Spinning Forward. Terri DuLong

      “Speaking of quirky,” I said and proceeded to tell Ali about the woman with the dark glasses I’d encountered the day before.

      Alison laughed. “Oh, yeah. That would be Sybile. Sybile Bowden—a real character. Lived here all her life. Rumor has it that she left the island at age eighteen for the big lights of New York City. But after a very lucrative divorce settlement, she came back. The prodigal daughter, I guess.”

      “Was she an actress?”

      “Into modeling, I think. I’m not really sure. She keeps pretty much to herself. Has a sister here on the island, but they’re like night and day. You’d never know they were sisters. Sybile lives in a very unusual home—the Lighthouse. It’s on Rye Key. I think when it comes to marching to the beat of a different drummer, Sybile has me beat by miles.”

      Based on what I’d observed the day before, I had to admit Alison was probably right.

      Unlike the cold and gloomy New England Novembers, afternoons on the island were perfect for walking and soaking up the semi-tropical climate. I stood on the bridge heading to Dock Street and paused to watch airboats cruising out from the marina into the Gulf. Their loud motors reverberated through the otherwise silent air. Mullet jumped in the water below and further away, I could make out the silver fins of dolphin jumping. Yeah, each day it was becoming easier to see what drew Ali to this place.

      Walking along Dock Street, I ended up at City Park and the beach. Unclipping Lilly’s leash to let her run, I went to sit on a bench and sip my afternoon coffee. The yipping of a small poodle drew my attention to an elderly man entering the park. He raised a hand in greeting as he took the bench next to me and his dog ran off to play with Lilly.

      “Beautiful afternoon isn’t it?” he said.

      I nodded. “It sure is. Coming from New England it’s hard to believe that tomorrow’s Thanksgiving.”

      “You visiting here?” the man inquired.

      “An extended visit, you might say. My friend Alison owns the B and B, and I’m staying with her.”

      The man turned to face me. His baseball cap stated he was a member of Eagles Aerie 424 and his T-shirt, suspenders, and baggy pants reminded me of Jeb on The Beverly Hillbillies. A weather-beaten face showed too many years of sun and caused deep furrows in his forehead and cheeks. But these features faded when he smiled.

      Extending his hand to accompany a grin, he said, “Why, I know who you are. Yup, you’re that friend of Ali’s she said was comin’ from the Boston area. Nice to meet ya, ma’am. I’m Saren. Saren Ghetti.”

      I accepted his handshake and laughed. “Are you serious? That’s really your name? Like the Serengeti Plain?”

      He joined my laughter. “Yup. My mama and daddy, they thought if they gave me a different kinda name, I’d go on to do great things in the world.”

      I couldn’t resist. “And did you?”

      “Well, now, that depends what ya think great things are. I’m an artist. Nah, not as great as Picasso or Monet, but I’ve gotten by. Sold a lot of paintings around the world over the years.” He nodded his head emphatically. “All those sales have provided for me in my old age. So I guess I did okay.”

      I detected a resiliency in the man’s demeanor. “Do you still paint?”

      Saren removed his cap, scratching his head before replying. “Yeah, guess ya could say I do. But not as much. The old fingers don’t work like they used to. Damn arthritis tightens them up.”

      I glanced at his hands that were twisted with swollen joints.

      “But ya gotta keep movin’. What’s that they say? If ya don’t use it, ya lose it. Well, I don’t intend to lose it. I turn eighty-two on my next birthday and I say life is what ya make of it.”

      Good philosophy. The man obviously took the bad with the good. “Cute little dog,” I said, watching the black poodle dash into the water to catch Lilly.

      “Ah, that’s my Aggie. Me and her, we go way back. She’s fourteen. Never know it though, would ya? That’s ’cuz I keep her as active as I am. We walk three times a day. Don’t know what I’d do without my Aggie. She’s my best friend.”

      The simplicity of his words touched me. “All of your love for her shows. She looks great.”

      Saren waved his hand to somebody in back of me and I turned to see the strange woman with the sunglasses walking past the park.

      “Hi, Saren,” she called in greeting and kept walking.

      Today she was wearing bright orange slacks, an orange tank top, and spangled wedge-heel sandals. A white bandana with orange polka dots covered her head. I could see she did have an enviable figure for an older woman.

      Saren nodded toward the departing figure. “Have ya met Miss High and Mighty yet? Thinks she’s queen of the island, she does. Ain’t no better than the rest of us, but she doesn’t know that. Comes back here a failure and thinks she’s a celebrity.”

      “I saw her at Cook’s the other day. Alison said she left the island years ago to become a model.”

      Saren pursed his lips and grunted. “She wasn’t no Christie Brinkley, that’s for sure. I don’t know what all she did up there in that fancy town, but if it was so great, what’d she come back here for? Probably to bury her secrets, that’s what I say. She only speaks to me when she has a mind to.”

      I was beginning to realize that fishing wasn’t the only past time on the island. Gossip flowed as easily as the water.

      Saren stood up and whistled. The poodle came running without hesitation. “This here is Miss Aggie.”

      I leaned over and let the dog sniff my hand. “Well, you sure are cute and it looks like my Lilly has found herself another new friend.”

      “Sure ’nuff she has and we’ll see you tomorrow for dinner. You take care,” he said, walking away with the poodle close at his heels.

      I remembered that Alison had said she’d be cooking for five other people, but was surprised that Saren Ghetti was to be one of the guests. I smiled as it occurred to me that the dinner conversation would probably be pretty lively.

      5

      When I returned to the B&B, I found Ali surrounded by bowls, pots and pans, and pie plates in the kitchen.

      “Geez, Ali, I had no idea you were such a Martha Stewart. Can I help?”

      She swiped a stray piece of hair from her face with her forearm. “Not at the moment you can’t. But don’t worry, I’ll keep you busy tomorrow morning setting the table and assorted chores.”

      Four pies sat lined up on the counter ready to go into the oven. Bowls of sweet potato and green bean casserole were on the table.

      “There, that’ll take care of ole Tom,” Ali said, as she finished filling the cavity with cornbread stuffing. “I like to get as much done the day before, then we can all enjoy tomorrow.”

      “I met one of the guests at the beach. Saren Ghetti. He seems really sweet.”

      “Yup, Saren’s the salt of the earth. He’s somebody that could tell you all about this island. Born and raised here. Left during his mid-thirties to pursue his painting career, but by the time he was fifty, the island drew him back like a magnet.”

      “Who else will be here tomorrow?”

      Wiping her hands on her apron, Alison took a deep breath. “Ah, let’s see. It sometimes changes from year to year. But I think tomorrow I have Saren, Miss Dora, Miss Polly, and Officer Bob coming. Lots of people on the island have no family or anywhere to go on the holidays, so most of us put out an invitation. Miss Dora is Sybile’s sister and for some strange reason, Sybile called a little while