Chapter Three

The Captain’s Club, across the parking lot from the Mimosa Theater, was a creaky one-story establishment decorated in early American driftwood. By day public sandwich shop, by night reserved for owners who kept their boats at Pleasure Pointe, it offered a short selection of beverages and an even shorter selection of artery-clogging snacks.

“So you see.” Charity Grambling pushed a real-estate contract around the fake ship’s lantern flickering on the table. “The Captain’s Club is determined to buy the Mimosa Theater building. You won’t get a better offer anywhere else.”

Mike munched a crisply-fried onion ring and considered the two locals who’d invited him for a drink, Charity Grambling, the frizzy, caramel-dyed proprietress of the Super Min that had gouged him for gas earlier in the day, and Judge Robert Lee Talmadge, a white-haired, full-bellied gentleman whose southern drawl did not quite hide the sharpness of his conversation.

Talmadge. Mike wondered what his relationship was to the woman he’d met this afternoon. “Your offer seems high.” It was nearly double the appraisal he’d received from Great-aunt Essie’s estate lawyer.

Charity’s smile was like a lady shark’s on a diet. “We can reduce the price if you like.”

“Not exactly.” When Mike inherited the estate six months ago, his initial plan had been to sell the old theater and cruise the world in Great-uncle Elias’ fishing boat. But there were a couple of problems. First, it was going to cost a lot to get the building ready to sell. Second, Great-aunt Essie’s will assigned right of tenancy to a local community theater group. As long as the theater covered basic expenses like property tax and utilities, Mike couldn’t evict them, and he didn’t see why anyone would want to buy a building they couldn’t use or rent out.

“I’m interested in selling,” he told his hosts. “But I’m a little confused.”

“Well, Sergeant Evans." Judge Talmadge settled more comfortably in his chair. “How can we clear things up for you?”

“Just Mike. I’ve been a civilian” —he checked his watch— “fifty-two hours.”

“Must be quite a change after twenty years as a C-130 loadmaster.”

The judge had apparently done his homework. “Too soon to tell,” Mike admitted. “It does feel strange not to have to set an alarm every day.”

“And now you’re trading flying for life at sea. Why?”

“It was my great-uncle’s dream. Fishing around the world. I thought I’d give it a try in his honor.” The old man had spent his whole life working on Hermia, pouring over sea charts, planning foreign voyages he’d never take. “Besides, I’m used to constant travel, tight quarters, watching the weather report. My buddies have been charter fishing for decades, and I’ve gone along when I could.” In charge of packing, naturally. Mike couldn’t stand the sloppy way his friends treated possessions. “It’s not as big a change for me as you might think.”

“Still, boat ownership is very different from charter fishing,” the judge said smoothly. “Boats, especially big old convertibles like the Hermia, can be quite expensive to operate.”

“Just like old buildings. Which makes me wonder why the Captain’s Club is so eager to buy the Mimosa Theater. Are the walls stuffed with gold?”

Charity Grambling snorted. “Not hardly.”

“Not in so many words.” Judge Talmadge leaned forward. “Confidentially, the gold’s in the ground.” He drank a little more whiskey. “We’re planning to replace the theater with expanded parking for the Pleasure Pointe docks.”

“You’re going to knock down the building?”

“There’s not much value in the structure itself. And with all the growth in Mimosa Key lately, parking is at a premium. You may have noticed our lot between buildings was crammed full today.”

“My lot. Technically.” The parking was on theater property.

“Your great-aunt Esther is…was…forgive me.” The judge took out a handkerchief and patted his brow. “Esther Goldman was a fine woman. I deeply regret her passing.”

“Thank you.” Mike regretted not knowing her better.

“As I was saying, Esther generously shared her lot with the Captain’s Club. Now that she’s left us, the town council is interested in subsidizing the cost of expanded parking.”

“I see.” It made sense, Mike supposed. Unless you wanted to use the theater building. “What about Mimosa Community Theater? Aren’t they supposed to debut this fall?” Re-opening the auditorium had always been Aunt Essie’s dream. “You can’t bulldoze the property while MCT’s in operation, right?”

Charity rolled her eyes. “That’s OK. We can wait thirty seconds until they’re bankrupt.”

“I thought they had a grant from the town council.”

