by Webb, Peggy
“I don’t think that’s a good idea. But who am I to give love advice?”
“Exactly.”
“That was tacky, Lovie.”
“I’m a tacky, shallow person.”
“You’re not. Just impulsive. And headstrong. And bossy.”
She throws her second roll at me. But only after she takes a big bite.
The only good thing I can say about Lovie’s leaving Rocky today is that she won’t have time to implement Mama’s seduction strategy.
Our hotel in Cozumel is right on the water, and Lovie heads straight for the beach. I’m torn between going shopping with Mama and Fayrene, who have a hankering to check out the Mexican silver, and chasing after Lovie, who has a penchant for trouble.
Lovie wins. By the time I can get Elvis properly watered and walked, she’s already sprawled in a lounge chair collecting umbrellas. The tiny paper kind that come in those tall drinks that have enough tequila—and no telling what else—to knock out a three hundred pound elephant.
“Lovie, how many of those have you had?”
“Who’s counting? Besides, I’m in mourning.”
“For what?”
“The death of Rocky’s libido.”
“I’m sure that’s not true, Lovie.”
“How else would you explain his failure to succumb to the most voluptuous caterer in Mississippi? I’ve a good mind to march back over there and give him a piece of my mind.”
“It’ll be hard to march to Tulum unless you can walk on water.”
“If you’re not careful, you’re going to turn into a smartass like me.”
“If you care to remember, we crossed on the ferry.”
Lovie shades her eyes and sticks out her tongue. “Pull up a chair, Callie. Get a tan. Get a drink. And get another one for me, too.”
“Just one. And then we should walk a bit and see the island. I noticed some really neat shops down at the pier. What’s the drink called?”
“Tropical Double Trouble.”
“Why am I not surprised?”
I head to the small beach bar and order two drinks.
“Go light on the tequila,” I say.
The bartender grins, which could mean anything from okay to I don’t understand a word you’re saying to forget it.
I think it meant the last one because the drink tastes suspiciously strong.
“Hmmm, good.” Lovie pulls her sunglasses down and peers at me over the rims. “Do you think Rocky’s in love with Juanita?”
“He can’t even look at anybody but you, Lovie. Why on earth would you say that?”
“Because she’s in love with him. You ought to see the way she acts around Rocky. Like some lovesick puppy.” She pats Elvis. “No offense, pal.”
“Even if the maid is in love with him, Rocky’s not a player.”
“Rosita’s in love with him, too. The twin tarts. You ought to see the way they make eyes at him.”
“You’ve got to be kidding. The cook? She’s too severe to love herself, let alone Rocky.”
“If they keep on flirting with my man, I’m going to send them back where they came from in tar and feathers.”
“I think you’ve had too much to drink, Lovie.”
“I don’t think you’ve had enough.”
“Maybe you’re right. But no more of that silly talk, please. I want to relax and watch the water.”
By the time I’ve finished my drink, I’m almost too sleepy to stand up and shop for shoes. But the sun has not set, the market is nearby, and I have a deep need to soothe my sagging spirits.
I place my tiny paper umbrella on the table beside Lovie’s collection. She’s already half asleep and Elvis is snoozing beside her chair.
“Lovie, do you mind keeping an eye on Elvis? I think I’ll try to find Fayrene and Mama. And maybe a cute pair of espadrilles.”
“Go on. Relax, enjoy.” She gives me a lazy wave without even opening her eyes.
“You’re sure you’ll be all right?”
“If I were any better, they’d have to throw a parade in my honor.”
I pet my dog, tell him to watch after my cousin, then head back across the beach. When I reach the sidewalk, I look back to see Lovie and Elvis right where I left them, snoozing in the sun.
I head toward the market on the pier, but not without the niggling feeling that something is amiss. What, I don’t know. Maybe it’s something back home.
I pull out my cell phone and call Champ.
“Callie, how wonderful to hear your voice. How are you?”
Our connection is surprisingly good. He sounds like he’s around the corner instead of in Mississippi.
“I’m good.” My next thought is to ask about my animals, but shouldn’t I have something more to talk about with Champ than the care and feeding of seven stray cats? Well, they’re not so stray since I gave them names. Still... “How’s the weather back home?”
