Chapter Seventeen
On the Gulf coast outside St. Petersburg there is a chain of islands connected by causeways to each other and to the mainland; the islands form a strip twenty-five miles long and in places no more than a few hundred yards wide: St. Petersburg Beach, Treasure Island, Madeira Beach, Redington Beach, Indian Rocks. The southern end is heavily commercialized, with many luxury hotels and condominiums; then, as you go northward, the tourist cabins on the ocean side become progressively smaller and shabbier, the beach sadder and more desolate.
Margaret Morrow, freshly arrived from Albany, found a tourist cabin, one of six with identical peeling green paint and pink trim, at the upper end of Indian Rocks Beach; the place was called Site O'Sea. The owner and manager was an old woman with frizzy lemon-colored hair who wore muu-muus and carpet slippers, and called Margaret "Dearie." The cabin was a single room with a tiny kitchenette, a sofa bed, and an air conditioner that hummed and dripped all day long. The windows, of narrow glass panes that overlapped each other like the siding on a house, were gummy with salt spray, and the sand drifted in under the doorsill.
It was hard to get used to the strong sunlight, the bright pastel colors like a child's painting, the cleanness of everything. Sand was everywhere, drifted against the sides of houses, scattering in the wind across the highway; it got into your hair, your ears, and, if you were not careful, into your food, but there was no dirt, no grime. On the beach, at certain hours, the gulls and terns gathered in convention -- just standing around, blinking wearily, the gulls and terns in separate groups but side by side, like businessmen waiting for a tour bus. Cormorants sat on the pilings of the groins, spreading their huge wings to dry. The sun on the water was piercingly white, painful to look at even through dark glasses. In the evening skimmers glided over the shallow water, scooping up something with their open beaks; the sun spread vast robes of pink and gold over half the sky, and the wind rattled the dry fronds of the palm trees.
On her second day she bought a newspaper and rode the bus into St. Petersburg. After Albany, the wide streets seemed almost empty. She filled out applications in three employment agencies. On the third day she answered advertisements in the paper and was interviewed, but not hired, by an insurance company, a stock broker, and a home finance agency. The next day was Saturday. She spent the weekend writing postcards, swimming, and walking on the beach. In a grocery bag she collected several pounds of shells and pebbles.
On Monday she applied for a waitress job in a coffee shop in Treasure Island; the manager said he would let her know. Walking back toward the bus stop, she noticed a sign she had not seen before: it was an employment agency, a tiny place tucked in between a drugstore and a real-estate office.
The woman behind the desk was a fortyish blonde in a startling blouse of blue and yellow trapezoids. She looked at Margaret's application without putting down her cigarette. "Well, let's see. You haven't had much business experience, have you?"
"No, but I can type and take shorthand."
"I see you were a teacher before -- why did you give that up?"
"Not cut out for it, I guess."
The woman gave her an indifferent look. "Uh-huh. How good is your shorthand ?"
"Not very, but I can brush up."
"Well, here's a filing job -- you say you don't want that -- filing and bookkeeping. . . . Here's one, secretary, part time, some filing and bookkeeping. Salary open, that means it probably isn't much."
"What sort of place is it?"
"Not a place, it's the man's home. Occupation, investor. Do you have a car?"
"No -- not yet."
"Well, it's back in the boonies, but it says here, 'Will pick up for interview.' "
"I'd like to try it."
"All right." The woman picked up the phone, squinting past the smoke of her cigarette. "Mr. Anderson, please. . . . Well, would you tell him that Mrs. Harrell of Suncoast Employment called. We have an applicant for the secretary job, and she'd like to be picked up for an interview. . . . Just a moment." She covered the phone. "Can you go out there this afternoon?"
"Yes."
"Yes, that will be fine. Her name is Margaret Morrow. Two o'clock?" She lifted an eyebrow at Margaret. "All right, thank you."
She put the phone down. "Somebody will pick you up here at two. The office will be closed until twelve-thirty, but you can come back here any time after that. Whether you get the job or not, please remember to check back and let us know; that's important."
Margaret went back to the coffee shop, had a sandwich and a glass of milk, then browsed in the tourist shops until almost two.
In the waiting room sat a man in a blue flowered shirt. He was partly bald, compactly built, tanned the color of mahogany. There was a cold cigar stub in his mouth. He got up and put on a blue straw hat. "Miss Morrow?"
"Yes."
He looked up at her. "Well, you're tall enough, anyhow. My name is Bill Richards. Come on."
He led her to a dusty blue Lincoln convertible parked at the curb. "I haven't seen one of these in years," she remarked as she got in.
"They just started making them again." Richards pulled out into the street, made a startling U-turn and headed north. "Been here long?" he said around the cigar.
"No, only a week."
"Figures." He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye; his expression did not change, but she thought he was amused. "Get a little sunburn?"
"A little."
"Thought so." His muscular arms were covered with coarse black hair; his fingers were blunt and spatulate, but his nails were clean.
"Mr. Richards, what does Mr. Anderson do?"
"A little of this, a little of that." He gave her a faint smile. "Mr. Anderson," he said, "is a very big man."
They were running across the causeway, the water sparkling white beneath them; then around the curve of the road, past Spanish-looking villas with palm trees, up the gentle rise that passed for a hill in Florida. After a few miles the car slowed, turned to the left onto a macadam road that quickly became white dust, bordered with yucca and palmetto. They turned again, running now between fenced pastures where brown and white cattle grazed; then once more, into a road marked "Private." Up ahead was a real hill covered with trees, a wall, a cluster of rooftops.
They halted in a wide archway closed by a wrought-iron gate. Richards rolled down his window and spoke to a grille in the wall. "Irma, open up." Beyond his head, Margaret could see a lens swiveling to point at them. "Okay," said a metallic voice. The gate swung open, they drove through past flowering bushes, a vast stretch of new lawn with sprinklers playing on it. Where the driveway leveled off, the house was too close to see, but she caught a glimpse of tall stucco walls, wrought-iron balconies.
They swung into the cool shadow of a carport. Richards led her up three steps to an enormously tall door of carved wood; he opened it and ushered her into a huge kitchen where a blond woman was sitting with a telephone in her hand. "I understand that, Mr. Lyons," she was saying, "But Mr. Anderson wants me to tell you that if we can't get better service, we'll have to look for another supplier." She smiled at Margaret and pointed to a chair at the long table.
Richards had disappeared; he came back carrying a cardboard carton full of packages and letters, which he set down on the table, then went out again.
The blond woman put down the phone. She was in her forties, a little plump in a candy-striped blouse and blue shorts; her legs were bare and tanned. "I'm Irma Hartz," she said. "You're Miss Morrow, from the agency?" "Yes."
"Nice to meet you. Want to go to the bathroom or anything before we start?"