“Mind your dog,” he said, stepping back.
“Oh, he won’t hurt a fly,” I cooed, hoping I was wrong. “As to you updating me, since I’ve moved to St. Marcos, I’m available tomorrow. Or the next day. Any day. You name it.”
He didn’t remark upon or react to the news of my relocation. What great manners. “Wednesday. Wednesday at ten,” he said.
“Perfect. Oso and I will meet you here Wednesday at ten.” Walker was already backing away again when I remembered that I had another question to ask him. “Oh, Mr. Walker? Who was that man you were sitting with at Toes in the Water last night? The guy staring at my friend Ava and me?”
Now Walker was turned away from me and striding in the opposite direction from me and my truck. “I wasn’t at Toes in the Water,” he said, not even slowing down.
Chapter Thirty
I pulled into the airport parking lot with no time to spare. I circled the lot three times before I saw a couple on the way to their car with twins pulling Minnie and Mickey Mouse suitcases. One was crying and the other kept dropping her suitcase, and their progress was agonizingly slow. When they were finally loaded into their car, I pulled into their spot, although I had to stare down a driver in a silver Lexus to get it. Apparently, she didn’t believe in waiting her turn.
The St. Marcos airport is small by stateside standards, but its runways are big enough to land some of the largest planes in the world, or so our captain had told us on my last flight in. Like most of the buildings on the island, it was stucco, and it was painted a festive salmon pink. There was a large private hangar on the far left, then a hangar for small Caribbean airlines. The ticket counters were in the middle of the airport, and customers queued up there under a porch-like roof. On the right side of the ticket counter was the door to Customs and Immigration, and beyond that was the hangar for the commercial flights to the states. The baggage claim area occupied the far right-hand side of the structure.
The smell of jet fuel lingered in the air and taxi drivers milled around the entrance to the bag carousels, offering their services and a rum punch to every traveler that passed. Piped in steelpan music played in the background, loud enough to hear over the rumble of the crowd deplaning to the left of baggage claim.
Oso and I met Emily at the deplaning passenger door. She had to be hot in her Wrangler jeans and white long-sleeved western shirt. And cowboy boots, of course, high-heeled cowboy boots, brown with turquoise inlays and stitching up the sides. Emily might dress for the Dallas legal scene at work, but when she didn’t have to play the part she reverted to her Amarillo roots. Her tall blonde hair was drooping and the strap of one of her cherry-red carry-on bags had pinned a large section of it down on her left shoulder, but she had a million-dollar smile on.
“Katie!” she hollered, which made me smile back.
“God bless you for packing in carry-ons,” I said. I hugged her, then picked up one of her bags. “You saved us an hour.” Plenty of people would be standing shoulder to shoulder in high humidity waiting for bags that only had to move thirty feet from the plane to the conveyor belt.
Emily hardly heard me. She was crouched down on the ground loving up Oso. In addition to the horses and cows on their small ranch, Emily’s family had raised some kind of hunting dogs. She kept pictures of them in her cubicle at work. Retrievers? Pointers? Spaniels? I didn’t know. Dogs for sure, though.
“I visit Rich’s family in Colombia every Christmas,” she said. “I figured quasi third world is the same everywhere.” She stood up. “Can I take your dog?”
I handed her the leash. “Be my guest. He hasn’t had any training yet, so you’ll get a shoulder workout. His name is Oso.”
I picked up her other bag. Now I was balanced.
“He’s perfect. I’ll have him trained before you know it. Won’t I, Oso? Because you’re a good, good boy, aren’t you?” she said.
Oso wagged his tail and fell in on her left as we walked to the car. I loaded her bags into the back of the truck, then pushed the clicker to unlock the doors.
“I hate to break it to you, Katie, but there’s not a thing wrong with Oso’s training.” Emily laughed and opened the door to my truck. “Up, Oso.” The dog jumped in obediently. “But don’t worry, I’ll have you trained by the time I leave instead.”
“Ha ha,” I said. But what was the saying about no bad dogs, only bad owners?
