Copyright © 2000 Joan McIver. All rights reserved. 

    No rain for a month.

    The Florida ground felt hard and dry. Shoved beneath the corner of the old clapboard cottage, the pile of leaves, twigs and scraps of paper looked ready for a barbecue. A squirt of lighter fluid and the touch of a burning match made it happen.

    Screams shattered Juno Milloy's foggy dream. She heard Richie screaming. She felt him shaking her shoulders, pulling her arms, yelling, fire, fire. Suddenly awake, Juno opened her eyes and stared into her son's terrified eyes.

    "Mom, the house is on fire. You gotta get up."

    She saw the flickering orange glow dancing outside the window. "My God, we've got to get out of here, fast."

    Juno jumped from bed, grabbed her son's hand. Together they straggled to the front door. Locked.

    "The key, Mom. Get the key or we're cooked." Richie kicked and pushed. The door wouldn't yield. Smoke billowed into the dark room. Filled with dread, Juno ran her shaking hands alongside the door frame. She felt the house keys dangling from a hook. Trembling, she shoved the antique skeleton key into the lock and turned.

    The door flew open. Mother and son stumbled down three front steps, gulped the fresh, night air and darted across the lawn. In the distance, they heard the wail of sirens; then saw the glare of flashing lights as the fire truck screeched into their yard.

    Juno prayed silently that the old house and shell shop could be saved. Little better than an old Cracker shack, this had been her childhood home, rich in memories. Now it was a safe haven for her and her 14-year old son, escapees from a traumatic divorce. Here, she had hoped to keep Richie safe from the influence of his father in Miami.

    "Thanks for waking me up." Juno gave Richie a squeeze and a kiss on the forehead. "Thanks, Big Guy for saving us."

    Richie shrugged off his mother's embrace, then wide eyed with excitement, ran to the fire truck and climbed aboard.

    "Hey, boy, get back with your Mom," one of the firefighters called.

    Instead the teen sat and watched the firefighters battle the blaze. Juno's grandparents had built the tin-roofed house and shell shop some sixty years ago on a sparsely settled spit of land near the Gulf of Mexico on Florida's southwest coast. Built of cypress wood, the house perched on concrete pilings at the edge of a lagoon. Its front faced a narrow causeway that connected mainland Florida to Mariposa Isle and to Sandy Shoes, a sprawling resort at the tip of the island.

    "Mom, the house is a real mess." Richie straggled back to her side carrying a wet and squirming cat in his arms. "I found old Tootsie hiding in the bushes. Lucky, she's an outside cat. What are we going to do now?"

    Juno had no answer. She shivered in the cool night air. Marylou Olsen, a firefighter Juno had known since childhood, wrapped blankets around her and Richie.

    "Well, there's nothing more we can do here tonight. The house is still standing," Marylou said. "We're finished but I'm taking you two over to Sandy Shoes for the night."

    "No, not Sandy Shoes," Juno groaned. "They don't like me and I hate that place. I've had nothing but trouble since they took over the island. You know how much they want me out of here."

    "Honey, it's the only place in town. You gotta stay somewhere."

    "Richie's dripping wet. I'm a grubby mess. I smell like a smokehouse. They won't let us in the door. They want us gone -- out -- dead."

    Beneath the blanket Juno stood barefoot and rumpled in her usual night wear -- a Gator t-shirt and shorts, in the University of Florida's vivid orange and green.

    "Doesn't matter," Marylou said. "Howie will understand. Now go get in the truck. We'll have someone watch the place tonight and I'll bring you back here in the morning."

    The resort's 100 acres had once been part of a coconut plantation with tiny workers' cottages shaded by rows and rows of graceful palms. As a child, Juno had played there often. Then the bulldozers had come and ripped out most of the trees to make way for a golf course and pastel villas for tourists, who paid as much as $1,000 a night to stay on the secluded island that rivaled the charms of Sanibel and Captiva islands.

    The resort owners had made it clear that Juno wasn't exactly the kind of neighbor they wanted near their fancy wrought-iron entrance gates. In its glossy brochure, Sandy Shoes had described her shop as "Weathered and worn, a quaint bit of Old Florida."

    They complained loudly to her and to the town officals about the "tacky" banners and the giant, pink plaster conch shell in front of her shop. Howie Randall, the resort's general manager, came over weekly with offers to buy her out. Juno knew Sandy Shoes was gobbling up all the waterfront property on the causeway and Mariposa Isle. The few remaining old timers whispered that big time drug dealers and members of organized crime had bankrolled the resort.