“A partial grant. They’ve got to cover basic costs, and it’s gonna be a cold day in Miami before that scatterbrained loser who can’t even feed her own kids—”

“Charity.” Judge Talmadge touched her arm. “You’re speaking about my daughter-in-law.” He produced a Mark-Twain shucks-pay-no-mind smile for Mike. “What Charity means is that while we admire the ambitions of Mimosa Community Theater, the current director has neither the financial resources nor the organizational experience for such a complicated undertaking. Furthermore, the building itself is unsafe. The Captain’s Club, of course, intends to purchase the property as is and accepts the stipulation that it shall remain standing as long as MCT continues in operation.”

“As is?” Mike tapped the contract. “At this price?”

“Completely as is,” Charity said firmly. “Cash offer.”

“I see.” Instead of starting life at sea with an expensive building to manage, he could be free and clear with healthy reserves in the bank. Mike wondered how many times his aunt had turned down the same deal. “Thanks for the beer.” He drained his glass and got to his feet. “I’ll have to think about it.”

“Of course.” Judge Talmadge stood and shook Mike’s hand.

“Think fast,” Charity warned. “Our offer expires in twenty-four hours.”

“Then I guess if this deal doesn’t work out,” Mike replied, “I’ll have to find another buyer.”

He went outside and strolled through the now mostly empty parking lot to Aunt Essie’s building, taking a moment to enjoy the clang of sailboat rigging across the street, the gentle slap of waves on the docks. Gardenia bushes alongside the Mimosa Theater perfumed the night with scents of childhood. The holiday traffic had evaporated. At ten p.m. Friday night, Pleasure Pointe was asleep.

Mike had spent the afternoon on Hermia, officially reviewing the report he’d gotten from his marine surveyor but secretly basking in the glow of owning the beautiful Striker-44. He’d barely glanced at the Mimosa Theater. Now he took a mag light out of his truck and made a circuit around the corner property, examining the pink neoclassical façade, the carved dolphin reliefs softened by a hundred years of Florida weather, the enormous rolling garage doors Uncle Elias had installed facing the parking lot to allow the Hermia to go in and out of dry dock. The building’s electrical box—located where any kid could get into it—was unlocked and obviously underpowered. There were several deep foundation cracks. The whole structure had the look of something that, like Esther Goldman, had lived a long and vigorous life before succumbing to old age.

So much for outside. Mike got a spare padlock out of his truck, secured the electrical box, and let himself in through a side door facing the parking lot. Familiar smells punched his gut: boat varnish, mildew, stale tobacco mixed with peppermint candy. He switched on the auditorium lights, half expecting to find Great-uncle Elias gnawing a cigar and reading the racing form up on the lofty deck of his beloved Hermia. But Uncle Elias had been gone nearly three years, and now Aunt Essie had followed him.

How had it happened? How had Mike lost track of this kind couple when they’d so clearly remembered him? Apart from a few emails, he’d had no contact with either one of them since he was twelve.

Mike left the auditorium and climbed the back staircase to Aunt Essie’s third floor flat. He stepped in and recoiled at the chaos. His great-aunt had always been a free spirit, better with exciting theater stories than with a mop or broom. But this place looked like it had been hit by a hurricane. Clothes of every possible kind were scattered throughout the room, along with scraps of fabric, bits and pieces of mismatched furniture, torn shades stuck crookedly onto lamps.

Mike picked his way through a maze of theater props to a kitchen that was barely visible beneath stacks of unwashed dishes and dirty paper plates. The stove was coated in what looked like months of spilled food, the refrigerator empty apart from three plastic containers thick with mold. He checked the bathroom and found a similar disaster—burst tubes of toothpaste, smeared makeup, pantyhose hanging from the shower. A load of clothes had been ripening in the washing machine for what smelled like ages.

Poor Aunt Esther. He’d had no idea she’d sunk so low. I should have known. I should have done something. But her brief emails offering Mike his uncle’s boat had been so strong and cheerful, so full of enthusiasm for her new theater company, he’d never guessed she needed help.

Well, Mike could help now. At least nobody else would ever see this mess. He found a linen closet, measured laundry detergent into the washer, opened the windows to the warm gulf breeze, and stripped to jeans. Four hours later, he’d taken out six bags of trash, washed the sheets in Aunt Esther’s bedroom, reorganized the kitchen, and replaced the science projects in the refrigerator with a few basic staples from the Super-Min.

Mike showered under a trickle of water, cracked a beer, switched off lights, and stood naked in front of the bedroom window facing the side street and, invisible from here, the rocky strip of land that gave Pleasure Pointe its name. He drank the beer, recycled the bottle, angled an old floor fan at the bed and then—reminding himself he didn’t have to set an alarm—stretched out between crisp sheets to sleep.