Glad. Winky. Jorge. Goober. Tom....
The buzz of a plane overhead made me open my eyes. I used my hand as a visor and looked up. A small, red-and-white biplane passed directly overhead, blotting out the sun. The shadow flashed across my face for a blink of an eye.
As it banked and headed eastward, back toward Albert Whitted airport in downtown St. Petersburg, a sudden realization caused my temper to flare.
If Randy Towers gets built, those ugly condos will blot out this gorgeous view not just for a blink of an eye – but forever.
And they call that progress?
I picked up a freckled cockle shell and flung it angrily toward the water. Nowadays, keeping Florida Florida seemed more and more like an uphill, losing battle.
The problem was, most people would probably cheer at the prospect of a shiny new condo replacing ratty old Caddy’s beach bar. I’d have been the first to admit the run-down bar wasn’t much to look at. But to me, it was hallowed ground. It’d been the launching pad for my fourth life do-over.
Geeze. I’ve already lost so much. Will I have to let go of Caddy’s, too?
I picked up another shell and studied it as I chewed my lip.
Sure, Caddy’s was nothing fancy. But that’s why I liked it. It never claimed to be anything more than it was – just a simple, wooden shack for people to get together and have a good time.
A few years back, Greg, the owner, had scabbed a rooftop deck onto the back of the little building. Even so, Caddy’s still looked more like a run-down old beach house than a restaurant. It had a porch that faced the water. And Greg had plopped a few picnic tables in the sandy beach by the porch, to serve customers who came clad in nothing but wet-bottomed bathing suits.
Other than those modest improvements, Caddy’s had remained as unchanged as the Gulf of Mexico itself. With no air conditioning or bothersome doors to lock, the place dealt with Florida’s tourists and tropical weather like the rest of the natives – it took them as they came.
It had no other choice.
Except to sell out.
I thought about that blasted newspaper article. That Amsel guy wouldn’t be making the news unless he’d already negotiated a deal with Greg.
My gut dropped four inches.
Oh, Greg! Say it isn’t so!
CADDY’S WAS A PART of the old Florida I’d grown up with and loved. The thought of Sunset Beach becoming just another soulless stack of condos made my heart ache and my temper flare.
I can’t let that happen!
I blew out an angry breath and marched across the sand toward Caddy’s porch. As my sandals twisted their way across the little sugar-like dunes of sand, I caught sight of Norma, the grumpy head waitress.
Like Caddy’s itself, Norma was an institution. She’d been working there since whoever founded the place had nailed the first two boards together and cracked open a beer to celebrate.
“Norma!” I called out.
She looked up and squinted. Norma was no longer a spring chicken. But Florida weather dictated that she still wear the obligatory beach-waitress uniform of short-shorts, a skin-tight t-shirt, and a sun visor.
When I’d spotted her, the tough old bird was standing next to one of the picnic tables, taking a customer’s order. One of her big, sandal-clad feet was propped up on the bench, and she employed her raised knee to hold her order pad. She scribbled intently on a pad with a pen, aided by a pink triangle of tongue that wriggled in and out of one corner of her mouth.
I smiled. I’d come to know that Norma had been blessed with a heart of gold – a fact she kept well-hidden behind a mannish face and a voice that could peel the paint off powder-coated metal. Four summers ago, she’d been a godsend to me. Norma’d helped me scrape up enough money to get Glad properly cremated. And she’d cried like a baby at the seaside service.
I gave Norma a nod and a smile, then waited patiently as she finished taking the food and drink order of the half-toasted, half-roasted couple that was huddled under the shade of the picnic table’s beach umbrella.
She finished scribbling on the pad, swung her leg off the bench, and looked my way.
“Hey, Val,” she growled as I grinned at her. “What’s up?”
“A lot. Is Greg around?”
Norma’s eyes shifted to the left, then she blew out a breath. “Nope. Should be back around three.”
Normally laid back and talkative, Norma seemed out of sorts.
“You okay?” I asked.
“Sure.”
“I wanted to talk to you about –”
“Listen, I gotta get this order in,” she said, cutting me off. “I don’t want the boss to get his panties in a wad.”