Oh, great. Now that’s a subject for lovers.
Except we’re not lovers. Yet. Just potential with a capital P.
“Splendid. I took Hoyt for a romp and six of your Seven Dwarf cats are lolling in the gazebo in the sunshine. Happy is chasing butterflies.”
“She’s so cute.”
“All your pets are healthy, happy, and well adjusted. You’re a good animal mother, Callie.”
“Thanks, Champ. I feel like you’ve given me a mother-ofthe-year award.”
There’s a silence on his end. “You know I want children, Callie. I hope you’ll think about my proposal while you’re gone.”
“I will. I promise.”
“Good. I’d like a yes when you get back, but I won’t pressure you. I know you still have legal work to finish with Jack.”
I wish he hadn’t mentioned my almost-ex’s name. It’s impossible to think about Jack in the same sentence as a proposal from Luke Champion without feeling like I’m being squeezed in a lemonade press.
“Listen, I have to go, Champ. Lovie’s in charge of Elvis, and I don’t want to leave her too long.”
Which is not exactly a lie.
I hurry along the water’s edge, admiring the huge Carnival cruise ship docked at the pier. The shops are clustered in a small grouping at the end of the long pier so tourists can’t help but spill into the market.
I go into the first shop I find and come out with a little pair of yellow espadrilles that will look great with my favorite sundress. Feeling like a better human being, I meander among the Mexican silver and Mayan masks until I find Uncle Charlie.
As usual, he’s patiently waiting for Mama (and Fayrene, of course). They’re inside a shop that sells everything from faux Mayan pottery to real island tequila, of all things. Naturally, Mama is looking at the tequila.
I sit on a wooden bench outside the store beside Uncle Charlie. “Maybe I ought to go in there and steer Mama toward something else.”
“Let her have her fun. She hasn’t had that much fun since Michael died.”
That’s a new twist for me. I think of Mama’s escapades as nothing but fun. Apparently Uncle Charlie is seeing something I don’t, a deep sense of loss that underlies Mama’s cheerful, zany façade, a lifelong yearning for the man she loved and lost. My father. Michael Valentine. The man I’ve heard her call “the love of my life.”
I lean my head against the cool stucco of the building, gaze across the turquoise waters of the Caribbean, and let myself slide into the deep relaxation that comes from being far away from home. Lovie and Elvis are sleeping on the beach, Mama and Fayrene are in shoppers’ paradise, and Uncle Charlie is content.
What could possibly go wrong?
Elvis’ Opinion #3 on Bad Auras, Foolhardy Plans, and Rescue Missions
When a shadow blocks my sun, I am rudely awakened from my nap. As if depriving a deserving dog of his sleep weren’t bad enough, the man who is making the shadow gets every one of my hackles up. Listen, don’t tell me a dog can’t read auras. And this man’s is blacker than the pits of Hades. I’d
as soon chew his leg off as look at him.
Out of deference to the Valentine family, I refrain. Listen, you’re looking at a former icon in a dog suit who has adoring fans around the world. I know how to put on a public face.
When Mr. Dark Aura starts flirting with Lovie, I just put my brilliant head on my paws and play dumb.
“Hello, gorgeous,” he tells her.
Lovie’s collected so many umbrellas she can barely see him, let alone see through him even if he is wearing aviator sunglasses and a black wig I’d bury in the backyard.
I’m not letting this dude out of my sight.
With my mismatched ears, I can pick up trouble a mile away, and believe me, this jerk has me growling “T-R-O-U-B-L-E.”
Lovie puts her hand on my neck, then shades her eyes and looks up at the rude intruder with her coy, come-on expression. Granted, she’s feeling rejected and he’s good-looking. And just her type. Or at least the type she was attracted to before she fell for Rocky Malone.
But can’t she see who he is? I try warning her with a lowvoiced rendition of the “Devil in Disguise,” but she just keeps on responding to his heavy-handed flirtation.