    Despite her loathing for Sandy Shoes, Howie Randall always made Juno look twice. He was maybe 38, a tall, wiry guy who walked and talked in the slow easy manner of someone born in North FLorida. Somehow she sensed his interest in her went beyond real estate. But marriage to Buzz had soured her on men. Still, Juno had to admitted this guy was intriguing.

    Howie was nowhere in sight as the night clerk reluctantly handed Juno a room key and a package that contained soap, toothbrush, toothpaste, brush, comb, pajamas and shorts, shirts and sandals for herself and Richie.

    "Hey, real VIP treatment." Richie, still smeared with ashy grime, jumped on the soft bed covered with a pink comforter.

    "Don't be fooled, They're just trying to get on my good side, soften me up so I can't say no to their offers." Juno ruffled Richie's damp hair with a towel. "I'll be damned if I'll ever sell to them. They'll have to do more than burn me out to get my place. Now get in that shower."

    "But dad says they'll give you a lot of money. He says you could get a big new house. We could get a van and wouldn't have to drive around in that rusty old Chevy."

    "When did your father tell you all this? "Juno demanded.

    "He drove over from Miami yesterday and met me after school."

    "What was he doing here? Spying on us?" she asked. "Well, maybe he's right."

    The old Chevy had sure given her a scare a couple weeks ago. She had a car full of groceries and had driven around to the back door of the cottage. When she tried to stop, the brakes failed. The car rolled straight into the lagoon. The Chevy sank in the murky water. As water poured in, Juno crawled into the back seat, kicked out the rear window and swam to the surface. Drowning in an old car with worn-out brakes or burning to death? Were these accidents? Why were so many bad things happening?

    "Richie, I'm too tired to argue. Let's get some sleep."

    She awoke to the ring of the telephone and the harsh voice of ex-husband Buzz Milloy calling from Miami.

    "Goddamnit Juno, I told you that shack was unsafe. What did you do, leave one of those damn, smelly candles burning? I'm coming right over to get things straightened out. Richie's not safe with a crazy lady like you. I'm bringing him back to Miami where I can protect him."

    "Thanks so much for your concern, Buzzy dear. Bad news certainly reaches your ears fast. Who's your spy? Or have you been snooping around here again?"

    "I'm concerned about my son. I want him back in Miami."

    "Your son is fine, so stay away. If you plan to take him from me, you'll have to step over my dead body to do it."

    "Now there's an idea," Buzz said. "You always were an inspiration to me."

    She slammed down the phone. Enough of Buzz and his threats. Then she realized if anything happened to her, the house and store would go to Richie and he would go back to his father. She could guess what Buzz would do.

    Buzz claimed he missed his family and wanted to get back together. But Juno knew Buzz smelled money. The waterfront property she had inherited was worth plenty. Could Buzz be behind any of this?

    In the morning as she and Richie walked down the causeway towards home, Juno spotted old Sully raking up broken glass and debris.

    "Damn, what's he doing here so early?" she whispered to Richie.

    "Hey, Miss Juno, just thought I'd start cleaning up." He leaned on the rake, squinting at her. "Damn bad luck. But tell you true, this place ain't fitten for you and the boy. Oughta sell it. Of course, when Tess ran it, things were better."

    Sully had been Grandma Tess' shell-collecting, hunched-over, chain-smoking boyfriend. He had taken Juno and Richie under his wrinkled wing though Juno felt he resented their presence. Maybe he thought Tess should have willed the place to him instead of to her granddaughter. He acted like he owned it, always hanging around.

    "Only trying to be helpful," he said. Still, he gave Juno the creeps.

    In the morning sunlight, Juno saw the scars where the flames had bitten into the home's wood frame. She rubbed the scorched wood as if she could erase the grubby smudges and heal the wounds. She picked up a tattered shred of lace from the curtains. Tears slid down her cheeks.

    "It's still sturdy," she told Sully. "It just needs some work, some paint and windows."

    Juno stepped inside. The floor and the bins holding the shells were still wet from the fire hoses. Some shells had spilled on the floor. Juno picked them up carefully. She found the broom, and began to sweep water out the door.

    "Mrs. Milloy?" Fire Chief Ray Don Snively stood by the door. "Got some good news for you. The house did not suffer any structural damage. You can move back in."