“Okay.”
I sighed and watched as she scurried off toward the kitchen. My crusade against progress had been thwarted for the moment. So, I turned and headed toward my next destination – a little concrete bunker wedged in the sand between Caddy’s and the main road.
The tiny, ramshackle establishment was called Winnie and Winky’s Bait & Donut Shop. And if Progress, Inc. had its way, it would soon be just another forgotten piece of Florida history as well.
“YEP. I SEEN IT,” WINKY said, and slapped a swatter at a fly that was creeping toward a plate of assorted, gooey-looking donuts half-melted by the heat. He poured a cup of coffee into a paper cup and handed it to me through the service window.
“Aren’t you worried?” I asked, and jabbed a finger at the newspaper article I’d laid on the counter in front of him. “If this goes forward, your donut shop will be slated for imminent demolition.”
Winky shrugged a shoulder at me through the window as he employed the flyswatter as a backscratcher.
“Greg says it ain’t nothin’ to worry about right now, Val. It’s just a propulsion.”
“Proposal.”
Winky’s pale eyebrows nearly met his ginger buzz-cut.
“Proposal?” he asked.
He leaned his freckled head back and sideways, toward the inner workings of the donut shop.
“You hear that, Winnie? Tom finally proposed!”
A muffled sound came from somewhere in the concrete shack. Winky shot me a grin.
“What’d you do, Val? Get Tom drunk? Hold his feet to the fire?”
“Ha ha,” I said dryly. “He didn’t –”
“I know! Let’s make us a double weddin’!”
“Argh! Let’s not!”
I couldn’t decide if I was more annoyed at the idea of getting married, or at Winky’s happy-go-lucky attitude. I possessed the talent required for neither.
“I’m serious, Winky. Your shop is in danger!”
I picked up the newspaper article and held it up like show-and-tell prop.
“This proposal is already in the planning stage, see? It needs city approval, of course. But the way things go nowadays....”
“Val, you worry too much.”
Like a toddler with ADHD, Winky’s eyes were busy following the aeronautic acrobatics of another fly. He took a step toward it. I reached in the window and grabbed him by the frayed neck of his ratty t-shirt. The collar had long-since been removed, though it appeared it hadn’t gone willingly.
“Look!” I said, and turned Winky’s head toward the ugly structure that stood a hundred yards to his left. It was an orange, angular, three-story house that looked as out of place on Sunset Beach as a wooly mammoth in a raincoat.
“Just look at J.D.’s ugly house. The city planners will approve anything for someone with enough money.”
Winky stuck his head out the service window like a red-headed tortoise. His upper lip hooked skyward.
“How long you think we got, Val?”
“What do you mean?”
“Till they tear this place down,” he said, suddenly looking crestfallen.
I felt like the Grinch that stole Sunset Beach.
“Maybe never.” I tried to sound a little more hopeful. “But if these plans get approved, work could start anytime. In a m
atter of weeks. Maybe even days.”
“Then I got me an idea,” Winky said.
“What? A protest?”
“Naw. Let’s make hay while the sun’s shining.”
“What?”
“A party. Let’s have one here!”
I glanced around at the crude concrete bunker and blanched. It wasn’t exactly the Ritz. It wasn’t even the Cheez Whiz on top of a Ritz.
“Here? At the donut shack?” I asked.
“Yep. Right ‘cheer. Well, Sunset Beach and Caddy’s, I mean. One last blowout. What a ya say to that?”
“Sounds good to me,” Winnie said, coming up behind Winky. The cute, pudgy woman winked at me through her red-framed glasses, then took her place next to Winky like the mate to a redneck salt-and-pepper set.
“You realize that you two could lose your business here, right? Doesn’t that bother you?”
“Val, you forget,” Winky said. “I come from a long line a people with nothin’. And when you got nothin’, you got nothin’ to lose. We’uns always find a way to make do.”
“That’s right,” Winnie agreed. “We’re in it together, come heck or high water.”
A buzzer went off somewhere in the shack. Winnie glanced behind her, then back at me.