Before I know what’s happening, Lovie’s rising from her lounge chair and staggering off with this dapper dude. Callie’s nowhere in sight and Charlie’s off with Ruby Nell and Fayrene. If this sleazy rake thinks I’m going to watch Lovie leave with nothing more than a “Vaya Con Dios,” he’s barking up the wrong tree.
I wait until they’re down the beach far enough for him to think I’m still happily lazing in the sun, then I shag my ample butt into gear and take off after them.
It’s up to me to save the day.
Just my luck, he’s taking Lovie to the ferry. But if you think a little thing like seasickness and visions of being stranded in shark-infested waters would stop a dog of my caliber, you’d be wrong. Listen, mess with my people, you’re liable to come up missing a body part.
Now, sneaking aboard a ferry might stymie lesser dogs like that goofy Lhasa apso upstart back at Hair.Net or that silly shih tzu down the street from Callie, but it’s easy for a clever basset to slip between the legs of milling tourists. Once I’m safely onboard, I find a nice cool spot in the shade of a man the size of twin oak tree trunks, and flop down to reconnoiter.
The ferry gets underway, and I watch Lovie leaning over the railing losing her Tropical Double Troubles. She looks close to passing out. The man she’s running off with hands her his handkerchief and acts concerned.
Concerned, my crooked hind leg. He may act like “The Love Machine,” but he doesn’t have a clue that a clever “Roustabout” is lurking in the shadows.
If he makes one false move, I’m liable to get dangerous. And I’m not talking about my usual modus operandi of bringing women and French poodles to a screaming, fainting frenzy.
Bring it on, dude. There’s nothing a dog of my intelligence and savoir faire can’t handle.
Chapter 5
Missing Person, Dire Predictions, and Arkansas Razorbacks
By the time I get back to my room at the Cozumel Palace, I’d like nothing better than to sink into the Jacuzzi. But there’s no sign of Lovie and Elvis, so I head to the beach to look for them.
Lovie is probably cooked to a crisp by now, and there’s no telling what my dog is up to. As much as I’d like to simply stand and admire the colors of the sunset across the water, I hurry along to retrieve part of the missing Valentine contingent.
Our party is meeting for dinner tonight at the semi-elegant MoMoNoHaHa restaurant. It’s a good thing it’s in our hotel. If Lovie had any more Tropical Double Troubles, she’ll be in no condition to walk far.
I’m wearing my new espadrilles, so I scan the beach hoping to spot Lovie and Elvis, then simply call and wave them to come in. Alas, they’re nowhere in sight. Which means I’m either at the wrong spot (highly unlikely) or they’ve moved to another spot.
If I were Lovie, I’d say a bad word. I’m supposed to meet the family for dinner in less than an hour. Now is no time to play hide-and-seek with my cousin.
I dial her cell phone, and leave a voice mail. “Lovie, where in the world are you? Is Elvis with you? Call me. We’re supposed to meet for dinner.” Then I pull off my shoes and set off across the sand, calling my dog.
You haven’t lived till you’ve strolled a foreign beach yelling, “Elvis!” Most of the sun worshippers have gone inside, but the ones who are left turn to stare at me as if they can’t decide whether I’ve gone crazy or I’m convinced Elvis never died and I spend all my free time searching the world for him.
Listen, let them jeer. I’ll do just about anything to find my dog.
“Elvis, where are you, boy? Come here.”
“Don’t expect too much, lady.” The hunky stranger is watching me, deadpan. I can’t tell whether he’s making fun or is an aspiring wag. “Last I saw, he was up at the bar having a Tropical Double Trouble.”
I don’t even stop to explain that Elvis is a dog. There’s no telling what he’d say to that.
Giving the smart-mouth hunk a wide circuit, I continue my search. I believe in keeping the body healthy, so it doesn’t take me long to make a quick tour of Cozumel Palace’s beach-front. Lovie and Elvis are nowhere to be found.
They were probably doubling back when I came outside. Most likely, Lovie’s in the Jacuzzi and up to her neck in bubbles this very minute. And Elvis is probably ensconced on his satin pillow for the night.
I turn and head back. To an empty suite. No Lovie hogging the hot tub. No Elvis thumping his tail on the floor.