    "And the bad news?" Juno sensed he had more to say. "This fire was no accident, was it?

    "By the looks of it, this fire was deliberately set but not by a professional. It's the kind of thing a kid might do."

    "None of the kids around here would do that," Juno snapped.

    "Maybe not but I want to talk to your boy. Maybe he or one of his buddies was smoking or playing with matches under the house."

    "Richie doesn't do that. He wouldn't do anything to hurt this place. Why don't you talk to those folks at Sandy Shoes. They want us out of here."

    "You got any proof of that?" Snively asked. "I'm telling you this was kid stuff. I'm keeping my eyes on your son. Maybe you should too."

    "Aw c'mon chief, this is a good kid," Sully grumbled. "I'm practically kin to this here family. Richie ain't the type of hell raiser to burn down no house. Hell, he don't even smoke."

    Juno patted Sully's shoulder, then thought. Sully smokes. He sneaks around here like he owns the place. He's had a shady past, smuggling marijuana, poaching alligators. Could he hate me?

    All week, Juno scrubbed and cleaned. The shop was almost ship shape when Howie came to call.

    "Where have you been?" Juno asked, surprised and happy to see him. "I wanted to thank you for letting us stay at Sandy Shoes."

    "Glad I could help. I see things are looking better here." Howie walked around the shop inspecting the neat piles of shells, checking the new windows, then leaned on the counter across from her. "I have something special for you my dear. A real sweetheart deal. You'd get enough money to open a fancy new store on the mainland."

    "The answer's still no." Juno said, wishing he wasn't on the side of the enemy. "Tell your boss this is my home and I am here to stay. Get used to it."

    "Don't be so hostile, I'm only the go-between here. Personally, I'd love to see us get together,"

    So would she but Howie would never understand how much this building meant to her. She had inherited the ramshackle house and tiny business and even her name from her grandmother. She remembered how Tess, a dedicated shell collector, scoured the beach looking for special shells like rare and delicate Junonia that sometimes washed ashore on Mariposa Key. It was Tess who insisted that her granddaughter be named Junonia.

    With the shop reopened for business, life returned to a quieter pace. Only Richie worried her. Word of the fire chief's suspicions had spread through the small community. Classmates no longer came around. Richie didn't say much. He moped about the house after school, half-heartedly helping Juno in the shop or spending hours in his room.

    "Look at what you've done to my son," said Buzz, who came by to take Richie fishing. "He's sullen, won't even talk to me. He's setting fires. He's running wild and I hold you to blame. I'm going to court to get Richie back."

    Richie had listened to the harangue without saying anything.

    "He can't do that, can he, Mom?" he asked later. "Cause I'll never live with him."

    After a busy weekend, Juno noticed money missing from the cash register when a customer needed $27 change from a fifty. Juno only found $10 in the cash drawer. She had to borrow change from Sully. Day after day, the cash drawer kept coming up short.

    "Hell, Juno, boys his age are bound to get into a little mischief now and then," Sully said. "I ain't going to tell you what I used to do. Cut him some slack."

    Could this be one of Sully's tricks? He always needed money for smokes and beer. A broken kitchen window and meaningless graffiti sprayed on the plaster conch shell out front she blamed on rowdy teens. Still something was going on with her son and it wasn't good.

    Coming into the shop at dusk with her arms full of groceries, Juno felt the crunch of broken shells as she walked across the floor. Turning on the light, she saw the glitter of broken glass from the shattered display case that held her childhood collection. Bits and pieces of shells were scattered like pink and white confetti on the floor.

    "Oh, damn, damn, damn; this has gone too far." Her head spun with fury.

    Richie stood in the doorway, a hammer in his hand. Juno ran and grabbed him by the shoulders and shook his scrawny frame.

    "Why Richie? Why? How could you do this to me?"

    "Mom, I didn't," he said breaking loose from her grip. "I was hanging my Dolphin pennant on the wall when I heard something break out here. Okay, don't believe me but I didn't do it." He dropped the hammer and ran to his room.

    She had cried for hours, mourning the loss of trust between them. She knew someone wanted her out of the house? The resort people? Buzz? Sully? Who? She had to figure it out.

    Early next morning, still groggy from lack of sleep, Juno opened the back door to feed Tootsie, always waiting on the steps.

    "Here, kitty," she called. "Time for breakfast."

