“You’re joking?” The blow was louder.
“Smoking.”
“Yes, I’m still soaking.” Came her sputtering reply, annoying but funny, nevertheless.
“Never mind.” I sniffed the air like a bloodhound. Following my nose, I padded about the condo, seeking the source of the disturbing aroma. It would have to remain a mystery, as I didn’t see a blessed soul around and neither one of us had the nasty habit. Too much. I felt drained. The muscles, still tight, begged for a nap. It’d been a very stressful morning, and I was on sensory overload.
Like a runaway slide show, terrifying and hilarious images took turns scrolling through my mind at an outlandish pace seldom experienced in this sleepy little beach town, where everyone was committed to beach and surf and golf and made bets on who could move the slowest. They called it, “Edislow” time, and I thoroughly bought into the idea. Especially now. I was beat.
Sitting comatose in the deck chair, my feet resting on the railing, I didn’t budge an inch when soft footfalls alerted me to the presence of the little felon from upstairs. Opening one eye, I glanced at the pixie who crouched on the stairs giving me a most thorough but silent examination.
“Hi, there,” I greeted the solemn child. “How are you? Having fun at the beach?”
The tousled-head nodded but the little girl didn’t say a word or crack a smile. Somewhat bemused by her solemnity, I gazed at her adorable little face with its pointed chin, and focused on the diminutive dark mole—or, rather, beauty mark—on the left side of her mouth. I almost laughed aloud, remembering Vicki’s gushing over it, and the litany of movie stars that had the good fortune to bear one as well. So funny.
About to say something else to the child, the little kid startled me by bouncing to her feet, turning and scooting back up the stairs to the unit above. So much for our getting acquainted. Cute little girl, though…maybe three or four…still huggable yet old enough not to be a major pest like an inquisitive two-year-old… My thoughts drifted to my grand nieces and nephews. I sure did love those kids of mine.
Still sleepy, I squirmed a bit in the uncomfortable plastic chair, tugged on my shorts and shirt and then settled back to allow a motley assortment of images to tumble around in my mind. Pink flesh rolling and tumbling in the surf, old ladies wearing flowered caftans and cloying cologne, wizened, brown men with mowers and blowers, doughy men and barbecues, pixie faces with beauty marks and—oh, gosh. Too much. Too much. Lycra and spandex and speedos, oh my.
Shaking my head, I sat up straighter in the plastic chair and lowered my legs. I needed a hard lemonade. I struggled to my feet and shuffled into the condo, straight to the fridge. Then with an icy bottle in hand, I flopped onto the floral and rattan sofa that dipped in all the wrong places. That description could just as easily have been used to define my body. One long swallow and I already felt more relaxed. I lay back against the pillow and closed my eyes. A smile flitted across my face—or was it a gnat? Anyway, this place was again weaving its magic.
What a hoot. I realized that these comical characters bombarding my imagination and challenging my sanity were part and parcel of the uniqueness of this island hideaway. They were the stuff of memories, the smiles and abstract references between old friends. They would be for years to come. Our ten-day retreat had only begun, but already we’d shared gut-wrenching laughter that had brought us both to tears. What would the morrow bring? At this rate, we could write a book.
EIGHT
Needless to say, Bernie was groggy and sore after her nap. To be frank, I believe she’d been more unconscious than asleep. When she shuffled down the hall, I could tell she felt less than her usual complacent self. Risking her wrath, I raised both eyebrows and asked in a voice dripping with sugar, “Feel a bit droopy after your nap, sweetie?”
She grimaced and the look she pitched my way could’ve sliced a concrete block in half. “Never,” she hissed, “say that word again.”
“What word?” Lord, what had I said?
“‘Droopy’. I loathe that word and all it implies.” She tossed her fluffy head. “Sorry. I’m just hungry. So, what else is new? I am always hungry. And I’m sore as hell. I had to slowly and painfully roll off the bed just to get the hell upright. Heard the sound of pennies hitting marble, which turned out to be my knees, then, and I kid you not, literally had to stagger into the bathroom, where, only by the grace of God, I managed to wash my face and run a comb through my mop. Then, oh, Lord. One look in the mirror, and I knew who the victor of the battle at sea was. And it wasn’t me…er, I.”
