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
“Yes, ma’am. What are you gonna do while I’m gone?”
“None o’ your business.”
St. Augustine was a marvel. Peyton had grown up around historic architecture in Savannah, but this place was seriously old. Everywhere, you could see remnants of Spanish buildings—and others still intact and in use. Tourists swarmed the centuries-old fort on the waterfront. He picked up a map in a candy shop, where he couldn’t resist the aroma of chocolate, and wandered cobblestone streets while he nibbled on fudge.
Eventually, he made his way to the Ponce de Leon, a grand hotel built by the man who had dreamed up the railroad to Key West. It looked like something out of The Arabian Nights.
Following the map to the corner of Valencia and Sevilla, Peyton took a short walk to Memorial Presbyterian Church, which the railroad man built in memory of his daughter. According to the notes on the map, she died having a baby at sea. Such a sad story for such a beautiful church, but no sadder than that of his own grandmother—his real grandmother, whom he would never meet. Was his dad anything like her? Was Peyton?
He continued his downtown ramble, and again his nose led him into temptation. He followed the aroma of fresh bread into an old Spanish bakery, where he didn’t recognize anything on the menu and had to ask for help. A pretty dark-haired girl behind the counter recommended the empanadas. She selected three for him, which he took in a paper bag, and then he made his way back to the dock and the Madame Queen.
Every time he started her up, the sound of her engine made his heart beat a little faster. While he knew it was only his imagination, he liked to think that the old boat was as ready to run as a Thoroughbred coming out of the gate. Soon Peyton and the Madame were gliding across shimmering water lit by a late morning sun.
He loved speed and always had—a trait his mother found worrisome. He wasn’t reckless by nature, nor was he drawn to danger. It was the movement—the way the world looked different when it was zooming past and the feel of the wind in his face. That’s what he loved. Cars and bikes and horses were okay, but speed was always better when it came from a source beyond the ordinary—like the Madame Queen or a roller coaster.
The best speed Peyton had ever experienced was in an airplane. His father had bought them both a ride in an open cockpit biplane when he was about ten years old, and he’d been hooked. From then on, he got an airplane ride for his birthday every year. Even now, he couldn’t name a better present than the thrill of climbing in, hearing the engine start, and watching the propeller begin to spin, knowing that any minute now, the plane would shoot down the runway and climb into the air.