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 backup 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?”
Aha. Mirror, mirror on the wall, who’s the fairest of them all? I covered my smile with my cup. So that’s what had her dander up. Ava had a great deal of confidence about men, but it was hard to blame her. She based it on experience. My resistance to Bart had slipped a little, especially now that I realized I had Ava’s goat. The mirror was telling her someone else was fairest in the land, even if only for a moment. I took another slug of painkiller.
Bart’s cheeks splotched with pink. “Nice to meet you, Ava.”
“Nobody giving me a straight answer,” Ava complained.
“He asked me to introduce him to Katie,” Emily said. “So . . .”
“Hunh,” Ava said. She looked over at me. Grudgingly she said, “Well, she kinda cute.” Then Ava grinned. “For a red-haired man-hater. You’re a brave man, Bart. I like that. I gonna be there for that lunch. You be needing lots of help.”
“Avaaaaa,” I said, but the other three were laughing, which turned into chatting, and then into time to go back to the stage, ten minutes late, and only because the manager was standing onstage and tapping his wrist, where he would have worn a wristwatch if he weren’t in the islands.
Bart sat with Emily the rest of the night. Two other men joined them, presumably his friends. I sensed Bart’s eyes on me, and I kept mine anywhere but on him. He was likeable. Handsome. His sparkly eyes were cute when he looked at me, as if he were interested. In me. Maybe he would be good for me. For my self-confidence. I didn’t have to fall in love with him to let him bring us lunch.
So what was this resistance inside me about? It felt almost like guilt. Like I was cheating on my own feelings, feelings for someone dark, sensitive, and difficult, someone far away that I couldn’t have.
I let Bart catch my eye, and he smiled at me. It was a nice smile. I’d come to St. Marcos to escape the feelings that were sabotaging my life. I told the reluctant Katie to damn well smile back at him, and she did.
~~~
Saving Grace (What Doesn’t Kill You, #1): A Katie Romantic Mystery Page 33