    She reached down to pet the cat, then recoiled. Even in the dim morning she could see this lump of brown fur was no cat. A raccoon, its neck slashed, blood oozing in its soft brown fur, lay on the steps. Nausea made her dizzy. She shut her eyes tight trying to squeeze the ugly vision from her mind. One thing she knew, Richie could never harm an animal. Never.

    But Sully -- the hunter, the poacher -- animals meant nothing to him or Buzz, the macho gun and knife collector who delighted in shooting snakes and squirrels; they were capable of this.

    She fought the urge to throw up. She had to get this mess cleaned up before her son or anyone else saw the mutilated animal.

    She found a cardboard box and a blue towel in the shop. Taking a deep breath, she wrapped the towel around the limp raccoon and rolled it into the box. She hosed the blood, fur and guts off the back steps. She found a rusty garden trowel in the utility shed. Grandma Tess' old plot of azaleas would have to do as a burial ground. She dug quickly. Tootsie strolled from the bushes, sniffed the box and then nuzzled Juno's arm.

    After burying the animal, she knew she had to get away. She ran to Richie's room. "Get up, sleepy head, we're going to the beach. We've got some shelling to do."

    Since childhood, Mariposa Isle had always been her sanctuary, the place to think and sort through her problems.

    In the morning light, the speck of land floated against a backdrop of pearly clouds like a stage set for a mythical tropical island. The outboard motor's putt-putt disturbed the meditation of a great blue heron standing at water's edge. Its broad wings flapped and the bird sailed low across the lagoon. Watching its easy flight boosted her flagging spirits. She turned to smile at Richie, who was peering down into the clear, dark water at a school of silvery mullet. Driftwood and a glistening mosaic of seashells littered Mariposa's beach.

    "Looks like a great day for shelling," she grinned at Richie, who was smearing his face with suntan lotion. "We'll find some real treasures today. It's about time we had some luck."

    The boat edged close to shore. Jumping into the shallow water, Richie pulled the skiff close to land while Juno tilted the outboard and tied the line to a mangrove tree.

    "Where you want me to take all this stuff, Mom?" Richie asked, his thin, freckled hands piling the buckets, blanket, cooler and thermos on the sand.

    "Follow me," Juno said. "We'll leave the cooler and blankets under the palms while we walk the beach. Keep your eyes open for sea pens and scallops with good colors and some cone shells."

    Richie grabbed a bucket and walked ahead, hopping over shell piles. He pointed to the hunched shapes of other shell collectors, stooping to pick up shells.

    "Mom, don't they look like buffaloes grazing on the prairie?" Soon he was stooping too, picking up one shell or discarding another. He poked through shell piles as they each wandered down the beach deep in shell-hunting concentration.

    "Hey, Mom, look what I found. What is it?" He held it up for her inspection; a shiny, white univalve, about four inches long, delicately spiraled and etched with rows of brown spots.

    "We'll have to check the books when we go back. But I think you've hit the jackpot. It might be a Junonia," Juno said, turning the shell in her hand, checking to make sure it was empty. It’s pointed tip accidentally nicked the top of her finger. "Ouch, that's sharp. But finding this shells seems like a good omen to me."

    Glancing up the beach, she spotted Howie walking toward them."

    What's he doing here? He's never shown any interest in shelling." Any other time, she might have been happy to see him. Today she wanted to give Richie all her attention. Besides her son disliked Howie.

    "Well if it isn't the beauteous Juno Milloy," Howie said, crouching down beside her. "This is my lucky day, I had to show some guests our glorious isle and its treasures."

    Juno felt him lean towards her.

    "Nice tan but let’s see if I count count all those freckles on your shoulders. One, two, three...." His fingers brushed across her skin and she felt a shiver of delight.

    With trembling hands she scooped up a clump of shells entangled in a fish line. Howie pulled a diving knife from the belt of his chino shorts and cut them free.

    "Anything interesting?" he asked, as he raked the sand with his knife. "Frankly, my dear I can't tell a clam from a conch."

    "Goober brains," Richie said softly. "Even a two-year-old knows what a clam shell is."

    Howie gave Richie a phony smile. "Smart ass," he said, then turned his attention back to Juno. "Listen I'm damn sorry I haven't come by the shop lately. Everything okay?"

    "What do you care?" Juno said. "You wish we weren't there at all. Was burning me out your idea?" Juno didn't want to sound so bitter -- but seeing him always made her lose her cool. She had to fight the attraction she felt for him.