I exited the parking lot and decided to take the long way back to Ava’s. It was lunchtime, and I wanted to give Emily a taste of island culture. I turned right, toward the road that cut across the west side of the island. We’d swing near Annalise and cut back through the rainforest to drive along the beaches of the north shore.
Emily chatted as I drove. “You’re so damn tan, after only two days. Wait, no, your freckles have just gotten closer together,” she said.
“I can’t even disagree with you on that. I’m a freakin’ snow leopard. But it looks good from a distance. You, though, Ms. Rodeo Barbie, you will have a killer sunburn when you go home. Two words: sun screen.”
“Who, me?” She slung her hair over her shoulder with a dip of her head, then batted her eyes. Her personality was a positive force that was already pushing out most of the poison left over from my Walker encounter.
“Was Rich OK with you coming?” I asked.
“Rich Shmich,” she said, rolling her eyes. “I love the man, but this isn’t the trip for him. He needs testosterone around or he doesn’t know what to do with his machismo self.”
Just then, my heart leapt into my throat as a tree branch ripped the driver’s side mirror off my truck. Emily screamed.
Crap! In order to avoid head-on collisions, I tended to drive as close to the left—and the bush—as I could. Sometimes this worked out better than others, roughly in proportion to when I was paying attention to what I was doing. This time, I’d gotten close enough to do about $350 worth of damage.
“Nice driving,” Emily deadpanned.
“Woopsie,” I said.
“How did you get used to driving on the wrong side of the road?” She craned her neck to see around the next curve.
“I’m not yet,” I confessed.
Emily gripped the armrest like it was a life preserver as we whipped through the trees. “Are we there yet? I’m too young to die.”
“Almost, but let’s stop for lunch first.”
“Is there a Dairy Queen around or something?”
“Or something,” I replied.
I pulled to a stop at the Pig Bar.
“This place serves food, and you eat it?” Emily’s mouth hung open and her upper lip curled down tightly as she took in the ramshackle grass-roofed hut.
I led her in. Now wasn’t the time to tell her I’d never tried the food here before.
By the time we left, though, Emily had wrapped Nancy, the proprietress and head cook, in a big bear hug and proclaimed herself a devoted fan. This had been Emily’s first johnnycake and Caribbean fry chicken, so I understood her enthusiasm. She had ordered a second johnnycake, and then a third for the road.
“Really?” I asked her, laughing.
“I know. If I don’t work it off, I’ll be the size of Goldie before I leave.” Goldie was her favorite horse, and not a small one at that.
Oso sat inert by her side, hoping for a scrap of leftovers, but Emily didn’t leave a crumb.
We arrived at Ava’s twenty minutes later, and Ava and Emily hit it off, as I knew they would. Neither was the jealous friend type. They wouldn’t be besties without me, but I bridged the divide between vampy Ava and wholesome Emily.
Ava offered us a bowl of fresh mangoes. “From Jacoby,” she said.
“I’d love one,” Emily said.
Ava pounded a mango against the table with its skin on to soften the fruit inside. When she had it pulped to her liking, she tore a hole in one end and sucked out the liquefied fruit. Ava made mango sucking sexy, like soft porn. Ava pounded another and offered it to Emily.
&n
bsp; Emily stared at it. “Lord have mercy,” she said.
“Here, Emily,” I said. I took the pulverized mango from Ava, went into the narrow yellow galley kitchen, and tossed it at the garbage can. It knocked the hinged chrome top inward and fell to the bottom with a thunk. Oso sat on the Saltillo kitchen tile with his head cocked, studying me. “Dogs don’t like mangoes, boy.” I grabbed another mango, washed it and my hands, peeled and cored the fruit, then sliced it into hunks. I pulled a plate decorated with a spray of peonies from a mismatched set in Ava’s whitewashed cabinets and slid the slippery pieces of fruit onto it, then brought it back to Emily.
“Thank God,” she said.
“What?” Ava asked, but the gleam in her eye was knocking her halo askew.
I unloaded Emily into the living room that I had stayed in the night before, then went into the extra bedroom and saw the new futon with its black wooden frame. It was unfolded into its bed position, sans sheets. Details. I would put some on it later, if Ava had any more. Other than the futon and a wall of boxes, the room was empty. A orange and yellow metal sunburst three feet across adorned one wall, the sole decoration in the space.
