Matecumbe by James A. Michener Read Free Book Online Page A

sneakers and floppy white sox.
    The trainer who worked for Paul offered coffee and doughnuts, and because of the cool morning breezes, Mary Ann was glad she’d chosen to wear the fur jacket Paul had recently given her.
    Paul was impressed with how Mary Ann got along so well with all of the horses in the racetrack barn. She showed no fear, walking up to each of thirty or so stalls and stroking every one as if it had been a family pet for many years.
    “In high school, I was always a wallflower,” she told Paul. “All I had was my seashell collection and my daydreams. Now I’ve blossomed, off-the-wall. If nobody was looking, I’d lead one of these beautiful animals home and keep him in my backyard.”
    Afterwards, Paul took Mary Ann and Melissa out for lunch—at a seafood restaurant that specialized in shrimp omelets and homemade, high-calorie desserts.
    Then, as they neared home, the trio made one final stop—at Mary Ann’s urging.
    “I want you to see this little coffee shop I just love,” Mary Ann told Paul. “It’s where I bought some of my horse mugs. They also have a counter where we can sit and relax for a while.”
    French Brandy Espresso was the flavor of the day at Coffee, Tea & Ye, and Mary Ann paid for two cups, plus Melissa’s soda. It made her feel good to treat Paul for a change and share with him a place that was one of her favorites.
    “I walk over here a couple of times every month,” Mary Ann explained. “I like to try the different coffee flavors. It’s also a cheap night out.
    “With all the expensive, fattening food and the gifts you’ve been giving me lately, I might start to put on some extra poundage—mentally and physically—that I probably shouldn’t.
    “I hope,” she smiled, “that you aren’t going to spoil me.”

    Joe met Melissa early the next morning. Their first bit of business was to enjoy a leisurely breakfast together at the Seascaper. Afterwards, they headed for the first stop on Joe’s informal tour—the hurricane monument.
    There wasn’t a whole lot to see, really. The monument was more like a micro-mini version of a war memorial in a town square.
    Located in a tiny, half-acre park site just off Route 1 (everything in Islamorada is just off Route 1), the hurricane monument was a gravestonelike tablet, about five feet square, perched at the top of a wide, ten-step marble stairway.
    Engraved on the austere face of it was a bleak scene showing clumps of shadowy palm trees, wet and bent wildly from the wind. These images framed the names of about two hundred persons known to have died in the hurricane of 1935.
    As with all monuments, gravestones, and the like, Melissa was compelled to feel it—to rub her hand across the names that had been cut into the stone—as if her fingers could communicate with the silent souls of the drowned.
    “The names, out here in the sun forever, are a nice touch,” Melissa commented. “The beautiful weather here in the Florida Keys could shine on this monument for eternity. The first and last names of the dead will benefit from thousands, maybe millions of days of warm air and cool, soothing breezes. If you want to be remembered after you die, you can’t ask for a better, more impressive setting.”
    “You’re absolutely right,” Joe concurred, as they started to walk back to his car. “Their bodies may have disappeared into nothingness, but the monument connects each of them with the lives they lived on this island. It also gives them sort of a team identity—as if they were the Class of 1935.
    “Now and then, though, I think about what my responsibilities would be some day, as a policeman, if another big hurricane were to hit Islamorada. Our police emergency plan stresses evacuation only—in other words, get in the car and head straight for Miami, as fast as you can.
    “There really are no adequate shelters here, no mountains to climb to avoid the high water. And as for tall buildings, they just don’t exist.”
    “Do