Christmas in Key West. Cynthia Thomason

first.”

      Reese stared at the front door of the house. “So I should expect him to come out any minute and start yelling at me?”

      “Nope. He went for doughnuts.” She sipped her coffee. “If you have something to say, you’d better get to it.”

      “Can you stop working on that fence for a minute?”

      She stood up, dusted her hands on her shorts. “I’m all yours. Is this going to take longer than the five minutes I gave you at the hospital?”

      He crossed his arms. “Great. I’m on the clock again.”

      She managed a small smile. “Let’s sit on the stairs.”

      They settled side by side on the top step. After a few moments of silence, Reese said, “Abby, I discovered something yesterday—”

      She held up her hand, interrupting him, and looked toward the corner. “What’s that noise?”

      He nodded, indicating he was familiar with the chug of an engine and the now-amplified chirpy voice that filtered through a speaker. “It’s the Conch Tour Train,” he said. “You remember that.”

      The Conch Tour Train, famous as the way for visitors to see the island and hear its history, rolled onto Southard. The engine, a cross between a kids’ amusement ride and an old steam locomotive, pulled five passenger cars down the narrow street. A Christmas wreath blinked from the decorative smokestack. Each open-air tram, trimmed with colorful awnings, was packed with tourists pointing and waving and ignoring the driver’s warning to keep their hands safely inside the vehicle.

      “A cruise ship docked at Mallory Square this morning,” Reese explained. “The tour trains will be steady all day until the passengers reboard.”

      “What are they doing on this street? We’re not part of the tour, are we?”

      Reese shrugged. “I really don’t know. The guides pick the sites. They drive around to all the spots they think are important because of local color or historical significance.” He gazed up at the house. “This was the home of Armand Vernay. Your ancestor had quite a reputation during the island’s shipwrecking days.”

      Not this again. While she’d lived in Key West, Abby had struggled to live down the horror stories about her ancestor’s misdeeds. And when she wasn’t defending the family name for her great-great-great-grandfather, she was defending Huey’s reputation as the island’s ambitionless eccentric. She cringed when the tour guide spoke.

      “Ladies and gentlemen, I urge your attention to your left, to the faded Classic Revival residence nearly hidden behind that pair of old banyan trees. This is Vernay House, built in 1857 by the infamous Armand Vernay. The house, with its interesting and colorful history, has remained in the hands of his descendants since that time.”

      Enough, Abby thought, mentally waving the guide on. It wasn’t to be.

      “Armand Vernay was a notorious salvager who braved Atlantic storms to aid vessels that became grounded on the treacherous reefs that border our island. In the 1850s, when Key West was the richest city per capita in the United States, salvaging was our most profitable industry. The rules were simple. The first wrecker to reach a foundering ship had rights to its cargo, which could be anything from gold, to porcelain, to the finest European leather goods.”

      Abby’s stomach clenched. She stood. Here we go. More talk about Armand’s wicked ways.

      “I didn’t know your place was on the tour, Abby,” Reese said. “But I’m not surprised. The legend of Vernay House is a good story.”