I waited for her response, but none came.
“What’s up with her?” I muttered. Usually Vera was a quick texter, an oversharer, even in her messages. When I lived in Boston, I’d tell her not to text me multiple paragraphs because I couldn’t take the time at work to read everything while flinging fish into the mouths of crocodiles.
Catsy’s meow interrupted my thoughts. She was like a tiny trumpet, announcing her displeasure with a surprisingly powerful sound despite her teeny frame. I looked up from my phone. She was sitting near her half-full food dish and looked at me with giant round eyes.
“You have kibble. Come on, stinker.”
She wailed again as if I were intentionally starving her. “OK, OK. I get it. You can see the bottom and that’s unacceptable.”
Normally I wouldn’t give her more, since she was already a bit chubby. But who knew how long I’d be gone, or when Vera would be home. Catsy was a growing kitten and she needed sustenance.
I grabbed the bag out of the pantry and poured the stinky food into her bowl so she’d quiet down. My hair was a mess after my nap and I scraped it into a ponytail, slipped on my boots, and grabbed my gator go bag.
Vera and I had identical kits; they were filled with our tools of the trade. Dad had assembled the bags and had given one to Vera years ago, when she moved back to town after graduating college. Hers was hot pink. I had Dad’s old bag, a worn black canvas duffel.
The items inside included the marshmallows, a change of clothes, duct tape, rope, zip ties, hand wipes, bear spray, and a .22 caliber pistol with some extra ammo. Fortunately, I’d never had to shoot a gator before, but it paid to be prepared. Dad had taught us well.
I headed to the truck and fired it up.
Vera’s house was on the north edge of town. The sprawling old Florida home sat far back from the road, and most of her neighbors had similarly secluded properties. The sun dipped low in the sky as I drove to the industrial park, which was all the way on the south side of town.
It was better to take the back roads in an attempt to avoid downtown, because I knew that tourists and traffic would jam Main Street at dinnertime. Plus, I loved the rural landscape at this hour when the shadows were longer and the light was a filtered, hazy Creamsicle-orange peeking through the Spanish moss.
Wahoo had murky origins. It began its existence as a small Native American outpost near a swamp, with syphilis-ridden Europeans showing up to pillage the place in the mid-1500s. It got its name after the verdant green winged elm trees—also known as wahoo trees—that dotted the landscape. It had a bloody and pivotal history in the Second Seminole War during the nineteenth century.
Later, it became a stop for weary northerners on their way to the Gulf Coast beaches or even Miami. Quirky roadside attractions popped up in the fifties and sixties, and the town’s population grew and ebbed over the decades.I’d always thought it was in a perfect location: fifteen miles from sugar sand beaches, four hours from Miami, and smack dab on the banks of a cool freshwater river.
It boasted lots of positives, if one could overlook the many minuses of Florida.
I passed the back entrance to the Crystal Springs State Park, a grapefruit grove, and a strawberry farm. Since I’d only been back home for a short time, I hadn’t gotten a chance to drive down this way. The fact that none of these places had been developed yet made my heart soar, and I selected my favorite playlist and cranked up the volume.
Joining in with a Taylor Swift song, I zipped along, the wind in my hair from the open window. This was why I’d returned home. I’d fulfilled my dream of city life, but this was where I belonged. Fresh air, humidity, sunshine. It was my past and my future, the best of both of my worlds.
I’d help animals, carry on Dad’s legacy, and Vera’s bookstore would rock the romance world like no other indie bookstore ever had. It would draw tourists from across the nation, I was sure of it.
Upon approaching the industrial park turnoff, I slowed the truck. Unlike industrial parks in bigger cities with modern concrete structures, this was a lone, long brick building. It had to be a hundred years old, and I vaguely recalled my grandfather talking about how it had been a cigar factory in his youth. Over the decades, the property had been bought and sold, then renovated and abandoned several times.
Last I knew—well, last Dad had told me during one of our marathon phone gossip sessions a few years ago—it had been purchased by an entrepreneur who wanted to turn it into some sort of community arts center. But seeing that it was five miles from the bustling downtown, and on a quiet two-lane road that wasn’t visually appealing save for some scrubby-looking palm trees and fat cattle, the plan for an arts renaissance here in Wahoo had stalled.
I slowed the truck to a crawl as I scanned the parking lot. This place was in even worse shape than when I’d seen it last, which was probably when I was in high school. That was back during one of its abandoned phases, and groups of kids would come here to drink and smoke cigarettes. Vera had talked me into coming a couple of times because she was trying to impress a boy. I spent most of the parties at the river’s edge, skipping stones alone in the dark. I was a weird kid.
A few of the building’s windows were broken, and the once majestic red brick was crumbling in places. Too bad that the arts idea never took off, because this building really was an impressive structure.
I steered the truck around the side, passing two faded green dumpsters. There was another strip of asphalt behind the building, but it was in even worse shape than the parking lot. I steered around two potholes and kept an eye on the building. Bob had said he’d seen the gator from the main back door.
Four concrete steps leading to gray metal double doors lay smack in the middle of the building. A weathered wooden picnic table sat nearby, probably used when workers took smoke breaks. That must be what Bob was talking about.
Apparently, the factory had been located this close to the river so the workers could unload raw cigar materials from Cuba and load finished cigars back on boats for points north. I spotted an old concrete ramp and a rusted railing down to the water. It was hard to believe that the river had been busy enough—or high enough—to facilitate commercial traffic. These days, all the development between here and north Florida had caused the water level to drop.
The river was now more lazy than fuctional.
I steered the truck in a C shape, to scan the riverbank through my windshield, and parked next to the only car in the lot, the noses of both our vehicles facing the river. Maybe it was Bob’s employee. What kind of business had set up shop in this spooky old building?
It was a new truck, and I peered in. The windows were tinted so I couldn’t see if anyone was inside.
I climbed out and went around the front of the other truck. Oddly, no one was inside but the headlights were on. So was the engine. I walked to the driver’s side and tapped on it.
No answer.
