by Ali Brandon
Below her snaked the river Nattie had told her about. It was no placid stream, but a broad and seemingly deep beast of a river that raced its way past her. The boaters appeared to be out in full force: small cruisers, fishing boats, even a modest yacht or three. A few kayakers braved the waters, as well, along with placarded tour boats and water taxis. As Darla watched, what she guessed was a chartered party boat slowly drifted past, tanned young women in microscopic bikinis and young men in baggy board shorts gripping beer bottles and hurricane glasses while the sound of steel drums blasted from what had to be a dozen speakers.
Spring break time, she thought in indulgence as she did an impromptu dance step in response to the calypso music. Leaving the sliders open, she went to unpack her own bags.
Remembering that she’d promised to check in with James once she was settled into the hotel, Darla stopped unpacking and reached for her cell phone. Despite her worry over what might be going on back at the store, however, she had to suppress a laugh as James’s voice mail recording played.
Professor James T. James here. If you have reached this digital approximation of my voice, it is an indication that I am occupied with other duties. As I will not succumb to the prevailing societal rudeness that demands one answer a cellular phone to the detriment of more pressing obligations, you have no choice but to leave a message, which I will return at my convenience. Good day to you.
“Hey, James,” Darla said after the beep, with only a hint of a snicker, “this is Darla. Hamlet and I made it to the Waterview Hotel just fine.”
Before she could say any more, however, she heard the sound of a call coming through and checked the caller ID. “James,” she said, having hurriedly hung up on the original call, “did the plumber ever show? Are we still on schedule?”
“And hello to you, too, Darla,” came his familiar mellow tones. “I trust your flight was without incident?”
“No problems. Florida is great. Now, what about the coffee bar? I’m still annoyed that Alex Putin never even stopped by in person to introduce himself before I signed the contract.” Darla complained.
She stopped her diatribe when she heard a small sigh on the other end; then James replied, “As a matter of fact, Mr. Putin stopped by soon after I sent you the message this morning. He resolved the issue with the plumber, and all is back on track. Indeed, the basic bar is already roughed in.”
“Really? That’s fantastic!” Darla replied in relief. “Why don’t you text me a picture? No, don’t,” she interrupted herself. “I’m supposed to be focused on the cat show. If you start sending me pictures, I’ll just obsess over that. I’d rather wait and see the finished product when I get home again.”
She went on to give James their room number. “I’ll phone again tomorrow afternoon and let you know how Hamlet’s debut went,” she finished. “Call me on my cell if you or Robert need anything in the meantime.”
With that duty out of the way, she resumed unpacking. By the time she’d hung her last pair of slacks in the closet, Darla found herself yawning. No doubt the long plane ride and the tropical breeze were to blame, she told herself.
Checking on Hamlet once more and finding him snoozing in the bottom of the Jacuzzi tub, she returned to the balcony. Compared to the room, the balcony was a bit spartan: a broad U of railings with just enough room for two lounge chairs and a round table between them. The balconies on either side were almost touching distance from hers, but fortunately none of the other rooms’ occupants were taking advantage of the afternoon sun. Which meant that she could relax on one of the lounge chairs without worry of being disturbed. All she wanted to do was shut her eyes for a moment and listen to the breeze and the now-distant sound of calypso music.
Darla awoke with a start some time later to realize that the calypso music had long been silent, and the sun had fallen behind the taller buildings, leaving her balcony in shade. So much for closing my eyes for a minute, she thought in dismay. She must have slept for over an hour, she realized as she sat up and checked her watch. Yep, five o’clock. Time to check on Hamlet, and then—
She stifled a cry as she glimpsed something black out of the corner of her eye, like a small shadow . . . something that most definitely hadn’t been with her when she’d first settled on the lounger. Carefully, she turned her head toward the balcony to her left, visions of building-scaling sharks and errant coconuts swooping through her sleep-fuzzy brain.
And then she froze.
For there on her balcony, perched six floors up on a railing no wider than her hand, sat Hamlet.
FOUR
“HAMLET,” DARLA SOFTLY CAJOLED, BARELY DARING TO breathe. “Good boy, Hammy. Come down off that railing and sit with me, okay?”
From his narrow perch on the balcony rail six stories up, Hamlet blinked and stood. Then, while Darla watched in growing dread, he turned toward the river view and slid his front paws forward on the railing to stre-e-e-e-tch, tail and rump high in the air. Then he daintily began walking his makeshift balance beam, following along the short side. Not missing a step, he turned to march halfway down the railing in front of her, where he paused, silhouetted most artistically against the skyline and setting sun.
