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I think I just found the man of my dreams.
4
Afew years ago, while I was still living in New York, my agent, Baxter, came to me with what he called the greatest news of his adult life. He said he found the one.
Of course, my overworked brain, too focused on my deadline to fathom what that meant, asked him which one did he mean? I write for a living, but my mind doesn’t easily grasp poetic phrases. Since Baxter had been a lifelong bachelor, too consumed with work to date or maintain friendships, there was no way I’d jump to the automatic conclusion that he was talking about a woman. But he was, and within a year, they were married.
Behind his back, I mocked his happiness because I couldn’t understand how anyone could fall so fast and decide they’d found the only person they’d love for the rest of their lives.
I thought Baxter was crazy and swore he’d regret his hasty decision within a year. He didn’t. He’s happier than ever and about to achieve my fondest wish—fatherhood.
Now, I understand his madness.
Harlow Jane, the too-young, too-cute girl I met on the beach four days ago, has crawled under my skin and burrowed deep into my soul. I can’t sleep, eat, or work on my book. To make matters worse, I can only get myself off to thoughts of her big hazel eyes and pint-sized curves.
She appeared out of nowhere, as if she fell from the sky and landed in my path. I know a sign when I see one. Harlow has the spunk to keep me on my toes, the body to bring me to my knees, and the nurturing heart I’d want for the mother of my children.
Harlow is new in town, and the horny vultures who live on the island love fresh meat. I can’t dawdle. If I don’t run into her today, I’ll drop the element of surprise and chase her down in the streets.
“Harlow? That short girl with big eyes, the one always searching the streets for cats?” The bartender at Temperance is the third person in three days who I’ve harassed for information about Harlow, the girl I’m going to marry.
I spent an hour at Tranquil-tea yesterday, waiting for her to drop in like she did the day before, and playing twenty questions with the baristas. They’ve provided the most information, but it’s still far from enough.
“Yes, Harlow Jane. Have you met her?” I ask, sipping whiskey and trying not to appear too enthusiastic. I don’t want him to think I’m stalking her. Although, it’s precisely what I’m doing.
He nods while he pours a beer for a fellow patron. “She’s a North Carolina girl. We met at the post office. She was picking up a shipment of cat food from one of the mail-order companies. According to her, island prices are way too high, and even when you factor in shipping, she still gets a better deal online.”
I make a mental note of his information, clenching my jaw when he smiles, fondly remembering her big amber eyes, fringed with long lashes. I already know she’s got gorgeous eyes. I don’t need him to describe body parts. “Do you know where in North Carolina? I have friends in Charlotte, and it’s a nice town.” I make shit up, still trying to look inconspicuous and non-threatening. I’ve never been to North Carolina or had any desire to go. But I can’t just come out and ask him for specifics.
He scratches his head and returns to his previous task of cutting limes. “She said she comes from a little town called Sycamore Mountain, a place so small it’s not on the map.” He quirks an eyebrow and glares at me with an air of suspicion. “Harlow's a pretty girl. Young. Vibrant. What are your intentions?”
I roll my eyes and inhale the rest of my whiskey. He’s deliberately withholding information because he thinks I’m a pervert. Maybe I am, but that’s none of his business. “It’s not like that. She saved one of the cats that come onto my property, and I want to make sure he’s okay.” It’s such a pathetic excuse, and I can tell he doesn’t believe me.
Frustrated by his lack of cooperation, I pay my tab and head home, taking the longer route that allows me to pass directly in front of Harlow’s place. It’s innocent enough. Her house is so far from the wrought iron fence surrounding her property I couldn’t peek into her windows if I tried.
It took four days for me to completely unravel. I’m at my wit’s end. There’s no doubt Harlow has seen me following her, loitering, and suddenly appearing around every corner, but I'm a man on a mission.
I’ll explain my mania once we get to know each other.
One day, it’ll be a story we’ll tell our children and grandchildren.
I stare at her house from the opposite side of the street, scanning the perimeter for signs of a tiny woman herding cats. Her porch lights are on, but I can’t see any movement outside.
Maybe she’s out. Perhaps, she called it an early night.
No problem, sweetheart. I’ll get you tomorrow. That’s the advantage of being on an island. There’s nowhere for her to run.
5
Ilove springtime. The snows thaw, flowers bloom, baby birds chirp in their nest, and I can finally peel off my clothes and prance around the way God intended—in a comfortable pair of shorts.
At least, that’s what happens back home on the mountain. Residents battle winter formonths, then cast off their coats when the sunlight stays long enough to melt away the frost. Hard times make you appreciate the good. The cold makes you grateful for warmth. That isn’t the case here. This may be the first time I’ve experienced too much of a good thing.
Candy Cane Key experiences spring and summer weather all year long. I arrived in the middle of January and have worn shorts and tank tops ever since. Six months in, I have a sneaking suspicion that this novelty may wear off. It’s like loving ice cream and indulging in it every day. After a week, you might realize it's no longer unique.
I fear this weather may suffer the same fate.
Christmas is a whole other story. Every year, I look forward to the time between Thanksgiving and the end of the year. Here, you don't need to wait. Every day is Christmas.
