After eating, we motored farther west to Dry Tortugas. Only having the day, we wanted to show Jason at least part of our little slice of paradise, and soak in the sun as much as possible. We motored past the tall brick walls of Fort Jefferson, cut around Loggerhead Key, free-dove more near Bird Key Bank, then splashed back toward Key West in time for the Sunset Celebration at Mallory Square.
We downed conch fritters from a food cart right on the square, then joined in the chorus of conch horns as the beautiful evening spectacle unfolded before our eyes. It was nice to see everyone so relaxed, especially Jason. The young man had been through a lot in the past couple of years, so it was good to see him soaking up some of the good things that life has to offer.
When the distant sun sank into the ocean, we drove Scott and Jason to Key West International, where their private jet was parked.
“I want to see pictures of this ship of yours when it’s complete,” I said. “Or better yet, get a private tour.”
“As far as I’m concerned,” Jason replied, “you’re free to come and go on it as much as you please. We might even need to make a stopover here in the Keys sometime. The island vibes here are powerful, and addictive.”
“Like gravity,” Ange chimed in. “They’ll hold you here for life if you’re not careful.”
Jason grinned. “There’s far worse places to be held.”
We expressed our deep appreciation yet again for their visiting, and for all they had done to help us take down Lynch and the Aryan Order.
“We’ll be in touch,” Scott said with a wink, then the two men strode toward the Gulfstream G400 jet parked right in front of us.
Ange, Scarlett, and I drove back to the marina to pack up a few things before heading home. As I rounded up some dirty laundry from the main cabin, I noticed something sticking out from under my pillow. Brushing the sack of feathers aside, I realized that it was a small object wrapped in brown paper. There was a note attached.
“What’s that?” Ange said, striding in behind me as I grabbed and unfolded the note.
“I almost forgot to give you this, Logan,” I said, reading the message. “You didn’t think I’d let you both get away from this with just a simple thank-you, did you? After all your family did this past week, this isn’t nearly enough. But please accept this token of gratitude from me, and the entire state of Florida. Scott.”
I set aside the note, then grabbed the object, unraveled the paper, and held up one of the gold bars from the Civil War chest. It’d been cleaned and polished and shone vibrantly under the main cabin’s lighting.
“What do you plan to do with it?” Ange asked after we got over the shock of the incredible gift.
I didn’t have to give it much thought.
“A college fund for Scarlett,” I said. “Seems only fitting. After all, it wouldn’t have been found without her.” I ran my hands over the gold, then added, “And her birthday’s coming up. She’s gonna need her own set of wheels.”
FORTY-NINE
The following week, a large crowd assembled at the Conch Harbor Marina. The cluster of people centered around the small pavilion that Jack had been working on the past few months. Our beach bum friend stood center stage, a megaphone in one hand and a beer in the other. An object shrouded in a blanket rested at his back.
“We’re here tonight to celebrate the legacy of Gus Henderson,” Jack proclaimed into the megaphone. “His family founded this marina, and Gus was a vital member of this community for years. Above all, Gus was a friend, and a great one at that.”
He set his beer on the handrail beside him, grabbed the edge of the blanket, then slid it free. I smiled when I saw it. The bronze statue was a true likeness. The short, chubby marina owner was depicted wearing his usual flip-flops, sunglasses, and his favorite ballcap. He stood with one leg up on a buoy and his eyes directed out over the horizon. True to Gus’s demeanor, the sculptor had put a big smile on his face.
We cheered and hollered and raised our drinks.
After the statue reveal, much of the group migrated over to Pete’s for live music and a big buffet-style seafood dinner. It was a fitting celebration, and one hell of a way to spend a Friday night.
Two days later, Scarlett’s sophomore year of high school came to an end. She’d enjoyed her few months of public school but relished the idea of spending more time with Ange and me.
We spent the following weeks falling back into our normal island routine. When July 21 rolled around, we celebrated Scarlett’s sixteenth birthday. In the morning, we gave her her gifts, her favorite being a new pole spear, along with a new wetsuit and long freediving fins. Anything but typical teenaged girl stuff. Then we let her pick the agenda all day. Needless to say, most of the daylight hours were spent zipping around the islands, checking out some of her favorite spots and showing her new ones.
We ate dinner on the Baia with some of the friends she’d made at school, and Pete stopped by to say happy birthday and to give her a present. It was a copy of The Old Man and the Sea.
“The fact that you share your birthday with Papa Hemingway,” Pete said, “is even more of a sign that you belong here with us in the Conch Republic.”
After dinner, and as the sun began to set, the three of us drove home with Atticus in Scarlett’s
