Bottom of the Breath

A debut novel by Jayne Mills

Chapter One

Tuesday, June 1, 2019

Phoenix, Arizona

Cyd Carr sits across the large desk in a leather chair. She hasn’t given much thought to what might happen, which she realizes now is odd, almost irresponsible. She had been too concerned about the flight, preoccupied with the storm, to think of what questions she should be prepared to ask.

Mr. Walker, the lawyer, is younger than she surmised from their brief conversation—early fifties maybe, about her age. When she called to make the appointment, he hadn’t been surprised to hear she planned to leave immediately and drive all the way from Florida. That they planned to drive. Maybe it was simple politeness that stopped him from asking for more information. But she was relieved that he let her off the hook as if it were a perfectly rational decision. The one to drive such a long distance. The one to outrun a hurricane.

As it turns out, she flew. Or, more accurately, they drove as far as Texas together, and then she flew on alone. She had looked for a sign, any sign, that it would be all right. Millions of people flew every day—was it millions? She didn’t really know, but that’s what she told herself as she boarded the plane, something she hadn’t done in a very long time. Before the disgrace of removing your shoes. Back when people could walk you to your gate and wave goodbye as you stepped onto the jet bridge.

In the end, she resorted to half a Valium and a scolding. She told herself to get on with it already, and she had. More as a result of sheer determination and less from actual bravery. She simply had no other choice.

Mr. Walker offers her a bottle of water and looks concerned. Most of what he has said should not be upsetting to her. Certainly not the part about the money or the house—the cabin, her aunt liked to call it—but the rest of it feels almost devastating. So unexpected. As if she’s just been made a fool.

The wooden box looks like the gift it is intended to be—obviously old and quite pretty with a brass lock and hinges. But what about the rest of it? What is she to think about this news?

He asks if she has any questions.

She simply doesn’t have the mental bandwidth at the moment to think much of anything. What she really wants to do is plop her head down on the big mahogany desk. Are you kidding me right now? is the only question that comes to mind.

Instead, she says no, she doesn’t have questions and tries to look as if she understands, though she does not. She supposes she needs time to get used to the idea. She needs time to get used to a lot of things. The list seems to be growing by the hour.

Cyd takes the box from Mr. Walker and thanks him. It is surprisingly heavy for something the size of a shoebox. The house key he has given her is tucked in the side zipper of her purse. She calls for a ride and it is already waiting by the time she takes the elevator to the first floor and uses the restroom. No sooner has the driver pulled out of the parking lot than she’s decided. She doesn’t even bother to ask what the fare will be. It makes no difference. She simply asks, “When we get to the hotel, will you wait while I get my things and then drive me to Sedona?”

The man’s eyes meet hers in the rearview mirror.

“Sedona’s over two hours away on the best day, and with this road construction—”

Cyd cuts him off. “I’ll pay you for the round trip. Please.”

  “All right then,” he mumbles, turning up the ramp and onto the highway, merging into heavy traffic. “It would be quicker later tonight. Or early tomorrow.”

Cyd looks out the window at the parched landscape, so different from what she is used to. Almost alien.

“I’m in no hurry,” she replies, resting her head back. She closes her eyes against the biting midday sun and adds softly, “Besides, tomorrow is guaranteed no one.”

Chapter Two

Four days earlier.

Friday, May 28, 2019

Lola, Florida

Cyd walks along Water Street as the first sunlight reflects soft pink off the bay. Her stride is rhythmic and naturally long, and she is aware of the ease with which she moves, having already escaped her usual morning stiffness. She focuses on her posture as she does whenever it occurs to her. She appreciates good posture even if it can be intimidating or mistaken for snootiness—her pulled-up spine, her leveled chin. Her mother, who stood a half foot shorter, always told her tall girls should never slouch. But Cyd’s good looks are her father’s, and he was born as straight and regal as a royal palm.

The morning is pleasantly cool for this time of year. The day is expected to be near perfect, in fact, which is not unusual before a big storm. What is unusual is that this storm may hit in three days, one day prior to the actual start of hurricane season on June 1. It is called Abigail and is being compared to an unnamed storm that struck the Florida panhandle just west of this very spot on May 28, 1863. The knowledge of this even earlier hurricane gives Cyd some reassurance, though she’s not sure why.

She breathes deeply, deliberately. The fresh air is mingled with a slight, fishy tartness. Several well-worn shrimp boats bob along the water’s edge, their nets drooping like wilted lettuce, their crews milling about on deck with unusual seriousness. They are preparing for the journey out of Apalachicola Bay, north to the Chattahoochee or south out of St. George Sound toward Ten Thousand Islands and away from the storm’s most likely path. Smaller boats have already been pulled out of the water and moved to higher ground. A few may remain moored in the bay for one more day, hoping this is another false alarm, as is often the case with hurricane forecasting along the Gulf Coast.

Turning left, she heads inland toward the small downtown and the white two-story structure with its wraparound balcony and gabled roof. The Osprey Cafe looks much as it has for the past 170 years, unpretentious and welcoming. She enters the restaurant’s kitchen through the back door next to the loading docks, where crates of fresh oysters, glossy and musty-smelling, have just arrived. Boxes piled with tomatoes, sweet onions, and collards are being unloaded from the back of a local farm truck.      