Ava brought out a lighted tabletop mirror and her large bag of makeup. She started painting on her performance face at the round green Formica-topped dining room table.
“Hey, I want you up there with me tonight, so get your slut face on, too,” she instructed me.
“You’ll get used to her,” I said to Emily. “Either that or you’ll be scarred for life, but either way you’ll never forget her.”
Just then, Ava yelled at her fat black cat. “No, Elvis! Don’t eat the lizard.”
“Lizards make cats sick, but Elvis loves them,” I explained to Emily.
“They make him hack up white goo on my sofa cushions and go loopy, and I hate them,” Ava said.
Emily pointed at Ava. “I love her,” she said to me. “Capital L Love her.” She put her hands on her hips and cocked her right one. “I just can’t believe you’re singing for money, Katie, since you’ve given it away for free at every open mike in Dallas for years.”
“Hoo, that a good one,” Ava said. “But I ain’t paying her tonight. This here a tryout.”
“Har de har har, tryout,” I said.
But truly? I was nervous. I had barely glanced through the playbook Ava had given me when we got home from Toes in the Water the night before. Sure, I could read music like a pro, but I hadn’t done it in years. I had a newly ripped cuticle to show for my fears. I found a band-aid under the sink in Ava’s bathroom and hid the damage.
Chapter Thirty-one
After securing Oso in my bedroom so he would leave Elvis in peace, the three of us struck out for The Lighthouse on the boardwalk in Town, where Ava was booked that night. The Lighthouse was a restaurant and bar with a small stage. The open-air eating area faced a courtyard where anyone could stop for some chat or a dance. The bar was cattycorner to the restaurant. The music varied during the week, but the owners brought in a steelpan band on Sundays, so brunch there was a real treat.
Emily and I chilled with ceviche and Red Stripes while Ava set up and then warmed up the crowd. A Caribbean beer seemed like the choice a controlled drinker would make early in the evening. About ten minutes into her set, Ava motioned me up to join her. Butterflies attacked my stomach, but I lifted my chin and marched to my spot.
Ava wore a fire-engine red tube dress, a good contrast to my zebra-print wrap sundress. Her hair was down, curls gone wild. Mine was scooped into a clip from which it spilled in a waterfall. Ava had matched her nails and lips to her dress; I went for earthier tones that wouldn’t clash with my hair.
“We look like Lil Mama and,” she studied me, “that Gilligan’s Island chick, Tina Louise.”
Tina Louise. She was elegant, right? “Who’s Lil Mama?” I asked.
Ava handed me the open songbook. “Never mind. You ready?”
I took it from her. “Not hardly, but I’ll do it anyway.” I gulped air like I had gills.
Ava hit Play on the background music for the next song. The first notes of a Macy Gray number played, and my mind went blank of the words. I read them quickly from the page. I could do this. I’d been singing in front of people since high school, just usually with an entire choir or at least a jazz ensemble to back me.
I came in on the right beat and the right note. A good start. I leaned into the music with Ava, and within seconds I was singing for the pure joy of it, and time flew by. Songs ended, people clapped, and then we’d do it again. The bartender sent free drinks between every song. I opted for a dry white wine, since I was taking it slow and it wasn’t late yet. Moderation in all things, I reminded myself, and I declined every other offer of a drink. This new lifestyle really worked for me.
Before it seemed possible, it was time for the break between sets. Emily came to the stage to meet us as we came off. She was having a blast, basking in the reflected glory of our modest success. She cornered me, and the glint in her eyes concerned me.
“The good-looking guy over there, see him?” she asked.
“No,” I said.
“Don’t be difficult.”
“I’ll try.”
“He wants to meet you.”
“Out of the question.”
“Don’t be a butthead. Come on.”
“Absolutely not.”
Emily pouted, then punched. “So, is your spontaneous combustion enough for you? Do you still have that to keep you company at night?”
Never tell Emily anything you want to forget later.
“None of your business, Miss Nosey Posey.”
And, yes, if I was completely truthful, Nick still visited me in my dreams. Not that I owed anyone the truth. I didn’t answer her.