I swallowed a grin. “Oh, dear girl, you look all right. I mean…well, you at least look a sight better than you did when you first crawled out of the water.” I was enjoying this. “Oh, sweetie, you should’ve seen yourself. You looked like you’d been run over by a Mac truck or something. You looked—”
“I get it. However, ‘Mac truck’ is hardly a suitable analogy, seeing I was attacked by something indigenous to the sea. Perhaps barge or frigate or aircraft carrier would be a better term. Anyway. No need to belabor the point. Let’s get moving.”
“Okay. What do you want to do?”
“Eat. It’s after five and I’m hungry. Didn’t you say we were going to some wonderful restaurant nearby?”
I sat up. “Oh. Yes, I did. Just down the road a bit, across from the resort’s entrance. We can walk it easily.”
Bernie grimaced. Walking in sub-Saharan-jungle-like humidity was not her idea of fun. “Mikey, darling, you do realize I’m on the downhill side of fifty?”
I wrinkled my freckled, sunburned nose. “Ohh, Bernadette. Don’t be so silly. I’m only six months shy of you, and I’m no Wonder Woman. If I can walk it, so can you. It’ll be good for us to walk home after a heaping plate of shrimp and hush puppies. And it’ll be good to loosen up your sore muscles. You know, get back up on the horse—that sort of thing.”
“Fine. Let’s get this show on the road.”
Taking time only to run a comb through my hair and struggle into a bra, I joined Bernie in the living room. We turned off lights, grabbed our purses and left. Hunger propelled Bernie forward, and she kept up with me just fine. We walked down the winding narrow lane, past two large fresh-water ponds where people congregated to fish on sunny afternoons. Palmettos balanced on reflected images in postcard perfection.
Bernie dawdled, intrigued with the picture-perfect setting. “Darn,” she lamented, “I’m kicking myself for not thinking to bring my camera. But who would’ve thought a short walk to a dockside restaurant would offer such a Kodak Moment?”
“Yeah. I’ve taken a zillion photos of those two palmettos over there. Awesome, isn’t it?”
Bernie nodded and we plodded along.
The restaurant was called—appropriately if not originally—The Dockside. The exterior of the place was weather-beaten, due to countless years of scouring from the elements. It faced a vast marshland of rippling sea grasses, and a canal of sorts, which served as a roadway to open water.
The shabby but comfortable interior boasted a décor, circa 1950’s, that no one had bothered to change or improve upon. Hand-lettered signs, amateur attempts in glistening oils of amazing fish and surly sea captains, and the obligatory lighthouse scene covered the faded walls. The most recent addition was the array of glossy decals advertising which credit cards were accepted at this establishment.
We climbed the narrow staircase to the dining room and were told there’d be at least a twenty-minute wait. Bumper crowd tonight. Happy, noisy tourists and a few daring locals filled the place, and it appeared to be doing a record business in the doling out and consumption of fresh shrimp. With a sigh and a protesting growl from our poor, neglected stomachs, we turned around and went back down the stairs to the bar below—a modern beeping device clutched in my hand.
After we ordered our drinks—me, a Tequila Sunrise, and Bernie, a margarita—we made our way out onto an airy screened-in dock area, where patrons could sit and sip their cocktails surrounded by boat
s and gulls and the subtle scent of diesel fuel. We’d barely tasted our drinks, however, when our little notification buzzer went berserk in a frenzy of blinking lights, which validated Bernie’s suspicion that somehow the bartender notified the upstairs hostess as soon as the drinks were purchased. I sure as heck didn’t care. I’d carry my drink upstairs. No see no saw.
“Uh, huh,” Bernie grunted. “Oh, yeah. They’ve got their act together quite efficiently.”
“Oh, Bernadette…”
Bernie snorted. “I’m serious. They say you have so many minutes to wait so you are forced to buy a drink, and then, when you’ve paid a ridiculous amount for a plastic cup of booze, your table is ready. Like I said, efficient.”
“Oh, Bernie, don’t be such a cynic.”
Bernie grimaced, but she trouped after me without another word.
Her cross-grained attitude dissolved, however, after she nibbled on one golden brown hush puppy. “Oh, Lord,” she exhaled, “this is heavenly. I’ve never tasted such good hush puppies. These are out-of–this-world good.”
