“Spooked you, didn’t I?” And then her mouth burst into a laugh.
“Was that some kind of joke?” I asked.
She peered inside my eyes. Hers were a clear blue. “Why would anyone joke about something like that? Legend has it those angry men stormed the skies and churned Irma our way. Eighty-two years later.”
I soon learned that Liberty was born and raised in the bosom of the connected islands and was famous for sharing its tales. That first afternoon stretched into miles of terrain, and Liberty entertained me with a long tapestry that formed the island’s history. She told me Islamorada attracted all types, though they shared some things in common: an affinity for natural splendor, a deep appreciation for earth’s treasures, and, of course, Jimmy Buffett. I liked to believe I fell in love with this part of the country by peering through Liberty’s colorful lens, but I knew there had to be more.
The stand-alone building resembling a charming cottage came into view, and I turned the door handle. Liberty’s cheerful, rambling voice spilled through the hallway even though I was late. Despite her attempts to shock me with her strange, ghoulish stories and chilling legends, she had taken me under her wing, and I would always be grateful.
It was easy for those who didn’t understand Liberty to call her a “kook” or a “crackpot.” Sunny liked her, from the very start, and that always stood for something. My body softened thinking about that afternoon and all it opened up for me. She’d insisted she could help with the almond allergy, that I didn’t have to live in fear, and she demanded I call her the next day. And I had.
I noticed one of our signs dangling from the bulletin board in the waiting room. “Out of consideration for those with serious allergies, please do not bring food or drinks into our clinic and refrain from using perfumes or strong scented lotions.” I pressed the pushpin into the crisp paper and smoothed out the edges.
The clinic was Islamorada’s first and only center for NAET therapy. I had come to learn that Nambudripad’s Allergy Elimination Technique was as widely criticized and debated as Liberty, but since I’d graduated from its program, I was qualified to defend its virtue. After my own Google search, I read that NAET treats those who suffer from mild to severe allergies in a noninvasive, needle-free environment. It was a long way from my teaching background with the practicalities of sentence structure and the precise rules of grammar. The treatment was not for everyone, and I understood and respected the skepticism.
I would never forget Liberty’s expression, her beaming smile, tears sprouting from her eyes, when she shared the picture of a former patient tasting birthday cake for the first time. The child was twelve. A lifetime without chocolate and frosting was the result of a plethora of unkind allergies. If I had once questioned gravity and the principles that tugged us in the direction of someone so foreign and wrong for us, I had fallen into my own trap when Liberty offered me a job in her office.
“You can be my office manager,” she had said one afternoon at the beach when we were walking toward our cars, the evening sky dusted with stars. “Just until a teaching job opens. I’m good at what I do, Charlotte, but I’m highly unorganized. I bet you could whip my office into shape, am I right? It’ll be fun!” She used her fingers and hands when she talked. “Charlotte, you’ll love it!”
Though I missed teaching—the students and the interaction—Liberty Scott was not someone I could resist.
It was Friday and we didn’t see patients until two. Normally, I arrived at one, but today was an exception. The clinic was not solely for the treatment of allergies. Liberty practiced acupuncture and claimed to treat weight imbalances, infertility, anxiety, and pain. She also professed not to profess. NAET was a “personal decision” and Eastern and Western medicine, “combined, could be very effective.”
Settling myself behind the desk, I powered up the computer and turned on NPR. My fingers had just reached the keyboard, when Liberty’s shrill voice called out, “Some guy Ben is coming in with his son later this afternoon. Said you referred him?”
CHAPTER 8
May 2016, Back Then
Kansas City, Missouri
My mother once told me that you should never marry someone if you’ve slept with them on the first date. She said, to be precise, “Don’t be that kind of girl. If he slept with you that easily, he’s probably doing it with a lot of others.”
I was an adult with my own set of limits—and I’d hardly call it a first date—but, admittedly, I had slept with Philip on our first date. The operative word being slept.
He showed up at my door, eyes bloodshot and clouded over with a sultry mist. The sun was beginning to rise, and with its gentle rays came longing. A longing to be touched. A longing to fit our pieces together so they could never break apart.
His phone dropped on my tiled floor with a loud crash. I was sure I could see my reflection splintered in the cracked glass, each sliver calling out, “Protect yourself.”
He stepped over the shattered device and took my hand. He wasn’t dressed to get on a plane. He was in faded blue jeans and a thin gunmetal sweater. It was nearing June in Missouri. Temperatures were climbing well out of normal range. His palms were sweaty, his breath that of someone in a rush. I turned around thinking I’d see his suitcase on the floor. This was a goodbye. He’d come to say goodbye before heading to the airport.
But there was no suitcase.
“Your flight?” I asked nervously as he guided me the few short steps toward my bed.
“Is that what I think it is?” he asked.
I was out of breath, too. His question threw me. A bright-red embarrassment crawled up my neck.
“I haven’t seen a Murphy bed in years.” He turned around, aghast. “Oh, Charley, I shouldn’t be here.”
I was too surprised to speak. Philip was in my apartment.
“It’s not proper for a gentleman to be in a lady’s bedroom.” He turned to leave.
My voice rose. “It’s the other way around.” I shifted nervously. The air conditioner kicked on, and a loud noise mingled with desire. “The lady shouldn’t be in the man’s bedroom.”
He eyed the bed and then me. A thin white tank top accentuated parts I wasn’t yet ready for him to see. He took his time, noticing how I tugged on the fabric, pulling it down to cover my stomach. A hand came down on mine, the other grabbed the back of my neck. His lips were on mine as I whispered, “Maybe I’m not a lady.”
The kiss was slow and deliberate, a canvas of blank sky spread out for miles. I was trapped in a silky tunnel I couldn’t escape. Didn’t want to escape. I don’t know what I thought in that moment. I had an idea of where the kiss would take us and the allure of an unmade bed. A dozen images swirled around my mind, though nothing measured up to what occurred that morning.
Philip pulled away first. He gathered me in his arms and led me toward the bed.
The clock beside my bed read 7:17. He caught me gazing at the numbers, and in one swoop, he pulled the clock from the wall and flung it aside.
“I’ll replace that,” he said through pressed lips when I heard it smash against the floor.
“You’re supposed to be getting on a plane . . .”