She pressed on. “Katie, it’s time for you to meet a flesh and blood man. And do a little mattress dancin’.”
“Don’t even go there. I have zero interest. Besides, tourists are looking to get laid and leave. It’s a well-known fact, Emily. I am hereby establishing a strict no-tourist rule.”
I knew immediately from the smug look on her face that I was in trouble. “So if he wasn’t a tourist you’d meet him?”
I wasn’t going to get out of this. Emily was dogged. “A short, supervised conversation with him before we go back on, and nothing more. If he’s not a tourist.”
“He’s not a tourist! He lives here. He’s a chef.” She chortled.
“Gloating does not become you,” I sniffed, but she didn’t hear me. She was off to fetch Chef Boyardee.
I glanced at my watch. Only five blessedly short minutes until I could end the conversation and go back onstage. I busied myself reading Ava’s next set list and marking the songs in my notebook. If I was going to read the words, at least I wouldn’t be frantically flipping pages.
Emily and the chef returned. At least he wasn’t in a cooking smock and pants, I thought, and patted my cheeks which were surprisingly numb. In fact, he was dressed normally in a moss-green crewneck shirt and matching plaid shorts. Topsiders and a brown belt. He was attractive, if you were into chiseled features, blue eyes, and short blond hair. Emily introduced him as Bart Lassiter, and he was a nice guy, if you were into charming, successful men who went out of their way to flatter you. He was head chef at Fortuna’s. The last place my parents went, before . . . before they didn’t get to go anywhere else.
“Born and raised in Missouri. A flyover state. It took this long to save enough money to fly out of there. I got here less than two years ago,” he explained.
“Texas,” I said. “Just off the boat, two days on-island.”
Emily jumped in. “Katie’s a lawyer. One of the best in Texas.”
Even though I had no intention of dating Bart, I decided to edit Emily’s comment. Collin had explained my mysterious guy-repelling power many times: everyone hates attorneys, especially female attorneys. Plus, there was my McZillion debacle. “On sabbatical. Right now I’m a house remodeler and a bac
kup singer.”
“A big-ass half-finished house in the rainforest,” Emily said, showing the effects of a few too many Red Stripes. “With a jumbie, whatever the hell that is.” I would throttle her later. And Ava for telling her about the jumbie.
“The one up near Baptiste’s Bluff?”
“Yes, that’s it,” I said. Annalise was famous, it seemed.
“Yeah, I know it. I’ve admired it from afar. My dad’s an architect, so I have a genetic fascination with architecture and construction.” He shifted his weight from one foot to the other and back. “Hey, I’m off tomorrow. Could I bring you out some lunch? I’d love to look around, or even lend a hand. It’s an interesting house, at least from afar.”
“Oh, wow, some other time,” I tried to say.
“Perfect,” Emily interrupted. Forget throttle. That wasn’t a painful enough way to die. “We’ll be there. It’s my first time to see it, too. This is going to be great!”
Ava broke in, back from the bar with three fresh drinks balanced between her hands. “What be great?”
I took two of the drinks from her and gave one to Emily. They were light orange, with something brown sprinkled on their surface. I sipped. Yum. I sipped again. Orangey, coconutty, rummy. Which was fine, because it was late enough for liquor now. “What are these, Ava? They’re delicious.”
“Painkillers. Go easy on them. Who this, what I miss, and answer my first damn question.”
Miss Crankypants. What was up with her?
“Ava, this is Bart. Bart, Ava.” Emily used her company manners. “Bart is a chef at Fortuna’s’s, and he’s bringing us lunch at Annalise tomorrow.”
Ava’s forehead wrinkled. “Bart Something-or-Other? Fortuna’s chef? That not what I hear. I hear new guy Bart own the place. Am I right?” she asked Bart.
Bart inclined his head. An admission.
Ava steamrolled on. “Who he bringing lunch to? Us? He don’t know no us. If a man bring lunch, there ain’t no us.” She was talking as if he wasn’t there, then addressed him directly. “Which one of us you after, Bart?”
Saving Grace (Katie & Annalise Book 1) Page 17