I beamed. “I told you. I adore this place and dream of it when I’m off.”
“Off? Off what? Your meds?”
“No, for Pete’s sake. ‘Off’ is a term used for those who aren’t here…on the island…you know…tourists and the like. If you’re ‘from off’, you’re not a local.”
Bernie just rolled her eyes. Her mouth was full of hush puppies.
We could barely walk the length of the restaurant when we’d finished eating our way through mounds of superbly fried shrimp, hush puppies, a baked potato with-everything-on-it, and a huge garden salad. That plus at least two quarts of sweet tea, there was no room for dessert. We had to waddle to the register to pay our check. We were more than a little uncomfortable on the walk back to the condo, too. Dodging two cars as we crossed the street and checking out the people riding bikes or fishing helped to take our minds off our distended stomachs.
The final climb up the seven or so steps to our unit was as difficult as the final ascent up Everest. Trudging upward, upward to the cool sanctuary of our condo, we paused long enough to watch the foursome on the green just below our deck. Three men were near the hole, watching each other carefully as they bent over and stared at the slope, held up golf clubs at eye-height to determine a direction or angle or something, and tossed little wisps of grass into the wind.
Just below our deck, a balding, sweaty man in a too-tight polo shirt poked at the foliage in search of his ball. Looking left and right, he dug into his khaki pocket, pulled out another ball, and dropped it at the edge of the landscaping. Confident he’d pulled off his deception, he somehow sensed disapproving eyes boring into the back of his frizzled head and glanced up. Catching our frozen figures in his peripheral vision, he shrugged then turned back to face the green. He knew he’d been busted, so reached down, snatched up the ball, shoved it back into his pocket, and barked to the others that he’d lost the damned ball and would take a penalty on that hole. With one more guilty glance over his shoulder at the two stern teachers staring him down, he hunched his shoulders and scurried toward the golf cart.
Yep. We hadn’t lost our touch.
Still chuckling, I fumbled in my purse for my illusive keys. A sudden and most unexpected jolting thud overhead made us both jump.
“Jeez. That was something I didn’t need right now,” Bernie muttered.
“Yeah. Darn kids and their penchant for slamming doors and jumping off chairs and things. The main reason only young women have children.”
“Amen.”
Unlocking the door, I pushed my way inside, tossed my purse onto the nearest chair, and ambled over to the fridge. “Want some sweet tea, Bern?”
“Sure. I’m going to the potty then sit out on the deck—”
“—Veranda.”
“Veranda. Okay with you?”
“Sounds heavenly. It’s a beautiful evening. Spray before you go, though. The mosquitoes are a menace.”
“Oh, you and your bugs.”
“And light the citronella candle, will you?”
“Of course, sweetie.”
Five minutes later we were settled in the plastic deck chairs like a pair of Raggedy Anns with our feet propped up on the railing. Ungainly, and rather awkward, perhaps, but no one could see us that well. No more golfers out on the green. And besides, I didn’t care, and it was a cinch Bernie didn’t give a horse’s patoot.
Leaning back, I let out a dramatic sigh. “Oh, gosh, I do love it here…this is the life…if I had a million dollars I’d buy myself a beach house…how ’bout you, Bern? Feel like a Southern Belle yet?”
Before Bernie could offer a clever rejoinder, our next-door neighbor entered stage left, as if on cue. Melba, in all her floral caftanned glory, flowed out from her perennially dark apartment. Bernie let out a sigh. I tried hard not to roll my eyes or, worse, burst into nervous giggles.
“Hellooo, girls,” the plump woman warbled. “I heard you come in… Out for an evening stroll around the grounds?”
“No. Just came back from a wonderful meal at the Dockside,” I replied, patting my stomach.
“The Dockside? Ohh, no…not my cup of tea…always too crowded…too crowded…and so noisy…and I’m not that fond of seafood…too fishy…”
“Oh,” I shrugged. “Too bad. I adore seafood. I think the Dockside is one of the best restaurants in town.”
“Ohh, well…I suppose…always so crowded, though…so I suppose it’s good, but I don’t get out much…don’t tolerate the heat that well…shortness of breath…terrible varicose veins…irritable bowel syndrome…not as young as I used to be…”
“Gosh…that’s too bad,” I mumbled, not knowing what else to say.
