“Delia will be pleased as punch to wear this locket into the everlastin’. I owe Ryan a heap o’ gratefulness. Where’d he find it? I’d almost given it up for gone.”
“Miss Delia had it . . . among her clothes when she . . . died. It was in the Medical Examiner’s Office.” I tried to sound chirpy, as if, silly us, we should have realized where it would be.
“Hmm. Didn’t know that was Delia’s habit. Happy to have it, though. And in time for the funeral. Praise be. Guess I should let Mr. Beech know.” And she started to reach for the phone.
“All taken care of. We called Fern and they are waiting for us to drop it by.”
Augusta relaxed deep into the recliner. “Delia can go in peace dressed as she’d want to be.”
Bridgy gave me the big eyes and her head nudged toward the locket. I’d forgotten about the picture.
“If you open it, there’s a picture inside. We were wondering who the man might be.”
Augusta looked startled. “Delia never showed me any picture. Could you open it? And let me get my cheaters on.” She picked up a pair of Ben Franklin half glasses from the coffee table.
I leaned in and popped the clasp. Augusta pulled the locket close and stared at the picture.
“I can’t believe it. In all these years, Delia never showed this to me or even hinted that the locket had a space for a picture. I never knew it opened. Who can this be?”
Augusta said we’d find a flashlight hanging on a hook by the front door and asked if one of us would bring it to her.
Shining the light directly on the photograph as she held the locket less than an inch from her nose, Augusta scrunched her eyes and peered through her glasses. Finally she flipped off the light.
“Nope,” she said definitively. “Never seen him before.”
Bridgy sighed. “I guess the mystery man will go with Delia to her grave.”
I shot her a warning look, but rather than upset Augusta, Bridgy’s romantic nonsense perked her right up.
“Dang it. You’re a smart one. That’s who he is—the mystery man.”
Augusta looked at our blank stares and explained, “You wouldn’t know the story. No one this far north of the Ten Thousand Islands would know. It was a long time ago, when we lived on farms near Everglades City. Things were different. Folks had obligations. Delia, especially. Her mother died when Delia was a young’un, and she did the cooking, the cleaning, the washing and all for her father and three brothers. It was her life and it suited her well, leastways that’s what everyone thought.
“Not like today. You young girls own businesses, live away from your family and make decisions for yourselves. I don’t approve or disapprove, just saying it’s a different way of doing things.”
“Now to tell the rest of Delia’s story I’m relying on my memory of letters from my great aunt Sarah. Aunt to me on my mother’s side and to Delia on her father’s. It was the year I was away with a church group doing missionary work in the low country of the Carolinas.” She stopped for a beat or two. “I’m a bit parched.”
Bridgy reached for the pitcher of sangria, but I warded her off and went in search of the Buffalo Trace. I brought back a glass with a full two fingers and under Augusta’s approving nod, sat down for the rest of the story.
“Delia was always a bit flighty. Unreliable-like. She’d be out hanging the laundry and the flutter of an orange sulphur butterfly would catch her eye and off she’d follow until a peregrine falcon caught her attention, then she’d follow him right along. Might be an hour or more before she’d get back to the laundry.