“Nice to see you Val, but I’ve got to get back to the fryer. Donuts wait for no man.”
“Or woman,” Winky said, then laughed like Woody Woodpecker on crack.
I took a sip of coffee and waited for the staccato sound of Winky’s chortle to stop ricocheting off the concrete blocks. I got tired of waiting and reached for a donut.
Winky slapped my hand with the flyswatter.
“Them’s for payin’ customers,” he said.
I jerked my hand back and rubbed where he’d swatted it. Winky looked horrified.
“I didn’t hurt you, did I?” he asked. He shoved the plate stacked with donuts at me. “Here. Take all you want.”
“I’m fine,” I said. “But I will take a chocolate glazed.”
“My personal favorite,” Winky said, and handed me a napkin.
“Thanks. You know, Winky, I think I found a clue to where Goober might be.”
Winky looked around, as if the clue might be dangling from a hook in the air. Or maybe he’d just spotted another fly.
“Where?” he asked.
“Inside a tobacco tin.”
Winky shook his head and laughed.
“Uh huh. You mean like them prank calls we used to pull when we was kids? ‘Lady, you got Prince Albert in a can? Well, you better done go let him out.’”
“No, Winky. Not like that.”
“Well, come on, Val. Goober can’t fit in a tin can.”
“Not Goober. A clue, Winky. You remember that redneck dreamcatcher Goober left me?”
“Shore do. Quite a work of art, as I recall.”
“Well, I found this inside the Skoal can.”
I pulled the tiny slip of paper from my pocket and handed it to Winky.
“What’s it say?” he asked.
“PObbLE.”
“Well I’ll be.” Winky’s left eyebrow raised up half an inch. He stared at me intently. “It’s ‘pobbley’ some kind a clue all right,” he said, then laughed at his own joke again.
When he finally noticed I wasn’t laughing along, Winky shored up his face and handed the tiny slip of paper back to me.
“Don’t take this stuff so seriously,” he said.
“Geeze, Winky. Aren’t you worried about Goober at all?”
“Naw. Worryin’ just ain’t in my vocabulary. Besides, he’ll turn up directly. Like I was tryin’ to tell you, Val. Us fellers what come from nothin’, like me and Goober? Well, we got the advantage.”
“The advantage?”
Winky tapped a stubby finger to his freckled noggin and nodded slowly.
“We know how to survive by our wits.”
Great. Now I’m really worried.
Chapter Four
On my way home from Sunset Beach, a thought went through my mind like a bullet through baloney.
Everything changes. And now, I’m no longer footloose and fancy-free.
My life had become complicated.
Again.
For the fourth time in my life, I found myself ensnarled in the tangle of compromises and responsibilities that came lumbering along, hand-in-hand, with romantic relationships.
When Tom had moved in a few months ago, my beloved sweatpants, house moo-moos, and dinners with Ben & Jerry had been obliterated, replaced by daily makeup routines, non-elastic-waist clothing, and Tom’s “sensible meals.”
The way I saw it, cohabitation had turned out to have all the disadvantages of marriage, and none of the perks. I had to put up with lack of privacy and all of Tom’s quirks. Yet, I wasn’t entitled to his pension or his life insurance payout when he croaked.
Maybe Winky was right. Maybe marrying Tom was the right thing to do. But then again....
Should I really be thinking about marrying Tom just so I get his stuff when he dies?
The mercenary nature of my thoughts shocked my Southern sensibilities enough that I argued back with myself.
I don’t want Tom to die. I love him! I just want all the sacrifices to be worth it. Is that too much to ask?
I shook my head to clear my mind and stomped on the gas pedal. Maggie’s twin-glasspack muffler roared to life, blowing away my lingering thoughts about matrimony. The void was filled by thoughts about my other housemate.
Snoggles.
A wry grin crept across my face.
Why am I so worried about Tom? The compromises I make for him are nothing compared to taking care of Snogs...and that pup doesn’t even bring home a paycheck!
Sir Albert Snoggles, III’s constant demand for attention had spelled the end to my lazy afternoons sprawled out in bed, binge-watching Forensic Files “for research” while Tom was at work.