Nick is in his usual spot behind the long stainless-steel counter when Cyd enters. The glistening blade of his chef’s knife moves with mechanical precision along the length of a carrot. A large dented pot simmers behind him—fish stew, she suspects. The clock on the shelf above his head reads five fifty-five in large red numbers. Five is the number associated with freedom—if one believes in such things as numerology, which Cyd does—and five is one of her favorite numbers. Numbers are reliable truth-tellers, deliverers of order, momentary reminders that all is not random chaos. Simple little numerical oddities that pop up during the day and bigger, mathematical miracles at work throughout the natural world—all of it, right there. You just had to pay attention.

“Hey, Nicky. Look at that: five fifty-five. It’s going to be a good day,” Cyd says, tossing her small backpack into a locker alongside the door.

“If you say so,” he says flatly, glancing up as he spins to drop the carrot chunks into the pot, his biceps straining against the rolled-up sleeves of his white chef’s jacket. “Why so early?”

“I woke up early, and it’s a beautiful morning,” Cyd answers, amping up her cheerfulness. “I slept last night for a change. These hot flashes are going to be the death of me.”

“Spare me the womanly details if you don’t mind. But I’m glad you’re here. We have a hell of a lot of work to do. Helen’s cracking the whip. She wants us to start boarding up tomorrow.”

“Good morning to you, too,” she says as she walks around the counter and kisses his cheek above the balmed, V-shaped beard. “We’ll get it done. We always do.”

Cyd pushes through the swinging door and walks into the dining room. Across the expanse of the wide-planked floor, Nick’s sister, Helen, turns the bolt on the front door until it clunks. Several men are waiting outside.“Good morning,” Cyd calls, grabbing a freshly pressed apron from the antique sideboard.

“Hi,” Helen says, holding the door open as the men shuffle in, mumbling their greetings. “I didn’t expect to see you for another hour.”

“You know I can’t stay away for long, and I know we have a lot to do today. Besides, Loren decided to put up our shutters at five this morning. I love my husband, but one thing he is not is quiet in the morning.”

Cyd has always liked this time of morning at The O. Nearly every one of her childhood memories is intertwined with the restaurant and its owners. She practically grew up in this building, its history captured in the old black-and-white photographs that line the walls: fishermen on docks with giant hooked fish hanging in the background; horse-drawn carriages parked along Main Street; The Osprey Cafe before the Kondilis family bought it, surrounded by dirt streets and a few brick buildings. One shows the building with a line of men on the old wood porch, a few feet from where Cyd now stands, the hand-painted signage boldly advertising MEALS at all HOURS on one side of the front door and, on the other, OYSTERS and COLD DRINKS.

The upstairs balcony off the more formal dining room was one of her favorite childhood hideaways. When the restaurant was quiet, Cyd and Helen would crawl under the corner table, peering out to the water and the street below, and pretend to be princesses locked away by an evil stepmother, planning their escape. She still likes the feel of the old floorboards under her feet, worn but sturdy. Dependable. Uncomplicated.

“Let’s turn on the weather forecast in Nick’s office. Is Holly on this morning?” Helen asks, referring to Cyd’s daughter, a meteorologist now living in Savannah.

“She is. We spoke to her last night. It looks like we’ll get a ton of wind and rain even if it’s not a direct hit.”

“I love getting our personalized weather forecast,” Helen says as she angles the wood shutters on the large east-facing windows.

The kitchen falls under Nick’s domain, but the front of the house is all Helen, a role in which her calm pragmatism serves her perfectly. Nick had always planned to follow in his father’s footsteps, who followed in his father’s, but Helen’s life plans were hijacked after their father’s sudden heart attack. She had wanted to live in Greece for a year, maybe longer, after college. Stay with family in Athens. See the world. “There has to be more,” Helen had said, practically bouncing out of her flip-flops as she counted out the ticket price in cash at the travel agency.

They—Cyd and Helen—had spent four reckless, impetuous years sharing an apartment while attending Florida State University. (They both majored in hospitality, a field of study they chose almost as a joke. “Does schlepping plates of eggs count as hospitality?” they often asked each other.) Their adult lives had just begun to take shape, and they were embarking on their separate paths for the first time since childhood when Helen was suddenly called back.

While in Greece, Helen had fallen in love with a woman—fallen hard—though only Cyd was privy to that detail. “We’re going to talk about this one time, sister,” she had said when Cyd retrieved her from the Tallahassee airport. “It’s over. That life is for someone else to live.” Cyd then watched as Helen took up her family responsibilities without complaint despite the dual grief of her father’s death and the loss of her first true love. Cyd herself was in love by then, too, and would return to Lola soon after, though voluntarily, with her new husband and their daughter on the way.

Within three years of returning, Helen had married Frank—sweet, reliable Frank, who had been waiting and hoping all along. And they are married still, lovingly, contentedly, as if they were always meant to be. Helen’s recipe for a happy life, then and now: Stop wanting something other than what is. Whenever Cyd needs reminding, Helen will rattle off this versatile piece of advice with a wave of her fine-boned hand and, on those more serious occasions, sit her down with a platter of food, a box of tissues, and a jug of Greek table wine.

At times, like now, seeing her friend backlit by the morning light, Cyd is reminded how differently things might have turned out, and that realization always feels like she’s walked through a pane of glass miraculously unscathed.