“And Milly, the trailer-trash prom queen – complete with tiara,” Cold Cuts snickered.
“Tsk...amateur,” I sneered and shook my head playfully, then grabbed a mug from the cupboard and picked up the coffee carafe.
“Oh! Oh!” Cold Cuts cried, wiggling on her stool like the class know-it-all. “I have to tell you this, Val!”
“What?”
“I was working on the set of a nude scene last week, and all I could think about was that time Milly was in the RV. You know, the time when she put that pubic wig on her face and wore it like a beard!”
“Oh my word!” I said, my hand poised to pour the coffee. “Poor Milly. I thought she was going to lose it.”
Cold Cuts jumped off the stool and ran around, flailing her arms wildly. “Help! Get it off me, get it off me!”
“Ha ha! The merkin jerk!” I laughed so hard I splashed more coffee onto the counter than into the mug. “Poor Milly....she’s sworn me to secrecy on that one, you know.”
“Who could blame her?” Cold Cuts snickered and sat back on her stool. She glanced at the mess I’d made. “You’d never make it as a waitress,” she said as I wiped up the spilled coffee.
“Believe it or not, I’ve been told that before.”
I handed her the mug of coffee and the toaster popped up.
“Right on cue,” Cold Cuts said.
I put the pastries on a plate and was in the middle of handing them to Cold Cuts when Tom shrieked out my name. Startled, I dropped the plate. Cold Cuts made a quick save.
“What’s going on?” she asked.
“I dunno!”
“Val!” Tom called again from the back door. He stumbled into the kitchen, his face marred with concern.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“Goober just called. Jorge’s having a meltdown.”
“What do you mean, Tom? What happened?”
“Winky happened, that’s what,” Tom snapped. “Goober told me Winky found Jorge at the dining room table, asleep over his study papers.”
“So?”
“Well, Winky thought he’d have a little fun waking him up.”
My face filled with dread. “Uh oh.”
“Exactly,” Tom said. “According to Goober, Winky sneaked up behind Jorge and tapped him on the shoulder. When he woke up and turned around, Winky was standing there in a ski mask. He shot Jorge in the face with a water pistol.”
“Oh no!” I cried. “What happened?”
Tom shook his head. “Jorge punched Winky in the face, then locked himself in the bathroom. Goober said it’s like ‘babysitting a barroom brawl’ over there right now.”
“When are those guys ever gonna grow up?”
“Probably never,” Tom said. “Geeze. I really want Jorge to get back on his feet.”
“We all do.”
Tom looked me in the eye and his face softened. “Yeah, I know. But Val, all that pressure of the exams tomorrow. It’s bad enough for a normal....” Tom stopped himself. “You know what I mean. I’m not sure Jorge can take it. Not with those bozos over there making things even harder for him.”
“What can I do?” I asked.
Tom looked me in the eye. “I hate to say it, Val, but...I think I should stay with him. Just through the exams. Would you be upset if I didn’t –”
“Oh, crap, Tom! I don’t want to go to the beach without you.”
“It’s too late to cancel the reservations, Val. It would be a waste for someone not to go.”
“That really sucks,” Cold Cuts said.
I’d forgotten she was there. I looked over just in time to see her take a big bite of Pop-tart.
“I know,” Tom said to Cold Cuts. “Why don’t you go in my place?”
“What?” Cold Cuts mumbled through a mouthful of Pop-tart.
“Just for a day or two,” Tom explained. He turned back to face me. “Jorge’s exams are tomorrow, Val. I could try to come after that, or first thing the next morning.”
“Tom...,” I started.
“This is important, Val. You know as well as I do I can’t leave Jorge to fend for himself over there.”
My gut slumped. “I know. You’re right.” I turned to Cold Cuts. “Are you free? Can you come?”
Cold Cuts showed us her blueberry-stained teeth. “Sure. I can do it.”
“Okay, then,” I said. A thought hit me. “But crap! How would we get there? I’m afraid to drive Shabby Maggie. She’s been acting up lately.”
“No problem,” Cold Cuts said between slurps of coffee. “We can take Glad’s trusty old RV.”
“ROAD TRIP!” COLD CUTS cheered as the vintage RV coughed and sputtered its way out of my driveway.
