongside me won’t change the profits any.”
Abby wanted to argue that point. Considering Huey’s usual personality, she thought a friendly smile at his vendor’s cart might increase revenues. He soon had to pay the fines for starting the fires, and she suspected he didn’t have the money for it. “I’m not taking no for an answer,” she said, holding the front door open. “After you.”
To save time, they took Whitehead Street instead of tourist-packed Duval, and pulled into a small private lot next to the old Customs House, where Huey had enjoyed free parking for years. Thank goodness the Vernay name still drew some perks. There were probably days when Huey’s entire profit from sales would barely cover the fee at the public lot.
They walked the short block to the local theater building and located his mobile cart. With its large pair of wooden wheels and center post for stability, the sturdily built conveyance resembled a gypsy’s wagon. Years earlier, Huey had skillfully painted the sides with bright, tropical colors meant to look like waves crashing along the shore. Now the designs were barely recognizable and the paint had faded to muted blues, yellows and pinks. The sign in the center of the whimsical peaked roof was still legible, however: Tropical Delights of the Conch Republic.
Huey released the padlock securing the cart to a fence post and hung the chain on a hook at the back of the cart. Then he lifted the twin posts on the front, one in each hand, and, rickshaw-style, strutted briskly toward the square, with Abby keeping pace. His inventory, secured behind locked side panels, rattled and clanked as he moved.
The harbor area teemed with activity as they approached. Crowds gathered in semicircles along the wide paved dock, where street performers with animal acts, comic routines and acrobatic skills vied for the attention of tourists with fat wallets. The entertainment was free, but each performer had baskets set up around his designated “stage,” clearly indicating that tips were appreciated.
Reese had been right. Town maintenance crews had turned the square into a holiday wonderland. Street lamps, curved at the top, had been wrapped with red and white ribbons to resemble candy canes. Lights decorated all the hotels, and fences and patio umbrellas displayed a riot of traditional Christmas colors. Nothing about Key West at this time of year even hinted of understatement. During the holidays every public building twinkled with multicolored bulbs and flashing signs that screamed, in case anyone should doubt it, This isKeyWest, andWe’re Making Merry.
Huey set his cart in his usual spot, back from the performers where mobile vendors like himself offered everything from KeyWest lemonade to handcrafted jewelry. He unlocked the panels of his wagon, exposing merchandise on both sides. Then he dropped the wooden boards, creating a level surface where more items could be displayed.
As her father sorted through chipped goods and threw them in a trash bin, Abby arranged the varied and colorful assortment of “stuff” that Huey offered for sale. Hanging from the roof on one side of the cart were dozens of fuzzy coconut heads, painted to resemble scowling, one-eyed pirates. Each was marked Made in China and priced from three dollars to five, depending on the detailing. Shell wind chimes hung from the other side, their hollow-sounding clackety-clack drawing attention in the breeze.
The rest of Huey’s inventory was equally garish and also entirely foreign-made. He set up brightly painted ceramic blowfish, ocean-theme salt and pepper shakers, stuffed flamingos, palm tree mugs and conch-shell bells. Six-inch ceramic figures of chubby beach goers carrying umbrellas and sand buckets added to the eclectic inventory.
Nothing on Huey’s cart was priced higher than five dollars. Abby’s hopes of improving her father’s bottom line plummeted. But when families with children actually stopped and examined his goods, she became encouraged. Perhaps a market for Huey’s goodies existed among young parents, who could only afford inexpensive souvenirs.
Unfortunately, her hopes were dashed again when Huey took a rickety folding chair and a pair of binoculars from the back of the cart. He opened the chair, plopped himself in it and held the binoculars up to his face.
“What do you need those for?” Abby asked.
“I use them every night,” he said. “I keep thinking something interesting might happen. Hasn’t yet, but you never know.” He hung the binoculars around his neck and popped up a hat shaped like an umbrella, which he jammed onto his forehead, virtually hiding his eyes. Taking a deep, relaxing breath, he snapped open a newspaper. So much for watching the world. And so much for salesmanship.
Abby walked around the cart, stared down at her father and attempted to be diplomatic. “Ah, Poppy, don’t you think you’d sell more if you showed more enthusiasm?”
He glanced up at her. “They’ll ask if they want something.”
All around them, merchants were hawking their goods, performers were drawing crowds and food vendors were offering free samples. Mallory Square at sunset was an entrepreneur’s playground. Yet Huey sat, uninspired and totally uninvolved. Abby frowned. No wonder…
There were more ways to finish that thought than she cared