Snoggles’ walnut-sized bladder had a two-hour wee window. That meant my ability to skitter off someplace willy-nilly, whenever I wanted, was also out the window.
For a four-pound ball of fur, Snogs had turned out to be a pretty heavy ball and chain. Even so, I didn’t mind that much. The frequent potty walks gave me a break from sitting at my computer all day writing. And, secretly, I hoped the exercise would keep my butt from growing wider with every passing hour....
However, what I did mind was all the work it now took simply to leave the house. I’d never had children of my own, so I hadn’t been prepared for all the preparation! I also hadn’t been expecting that a tiny puppy could be so darn smart.
I was pretty sure he had ESPP: extra-sensory puppy perception. What else would explain why Snogs would begin whining as soon as I reached for my shoes?
Nope. There were no more quick getaways in my future. First I had to cuddle Snogs for reassurance. Next came the obligatory doggy treats to keep him calm. Then, while he was busy licking peanut butter out of the center of a toy bone, I’d get busy scrounging up enough newspapers to line his cage. A walnut’s worth of liquid required a surprising amount of newsprint to soak it all up.
But the worst part about having a puppy was something I couldn’t blame on Snogs. It seemed that no matter what I did, I always felt guilty for leaving him alone.
Guilt sucked.
And for me, guilt had a face. It looked exactly like my adoptive mother, Lucille Jolly Short. Ironically, taking care of Snogs had actually given me a bit more empathy for what Lucille must have sacrificed when she allowed her husband Justas to take me in and raise me.
Still, it hadn’t been enough empathy to brave a phone call to her.
Not today, anyway.
I PULLED INTO MY DRIVEWAY and set Maggie’s gearshift to park. Then I sucked in a big breath and tried to shift my mindset, as well.
I will not feel guilty about caging Snogs.
Leaving Snogs cooped up in a cage while I was gone hadn’t been my first choice. But the little rascal had proven he couldn�
�t be trusted out loose on his own. Only once had I caved in to his whining and left him out while I ran a short errand. When I’d returned twenty minutes later, the little deviant had chewed his way through my tennis shoe, one of Tom’s socks, and the plastic handle on the kitchen dust pan.
I climbed out of Maggie’s bucket seat and fumbled in my purse for my house keys. As I turned the lock to the front door, I could hear Snogs begin to yip and whine.
How could so much noise come from a blob of white fluff the size of a bag of chips?
“I’m home Snogs!” I called out as I stepped inside.
I kicked off my sandals by the door, so as not to track in any beach sand still clinging to their soles. Then I padded barefoot over to the corner of the living room. When I looked down, Snogs was yapping and bouncing off the sides of his cage like a mop head in a tumble dryer.
“You crazy nutcase!”
I squatted down and slid the lock on the cage door. Snogs sprung through it and licked me in the chops before I could even figure out which end of him was which.
“Yuck! Stop!” I scolded.
Snogs rewarded me with another lick across the face.
“Ugh!”
The fluffy white pup jumped and danced and darted between my feet as I walked over to the sliding glass door that led to the backyard. Despite the messy kisses, the sound of his tiny nails ticking on the terrazzo floor made me smile.
I was a proud puppy mama.
I slid the door open. Snogs shot out into the backyard like a skein of wool fired from a grenade launcher. He bounded across the grass and disappeared behind the fire pit Tom had built for my birthday.
So much energy for such a teensy ball of nothing!
I shook my head and followed the sound of Snogs’ tiny yips and grunts.
Grunts? Wait a minute. That’s a new one.
I peeked around the fire pit and found Snogs busy christening the patio pavers with a poop deposit. He yipped again, and then I heard another grunt – but it wasn’t coming from him. It was coming from my next-door neighbor, Laverne.
Weird. I didn’t think Laverne was the grunting kind.
Since meeting the former Vegas showgirl three years ago, I’d come to know that Laverne Cowens valued glitz and glamour over pedestrian practicality any day. Always persnickety with her appearance, she preferred sequins to khakis, and wore makeup and high heels just to take out the trash.
Cloud Nine- When Pigs Fly Page 2