If I have one fault, it’s being a worrier. But Lovie’s grown and Elvis would never wander far from me. I refuse to spoil the evening imagining the worst. Lovie probably stopped in a cute little sidewalk café and lost track of time.
I take a quick shower, slide into a darling pair of gold-andbronze Ferragamo sandals and a short pink silk dress, then call home.
“Hi, Darlene. How are things going?” I make my voice so perky it could brew coffee. I don’t want her to think I’m checking up on her.
“Fabulous! Trixie Moffett is now officially engaged to Roy Jessup.” (He’s the owner of Mooreville Feed and Seed, the third anchor of Mooreville society after Gas, Grits, and Guts and Hair.Net.) “Roy wants to hold the reception at his farm supply store.”
“Trixie must be a basket case.”
“She was hotter than a pistol. She wanted me to paint her nails seashell pink to take her mind off his silly notions.”
“Good. She loves pink polish.”
“I didn’t paint her nails that wimpy pink. Her horoscope said she was due for a dramatic change. It took a lot of persuasion and two cups of Prohibition Punch, but I finally talked her into going with neon Texas Bluebonnet.”
Holy cow! I wonder if I was hasty in my choice of manicurists. I’d head home on the next plane if I could find Lovie and Elvis.
“How did Trixie feel about her blue nails?”
“The horoscope is always right. She loved them, natch.”
Good grief. Shades of Fayrene. I assume natch means naturally.
“Are you sure Trixie was satisfied? I pride myself on always pleasing my clients.”
“Oh, I threw in some daisy art with cute little rhinestone centers for free. If Trixie had been any more pleased when she left here, she’d have popped right out of her trashy bustier.”
“Good grief! You didn’t call Trixie trashy to her face, did you?”
I don’t know whether Darlene’s laugh means she did or she didn’t. By the time I get back to Mooreville, I’m liable not to have a single customer left.
“Now, Callie, don’t you worry about a thing. I’ve got it all covered.”
Darlene’s reassurance does not ease my mind.
Plus, Elvis and Lovie still haven’t come back. I try to reach her again, without any luck, and then call Rocky to see if she decided to carry through her threat to go over there and give him a piece of her mind.
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“I don’t want to alarm you, Rocky,” I say, which probably does just the opposite. “Have you heard from Lovie?”
“Not since she left.”
“She’s not in Tulum?”
“I thought she was with you.”
“Well, she is. Sort of.”
“What do you mean?”
“She was here this afternoon. At the beach. But she hasn’t come back to the room and it’s time to meet Uncle Charlie for dinner.”
“Lovie’s not the most punctual person I know. And she’s extraordinarily independent. She probably wandered off downtown and lost track of time.”
“I’m sure that’s it, Rocky.”
“Call me when she gets back.”
I promise Rocky to call, then race off and get all turned around trying to find the HaHaHeeHee or whatever it is. Sense of direction is not my strong suit, especially when I’m inside a cavernous hotel and can’t use the sun to tell east from west.
Why can’t life be as simple here as it is in Mooreville where there’s only one restaurant? And it has a name that’s friendly and easy to remember. No frills. No airs. Just Linda and Til’s. A big billboard out front—EAT—visible to everybody driving to Mantachie and points north on Highway 371.
When I finally find the restaurant, it’s my full intention to put on a smile and enjoy dinner. After all, Lovie’s a grown woman.
Besides, I pride myself on not being a party pooper. But one look at my face, and Uncle Charlie sniffs trouble. All it takes is one question, “What’s wrong, dear heart?” and I’m spilling my worried guts all over the NoHeHoHo.
“Lord, help us.” Fayrene jumps straight out of her chair. “Lovie’s been hijacked.”
If Mama hadn’t tugged Fayrene’s hunter green tunic, she might have levitated. Hijacked. Kidnapped. What does it matter? They’re both awful.
“Let’s not get alarmed, dear hearts. If I need to, I’ll call Jack.”
I sincerely hope not. I’m trying to get away from Jack, not run into him at every corner, especially in what could be the most romantic spot in the world. If it weren’t for Elvis digging up suspicious bones and Lovie turning up missing . . .