Contents ( 66)
- Cover
- Books by Valerie Fraser Luesse
- Title Page
- Copyright Page
- Dedication
- Contents
- Map of Florida
- one
- two
- three
- four
- five
- six
- seven
- eight
- nine
- ten
- eleven
- twelve
- thirteen
- fourteen
- fifteen
- sixteen
- seventeen
- eighteen
- nineteen
- twenty
- twenty-one
- twenty-two
- twenty-three
- twenty-four
- twenty-five
- twenty-six
- twenty-seven
- twenty-eight
- twenty-nine
- thirty
- thirty-one
- thirty-two
- thirty-three
- thirty-four
- thirty-five
- thirty-six
- thirty-seven
- thirty-eight
- thirty-nine
- forty
- forty-one
- forty-two
- forty-three
- forty-four
- forty-five
- forty-six
- forty-seven
- forty-eight
- forty-nine
- fifty
- fifty-one
- Epilogue
- Keep Reading for a Preview of Valerie Luesse’s Next Book!
- Prologue
- one
- Acknowledgments
- About the Author
- Back Ads
- Back Cover
thirty-seven
LeBlanc and Ezell had advised Peyton to ditch A1A when it split from the Overseas Highway on Stock Island, a few miles east of Key West, and follow US 1, unless he had a burning desire to pedal a whole lot more than necessary. If he didn’t turn off, it would take him straight to Duval Street, which LeBlanc called “the dadgum main artery of Key West.”
An expansive bridge between Boca Chica and Stock Island gave Peyton another infinity view of the most beautiful water he had ever seen. Fishing boats dotted the horizon in both directions, and seabirds were gliding overhead. He saw ospreys, herons, and even one brilliantly plumed roseate spoonbill.
Once he made it across, with marshland as far as he could see to one side of the highway and not much else on the other, Peyton became acutely aware of his solitude. He was pedaling through a coastal wilderness, without a soul in sight and nothing to get him across but two wheels and his own two feet. It made him feel not just alone but lonesome. And he had to wonder if his quiet-natured father, who always needed more time to himself than most, had felt the same way. Or had he relished his time in the marshlands?
With no traffic in sight, Peyton stopped in the middle of the highway and looked around. Cicadas were singing in the Florida heat. A slight breeze stirred the palms now and again, but not nearly enough to offer a cool respite from the sun. The occasional flap of wings overhead would draw his attention to a pelican or an egret in flight. He could hear much more than he could see: croaking frogs and the occasional plop-splash of one hopping through mud and into the water. The call of an ibis, which was part quack, part caw, and part old man complaining. Seagulls filled any break in the conversation. Peyton had the unshakable sense that something was about to show itself, but what?
He got his answer soon enough. Out of the swamps and marshlands they came, a swarm of mosquitoes thick as a cloud, biting Peyton with such frenzied ferocity that he almost lost his balance trying to swat them away. Bloodthirsty and relentless, they showed no pity as he pedaled as fast as he could while swatting madly at his crazed attackers, cursing himself for using all of Aunt Gert’s contraband bug lotion before he reached the one place where he needed it most.
As he made the crossing onto Key West, still flailing one arm while steering with the other, he followed the split LeBlanc and Ezell advised and soon could see open water. He sped off the highway and into the sea oats, dropped his bike without thinking about his belongings, and ripped his shirt off as he sprinted to the sand. Quickly kicking off his shoes, he laid the aviators inside one of them and jumped into the translucent water. Even when he came up for air, he kept his whole body beneath the surface as he clawed at mosquito bites. Peyton had sense enough to know that scratching bites only turns them into welts, but he couldn’t help it.