    "You don't really believe I had anything to do with that, do you?" he said. "You think all I do is sit in my fancy office, mapping out some kind of vicious strategy to get your land? Personally, I like having you around." Juno had to laugh.

    "Listen," Howie said stroking her arm. "Maybe you shouldn't trust that old gin-swilling geezer that hangs around your place so much. I hear he expected your grandma to leave the place to him. Then you and the boy showed up and ruined lover boy's plan."

    "Good going, Howie, slandering my friends is a sure way to make me happy. Come on, Richie, we have some shelling to do."

    Without warning, Richie gave Howie a push, toppling him into the sand. Angry and embarrassed, Richie grabbed the bucket of shells, raced to the skiff and took off, leaving Juno stranded on Mariposa Key.

    "Nice boy, Juno. But he did me a favor. Now you'll have to ride back with me." Juno fumed all the way home. She was angry at Richie, at Howie and herself. She hated getting help from Howie. What did he suspect about Sully? She had to admit she didn't trust the old beach bum much either.

    When the launch reached her place, she was so relieved to see that Richie had tied her boat neatly to the dock that she didn't object to Howie taking her hand as they walked to the house.

    "Richie, I'm home." No answer. Howie followed her inside as she looked for her son. She heard a noise in the shop. Someone was in there. She opened the door quietly and surprised Sully cleaning the Junonia shell, getting it ready for display.

    "Sully, what are you doing here? Juno asked as her heart did double time. "Where's Richie? Where did you get that shell?"

    "Why, Miss Juno, I'm straightening up a little; you know I love to fuss with the shells and I found this shell on the counter. Being in here reminds me of the good times Tess and I used to have."

    "Don't listen to that old wreck," Howie interrupted. "He's the one set the fire and killed the raccoon. He's the one who wants to you to leave. Sandy Shoes promised him a payoff if he gets you out. He's probably done something to Richie, too."

    Frightened, Juno could only plead. "Sully, where is Richie? Please tell me where Richie is."

    "I thought he went to the beach with you," Sully said. "I didn't see him come back. You know I wouldn't hurt that boy, Miss Juno. You two make me feel like family. Yeah, Sandy Shoes said they'd give me money. But that fire was started by someone a lot nastier than me."

    Howie grabbed Juno's arm. "Come on, let's find the kid," Howie said. "Look, this old fool's got the Junonia Richie found on the beach. He must have done something to the kid."

    Wait a minute, Juno thought -- Howie claimed he didn't know anything about shells. Why is he lying?

    "I’d never hurt that boy," Sully said, raising his fist to Howie. "Juno, ask this guy about the marina. them resort folks wants to build for deep sea fishing boats right here in your back yard. They'll tear down the house, cut the trees, mess up the water. Down at Hank's Bar, I heard some guys talking about it. The word is, Howie will lose his job if you don't sell."

    Juno turned slowly toward Howie. The raccoon? I never told anyone-- not Sully, not Richie, not Howie. "A marina, You never mentioned anything about a marina.? You started the fire. You wanted us dead. I'm going to the police as soon as I find Richie."

    Then Juno heard the back door open.

    "What's happening, dudes?" Richie asked. Howie grabbed the boy as he stepped into the room. He pointed his diving knife at the boy's throat.

    "Well Juno, are you ready to make a deal now?" Howie asked. "We tried to do it right, give you a chance to make some money. But my bosses are tired of being patient. I've got to speed things up. Sorry you didn't get the message."

    Richie tried to squirm free. Howie tightened his grip and pricked the boy’s skin with the knife, sending a thin line of blood down Richie's neck.

    "Don't hurt him," Juno said. "We can talk, work out a deal, whatever you want. I know you don't want to hurt a kid. You can have the place. Do what you want. Let Richie go."

    While she talked, she watched Sully's hand inch along the counter and find the weapon he wanted. He stabbed the Junonia shell hard into Howie's forehead, just above the left eye. It's pointed edge cut a deep groove. Blood gushed from the wound. Howie swayed, dropping the knife. Richie jabbed his elbow into Howie's ribs and broke free.

    Sully scooped the knife from the floor. He pushed the blade against Howie's gut. Juno grabbed a heavy conch shell and bashed it on the side of Howie's head. He slumped to the floor while Richie dialed 911.

    Next day, Juno made some changes. She hired Sully on a regular basis, ordered more conch shells and changed the name of the shop to Junonia Junction. Nothing tacky about that.