“Are you sure the old girl can make it?” I asked as I looked in the vanity mirror. The earrings from Winnie and Winky dangled from my lobes.
“Sure. She’s just a little cranky in the morning.”
“I can understand that. I hope she can make it over the Sunshine Skyway Bridge.”
“She’s done it before,” Cold Cuts said, and patted the dashboard. “Just need to make sure she’s only half full of gas.”
Great. “Once you get to the next stop sign, turn left.”
“I’ve got this, Val. Relax. I’ve been down to Sarasota a time or two.”
“Oh. Okay, then. I’ll leave you to it.” I looked out the window and watched Laverne’s house slowly disappear. “Hey. Since you’ve got it all under control, do you mind if I just take a look around in the back? For old time’s sake?”
Cold Cuts smiled. “Knock yourself out.”
I squeezed Cold Cuts shoulder as I climbed out of my seat, then fumbled through the short hallway into the main cabin of the RV. It was almost unrecognizable from when I’d last seen it. Cold Cuts had painted the old brown paneling a cool, apple green. Bags full of costumes and wigs and shoes hung from hooks along the walls, crowding the already tiny space as they swayed gently in tune with the motion of Cold Cuts’ hand on the steering wheel.
Curious, I opened a small cabinet above the tiny, two-burner stove. A glittery dragonfly sticker stared back at me from the inside corner of the cupboard door. Like a magical time portal, the dragonfly triggered a flashback to the first time I’d stepped foot inside the RV. At the time, the old Minnie Winnie had been wedged in amongst a mountain of trashed appliances and household rubbish in the backyard of a house owned by a dead hoarder named Tony Goldrich. It was part of the lifetime of accumulated detritus left behind by him and his wife, Gladys.
Back then, nearly every surface of the old RV’s interior had been plastered with stickers and magazine cutouts of dragonflies. Gladys had gone a little nuts over losing their only child. But, thinking back on it now, I don’t think she ever gave up hope of finding her one day. Why else would she have left a thousand crazy clues all over the place? The dragonflies were little beacons, staring anyone in the face who was determined enough to put two-and-two together.
As fate would have it, that person had been me.
Against all odds, I’d been given a chance to get to know Gladys (Glad) Goldrich before she’d died. I’d literally stumbled upon her at Sunset Beach, just when I’d desperately needed a friend. She been that for me with no reservations – despite the fact that I, at first, avoided her like the plague. She’d worn down my resistance with her unshakeable good humor and total acceptance of me, warts and all.
A sudden realization sent a chill down my spine. If she hadn’t reached out, I wouldn’t have. And I wouldn’t be standing here now.
If Glad hadn’t spoken to me that fateful Mother’s Day, I’d have never gotten to know her. And I’d have never cared enough about her to go rifling through her things after she and her husband died. I’d have never found that broken piece of a dragonfly pendant. I’d have never discovered that their long-lost daughter was actually me....
My fingers found the dragonfly pendant on the chain around my neck and thought of Glad. My skin prickled to gooseflesh, and an imag
e of Glad at the beach overwhelmed my mind. There she was, a skinny old lady with arms and legs as dark and leathery as Slim Jims, sprawled out in that cheap pink beach lounger of hers. Those red, lipstick-smeared lips smiling at me. The reflection of the sun and sand shining from her black, bug-eyed sunglasses.
In my mind, she hoisted a quart-sized can of Fosters in the air and said, “Screw you, kiddo!”
I twirled the dragonfly pendant between my fingers, then let it go. “I miss you, Glad,” I whispered.
“Hey, what’s going on back there?” Cold Cuts called out from the driver’s cabin. “Mitts off the merkins!”
I smiled, kissed my fingertip and touched it to the glittery dragonfly sticker. As I closed the cabinet door I whispered, “Thanks for leading me to a new friend, mom.”
Chapter Six
“Whoa, man, this place is swanky!” Cold Cuts said as we pulled up to the ‘Guest Arrival Center’ at the Sunset Sail-Away Beach Resort. She cut the ignition. The old RV shuddered, belched black smoke and coughed itself out.
“I know,” I said. “It actually looks like the webpage. That’s a first.”
