“And that’s why I’ll keep you on staff,” he wryly replied as he started to walk away.
“When do you put me on the payroll?” I called after him.
“When you quit fainting and throwing up,” he said over his shoulder.
I watched the tall, slender man walk away, and I couldn’t help but think that although it was his skilled hands that could make a body sound again, it was his rich laughter that was a balm to the tired spirit.
After that day, Neil Aldrich requested my assistance during his surgeries if I was on duty. Afterward, we’d often make our way to that same bench in need of fresh air. Other times, we’d sit there to eat our bagged dinners, or have a cup of coffee during a rare lull in the activity. It was during those days of sharing both the darkness and the light that I started to fall in love with the good doctor. And when he softly kissed my lips after wiping away a wayward breadcrumb, I believed that the feeling was mutual. But, when his wife arrived in Miami several weeks later, Neil asked for my assistance less and less, and we quit meeting at the bench entirely. Finally, I told the supervisor of volunteers that I was needed more at the hotel and less at the hospital since many of the patients had been released to resume their earthly work, or to receive their heavenly rewards. As far as my injured heart was concerned, I was living a hell on earth, and I wasn’t quite sure what would release me from it.
Chapter 4
The Lemon Tree
“Where?” Olivia shouted from the car’s exterior rumble seat as she cupped her mouth with one hand, while holding down her navy-blue felt Tam hat with the other. I felt bad that there was no room inside the car with Francie and me. But Olivia had been a good sport and given the birthday girl the interior passenger seat. By the time we got to where we were going, Olivia’s carefully coiffed, sophisticated chignon was going to be a tangled bird’s nest.
“I didn’t say ‘where!’ I said ‘we’re almost there!’ You’ll know soon enough,” I shouted back over my shoulder, though I kept my hands firmly planted on the wheel and my eyes glued to the road. The girls tried all afternoon to make me spill the beans about where we were going, but keeping the destination a secret was half the fun.
We were speeding down Atlantic Boulevard, on Miami Beach, paralleling the shoreline in my sporty two-toned gray-green Chandler Roadster. My parents had given me my well-loved car a couple of years before, when times were better. The world seemed like my oyster then. I laughed to myself. Several nights before, I shucked oysters at the hotel because the employee who usually did it arrived for work drunk as a skunk.
Sticking my hand out the window, I pointed upward to indicate that I was turning right onto the County Causeway, which would take us out over Biscayne Bay. Downtown Miami lay on the other side and as we sped across the bridge. I marveled again at how magical the city looked after sunset. The city’s power was restored almost completely, and light shined through the many windows from buildings of various heights, all of which reflected off the bay below. No matter how many times I drove across the bridge, the view never got old.
I turned left onto Biscayne Boulevard, then right six blocks down, and parked behind the Boulevard Bakery. Even though it was nearly 8:00 p.m.and the place was closed, the parking lot was half full already. As soon as I shut the engine off, Olivia and Francie craned their necks around to see what else was around us, other than the closed bakery.
“So?” Olivia said, leaning in toward us from the rumble seat. “Now what? We eat donuts?”
“The bakery’s closed, silly. Now you fix your hair so you don’t look as though you’ve had a roll in the hay.” I laughed.
“Lily, I’d never!” my sister quickly admonished.
“Well, we all know that but everyone else in the Lemon Tree will think otherwise.”
“The Lemon Tree?” Olivia and Francie shouted in unison.
“The Lemon Tree,” I confirmed, stunning them into silence. I took one last look in the mirror to check my dark wine-colored lipstick and smoky brown eye shadow. I applied my black eyeliner more heavily than usual, but I figured in the muted light of the bar it wouldn’t hurt. “C’mon. The night ain’t getting’ a bit younger, and neither are we.” I opened my door and stepped out into the pleasant evening air. The humidity was down, which was about the only sign that it was autumn.
The girls, excitedly talking over each other, exited the car and came around to my side as I was rolling my stockings down below my knees.
“Lily! Don’t you dare uncover your knees. That’s indecent!” Olivia said in a heated whisper.
“Oh, fiddle sticks, Livie!” I scoffed. “We’re about to go into a speakeasy filled with all kinds of motley characters and you’re worrying about my knees?”
“I don’t want them thinking we’re motley characters, as well,” she replied, looking around as she did.
As I stood up, I saw that Francie had just finished rolling down her stockings, too, and I noticed that her ample bosom looked less ample. “Why, Francine Hollister! Did you bind your breasts?” Looking more masculine was all the rage and it seemed as if our little blond friend was caught up in it.
“So what if I did?” she answered defensively. “I’m tired of every man looking at my chest when I’m havin’ a conversation. Why, you’d think my nipples were doin’ the talking! Besides, my beads hang better with a flattened chest.” We all laughed and agreed, and then I hooked my arms through theirs.
The speakeasy was actually on the second floor of the building, but the only way to gain entry was by going to the bakery’s inconspicuous rear door. Within the door was a small wooden window, which would be opened when you gave a special knock. The rhythm of the knock wasn’t enough to gain entry, however.
“How we gettin’ in?” Olivia whispered. “They’re not going to open the door simply because y’all are showin’ your knees.”
“I got a referral,” I explained.
“From whom?” Francie asked. Both she and Olivia were looking rather wild-eyed.
“Your brother,” I replied, knocking the secret rhythm I’d been given on the door’s window.
“Rusty?” Francie cried.
Before I could explain, the small wooden window swung open, framing a rough-looking face.
“Who sent ya?” he bluntly asked. I could hear the sounds coming from beyond.
“Rusty–Rusty Hollister did,” I stammered, a bit startled by his abruptness.
Immediately, I heard the sound of a deadbolt sliding, and then the door swung open, revealing the darkened bakery kitchen.
“Follow me,” the man said, which we did, up a flight of stairs that was just beyond the door. At the top was another door, and from behind that one, I could hear jazz music and a woman singing. The man gave his own rhythmic knock and a small window in that door was pulled open immediately, framing the face of another rather seedy-looking character. “They’re okay,” our man assured him. Immediately, the heavy door opened wide, allowing us entry into the smoky, dimly lit room beyond. The heavy smell of smoke and loud music assaulted my senses, though it took my eyes a moment to adjust.
Slowly, we wound our way around tables, and as we did, the bandleader announced that they were taking a break and would be back for another set in fifteen minutes. Immediately, the sound of conversation rose, and I could feel eyes turn to watch us since the patrons were no longer distracted by the band. Glancing behind me, I could see the unease on my sister’s and friend’s faces, so I quickly led the way over to a small table off to the right. The girls hurriedly slid into their chairs. Amused, I slipped into my own chair and saw that Olivia had her eyes pinned to the table, while Francie was taking furtive glances in all directions.
“Olivia, just what