Melba’s pale blue eyes swept the veranda then lighted on Bernie. “Dear Simone, how are you enjoying your visit?”
Maintaining her dwindling composure like a saint, Bernie replied, “It’s Bernie—short for Bernadette—and I’m having a delightful time, Melba. Thank you.”
Our neighbor’s limpid blue eyes rolled and her curly head bobbed. “That’s nice, so nice, darling. I’m glad someone is enjoying their time here.” Her eyes looked skyward. “The Teals, now, oh, my…they aren’t. Enjoying their time here, I mean. Poor Brenda is like me—pleasingly plump, that is—can’t take the heat…and all those steps…” She gestured toward the staircase leading to the second floor apartments. “But Bobby, the dear, dear boy, is having a simply wonderful time…always smiling…always…and takes that precious, dimpled child with him wherever he goes…a delightful family, really… and little Amanda calls me Aunt Melba…isn’t that sweet? Aunt Melba…” Melba sighed, sucked in a deep breath, made that hula gesture with her plump hands again, then turned in a billowing cloud of hot pink and turquoise, and re-entered her unit.
Bernie turned to me and grimaced. “My God. Is she for real? I can’t believe that anyone as clueless as Melba is living here alone. She’s confused, she rambles on and on, she can’t remember our names…Now I know that sounds a lot like you, but I’m talking about Melba here.”
Ignoring the jibe, I wrinkled my nose. “She is a character.” Pointing overhead, I added in a stage whisper, “What did you think about what she said about Brenda and Bobby?”
Before Bernie had a chance to answer, a door slammed upstairs and footsteps and murmuring voices were heard. I sat up straighter—like a deer sensing danger. Bernie summoned enough energy to lower her elevated legs from the railing. Seconds later two adults and one toddler descended the staircase. None other than the aforementioned Brenda, Bobby, and Little Amanda.
Brenda was indeed plump and had long, stringy brown hair that either had too much mousse in it or was in dire need of a good shampoo. Poor thing was perspiring so heavily that it was probably just too darned hard to keep fresh.
Bobby, on the other hand, was lean to the point of skinny, and had a ponytail longer than my forearm. The muscle shirt he wore allowed a clear view of his multip
le tattoos. His dirty flip-flops were almost worn to paper thinness on both heels. Not exactly my pick for the next American Idol.
Little Amanda, however, was pixie-cute. Her short, dark brown hair cupped her round face and a dimple showed in each rosy cheek. The tiny mole on the right side of her pointed chin once again snagged my attention. For some inexplicable reason, that tiny mole jumped out at me, and for a nano-second I felt like I was flirting with a senior moment. Chalk it up to too much sweet tea, too much sun, too much food—too much something. I grappled with conflicting thoughts and impressions while Bernie took the reins with poise and self-control—offspring from years of being a principal.
“Hi,” Bernie said. “Lovely evening, isn’t it?”
Brenda’s lips curved upward for a fleeting moment, but her eyes remained focused on her plump feet. Bobby, on the other hand, nodded and returned Bernie’s smile. “Yeah, it sure is. We’re on our way to get some ice cream.” He squeezed little Amanda’s hand. “Aren’t we, Tadpole?” The pixie gazed up at him and bobbed her head. His smile widened. “Chocolate for Mandy, right?” She nodded even more emphatically. “And strawberry for dada, right?” More vigorous bobbing.
Bernie chuckled and glanced at me. “Mike, here, likes her chocolate, too.”
“Or cherry vanilla,” I mumbled, having managed to corral my rambling wits enough to join the conversation. “You, uh, have fun now, Amanda. I’d go with you except I’m too full from dinner.” Lame but at least sociable.
Bobby’s eyes danced. “Did you eat at the Dockside?”
“Oh, yeah,” I groaned. “Each of us shoveled down a pound of shrimp.”
He nodded. “I know how that is. I always eat too much in that place. It’s my favorite restaurant on the island.”
“Mine, too. Never can get enough of the Dockside.”
“Oh, yeah. What about the fish stew? Isn’t that great?”
“Love it. Don’t often eat very much as I need to save room for the shrimp and oysters, and what not, but I love the stuff.”
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