Cold Cuts twisted her upper lip. “Geeze. If I’d known how nice this place was, I’d have taken the old gal through a car wash first.”
“Oh my!” I said, looking past Cold Cuts through the driver’s side window pane.
A young, tan, Brad Pitt lookalike in a Hawaiian shirt and khaki shorts walked up and tapped on Cold Cut’s window.
“Hello, ladies! May I help you with your luggage?”
Cold Cuts gave him a quick once-over and turned to me and said, “I like this place already. Look, Val, all my stuff’s in the back. Stall this guy, would you, while I throw a bag together?”
“No problem.” I motioned to the young Adonis. “Meet me at the side door.” He nodded and I ambled over to the place I’d stowed my old blue suitcase. Meanwhile, Cold Cuts scurried around in the cabin, picking through bags and digging through drawers like a robber high on Red Bull and crack.
My old suitcase looked dirty and scuffed and not up to snuff as I handed it to the shiny, ridiculously handsome young porter. If he thought so, too, he didn’t let on one iota.
“And the other young lady?” he asked as he set the suitcase down on the ground beside him. He tried to peek inside the RV, but I stepped out and closed the side door behind me.
“She’ll be coming in a minute,” I said to him cheerfully. “So, where do we check in?”
“Follow me, beautiful,” the suave Chippendales shoo-in said, and flashed me another of his devastating smiles. If I’d had a nickel between my teeth, I’d have bitten right through it.
He led me through a pair of carved mahogany doors that soared ten feet high. Inside, the lobby looked like something out of a 1950’s film involving Elvis and Hawaii. Comfy-looking rattan chairs and sofas upholstered in tropical fabrics were nestled in groups around potted palms and bamboo cocktail tables. The walls were covered in vintage Hawaiian memorabilia and retro paintings of surfers hanging ten off crystal blue, churning waves as high as mountains. Nothing about the place said “Florida.” But what the heck. I saw Florida every day.
“Here we are,” the porter said. “The reception desk. Monty will take good care of you, now.” He flashed his diamond smile at me patiently and steadily, until I got the hint and pressed a five-dollar bill into his palm. “Thank you, miss,” the porter said, and winked. Being called ‘miss’ instead of ‘ma’am’ had been worth the entire fiver.
“Good afternoon! Don’t you look lovely,” Monty the desk clerk said in the posh, English accent of a snooty butler on PBS. Probably in his early forties, the thin, balding man’s voice denoted a cheerfulness so practiced and smooth I almost fell for it. “You must be Ms. Foreman?”
“Fremden,” I corrected with a weak smile.
“Oh. Pardon me,” Monty said. He flashed a pained, uneven-toothed smile that added credibility to the case for him being authentically British. Unlike the porter, Monty was dressed primly in a dark blue business suit. “I hope you found young Brad’s services up to your standards.”
“His name is Brad?”
“Yes, miss. Is that a problem? We can change it.”
“No. Not at all.”
“Good. We have you and your partner in cottage number 22, the honeymoon cabana. Congratulations on your impending nuptials.”
“What?” I said, my gut suddenly tightening. “Wait a minute. We’re not getting –”
“Oh, come on, sugar!” Cold Cuts’ voice rang out behind me. Her slender hand inched around my waist. “We don’t have to pretend here.”
Dumbfounded, my lips scrunched together and nearly met my nose. But I kept my mouth shut. Monty smiled at us as if we were the cutest pair of puppies he’d ever seen. Then he looked down at his computer and said, “Hmmm.”
My mind played a sound like a needle scratching across spinning vinyl.
“My apologies, ladies. There seems to be a problem with your room. It’s not quite...ready.”
I let out a sigh big enough to blow up a balloon.
Cold Cuts kissed me on the cheek. “Aww, honey, it’ll be all right.”
Monty shot me a quick glance and looked back down at his computer. He punched a few buttons. “Did I say problem? My mistake, ladies! There are no ‘problems’ at the Sunset Sail-Away Beach Resort. Only happy-day solutions.”
I threw up a little in my mouth. Eagle-eyed Monty noticed. He switched the focus of his sugary placations to the customer in front of him who appeared more receptive. “Miss Foreman?” he asked Cold Cuts.
“Sure,” Cold Cuts said with a smirk.
“On behalf of Sunset Sail-Away Beach Resort, I’d like to offer you and your...uh, partner...complimentary cocktails at the beachside cabana bar,” Monty said. “Please, allow us the honor of preparing your room as you while away an hour strolling the white-sand beach with your favorite libation. Sound good?”
Cold Cuts elbowed me and whispered, “Libation, huh? That’s a funny name for a porter.”
“What was that, miss?” Monty asked.
“Sounds fantastic,” Cold Cuts said. Monty smiled that painful smile again and went back to fiddling with the computer.
“Behave!” I whispered to Cold Cuts. “The porter’s name is Brad.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Nope.”
“Very good, then,” Monty said. “It’s all arranged. Here are your free cocktail passes.” He slid two tokens across the reception desk toward us.
Cold Cuts grabbed the tokens. “So, Monty, can we stow our luggage with you?”
“Certainly, miss.”
“Thanks. Here you go.” Cold Cuts reached over the reception desk and handed Monty two plastic grocery bags stuffed with who knows what. From one bag, a pair of pink panties clung precariously to a squashed tube of toothpaste.
Monty smiled weakly. “Very good, miss.” He reached out and took each bag between a pinched thumb and index finger like a well-dressed, fastidious crab.
I stifled a smirk and bobbed my head to the left. “My suitcase is over there. The blue one.”
Monty gamboled a quick glance at my beat-up case. With Herculean effort, he managed an ingratiating fake smile. “Perfect. I’ll shall see to your luggage, ladies. Please enjoy your time at the cabana bar. You’ll find it out those doors.” Monty motioned with his head, since his hands were fully occupied holding sacks of Cold Cuts’ unmentionables. “Simply follow the path toward the beach. You can’t miss it.”
“Thank you, Monty,” Cold Cuts said sweetly. “And please, be careful with my luggage. It’s a matched set, you know.”
“YOU ARE ROTTEN TO THE core, Cold Cuts!” I laughed as the lobby door closed behind us.
“You love it. Admit it!” she giggled. She stuck her nose in the air in an imitation of Monty. “Very good, miss!”
“Okay. I admit it.” I snickered. I took a deep breath and let the sweet, salty smell of the Gulf of Mexico fil
l my lungs. “Ahhh! We’re here!”
“We sure are,” Cold Cuts agreed.
I studied her for a moment, and a sudden wave envious nostalgia washed over me. Cold Cuts reminded me of myself – albeit, a thinner, twenty-year younger version. “I’m looking forward to getting to know you better,” I said.
“I should hope so,” she winked. “After all, we’re on our honeymoon.”
“Pardon me, ladies,” Brad the porter said as he rushed by, heading for the cabana bar.
I rolled my eyes. “Great. So, what do you want to do now?”
“I don’t know about you,” Cold Cuts said, “but I envision a margarita in my near future.”
I grinned. “Funny you should say that. I had the same premonition.”
I followed Cold Cuts along a winding, sandy path that cut through a veritable forest of tropical foliage. On either side of the main path, every thirty feet or so, we saw side trails numbered with little wooden signs. Some offered scattered glimpses of thatched roof cottages tucked away in their own lush, private settings. Soon, we were so close to the Gulf I could hear the gentle surf and the sharp cries of seagulls.
“How romantic!” Cold Cuts said, trying to peek over a hibiscus hedge. “This really is the perfect place for a honeymoon.”
“Honeymoon,” said a man’s gravelly voice behind us.
Startled, I twirled around. Standing less than two feet away was a man dressed from head to toe in what appeared to be some pretty serious fishing attire. Atop his head was a floppy hat with a shroud of netting obscuring his face like a beekeeper’s getup. Khaki-colored pants and a long-sleeved shirt covered everything else but his bare hands and feet. The pockets of his camouflage vest poked out as if stuffed to the gills with cotton. A red tackle box hung from one hand, a fishing rod from the other. He could have been mistaken for an ichthyologist from planet Redneckopia.
“Hello,” I offered. “Are you staying here?”
“Hard-bodied grubs,” the man muttered, then pushed past us and disappeared into the dense foliage.
“Weird,” I said.
Fifty is the New F-Word Page 4