Darla winced as she took in this display, her heart beating wildly. How Hamlet had managed to get out of the closed bathroom, she could not guess. But she had no doubt that this show was being purposefully put on by the cagey feline, most likely in revenge for the plane ride and bathroom banishment. She should be furious with him, but terror was the only emotion she could summon at the moment. Even as athletic a cat as Hamlet could lose his balance. A six-story fall would likely mean his death.
Gulping back her fear, she softly called to him again. “Hamlet, come on back. You made your point, and you’re scaring me. Let’s go back inside, and then I’ll take you out for a nice supper downstairs.”
Hamlet stared back at her, green eyes wide, before glancing back at the river view behind him. As Darla watched in growing fear, he bunched himself up in preparation for a jump. Obviously, he had decided that freedom was worth the risk.
No, Hamlet, no! she silently screamed, fearing that if she lunged for him, he would tumble from the railing. As if in slow motion, Hamlet gathered himself for the leap . . . and then turned and lightly bounded onto her lounge chair before trotting back inside the hotel room.
“Hamlet, you little so-and-so!”
Darla did a little bounding of her own, leaping off the chair and rushing back inside after him. She stopped, however, to shove the slider door closed behind her, latching it and then dragging the desk chair up against it for good measure. No way was that balcony door getting opened again during their stay!
By the time she’d managed the door and turned back around, Hamlet was nowhere to be seen. Darla did a quick reconnoiter of the place and found him lying on her bed atop the decorative pillows that had earlier been arranged in a strategic pyramid of tropical hues. Now they’d been tumbled into an untidy heap upon which His Catship lounged, green eyes innocently wide and long black tail flicking ever so slightly.
“Hamlet, you gave me a freaking heart attack!” she scolded him, wagging a finger for emphasis. “Don’t you ever pull another stunt like that again, hear me?”
Hamlet merely blinked as if to say, Why so upset? This was all just an unfortunate misunderstanding.
Darla wasn’t buying what he was selling, however. Stomping from the room, she went over to examine the bathroom door, which stood ajar. She was certain she’d closed the door tightly when she’d left, but maybe the clever cat had figured out a way to open it.
Taking another look at the door, she noted that it opened with a lever-style handle. Stretched to his full length, Hamlet could likely just barely reach that handle, she judged. With a nice vertical leap, he’d easily be able to grab it between both front paws and, with his body weight hanging from it, click loose the catch. Since the ba
throom door opened outward into the main room, the momentum of his moving body would be enough to swing the door wide open.
Given the way he’d commandeered her bed, it was obvious Hamlet had no intention of being banished to the bathroom again. Bowing to the inevitable, Darla left that door open so that he had access to his litter box and food. So long as the balcony door remained shut, and the “do not disturb” sign remained on the hallway door, she judged it would be safe enough to leave him free to roam the room while she was there.
“Fine, Hamlet. You win,” Darla told him as she returned to the bedroom alcove. “I won’t lock you in again, but you have to swear you won’t try to run off, okay? Now, how about I change, and then we’ll go downstairs. Maybe they have crab croquettes here, too.”
A few minutes later, Darla had exchanged her jeans and top for a cute yellow-and-white striped sundress with a matching yellow sweater.
“All right, your turn,” she informed the cat as she held up his harness and leash.
Despite his earlier bad behavior, Hamlet was surprisingly agreeable about being fastened into the black harness and matching lead. He’d learned to walk on a leash a few weeks earlier at the recommendation of a self-styled “feline behavioral empath” named Brody Raywinkle. Darla had consulted with the young man (whom she privately referred to as a “cat whisperer”) to help rouse Hamlet from a dangerous funk he’d fallen into following a recent trauma. Whether or not Brody had actually been responsible for getting Hamlet back on track emotionally, she wasn’t sure. But he’d definitely been the one who had schooled the feline in the fine art of the harness, and daily walks had become part of their routine ever since.
A few minutes later, Darla and Hamlet were striding across the pale pink marble of the lobby. A few people—mostly the attractive bellmen Nattie had mentioned, though also a few hotel guests—were scattered about the open hall. Darla was immediately aware of attention turning quite blatantly her way. She wasn’t vain enough to think that she was the cause of the turning heads, appealing as the thought was. Obviously, it was the unexpected sight of what appeared to be a miniature panther walking on a leash that was drawing all the looks.
“Mama, Mama, look!” came the high-pitched cry from across the lobby. Darla glanced over to see a dark-haired boy, perhaps ten years old, pointing in her direction.
Darla gave the boy, who was wearing a green and orange Miami Dolphins T-shirt over red shorts, a friendly little wave in return. Cat lovers—indoctrinate them while they’re young, she thought in amusement. His mother, however, appeared less thrilled than he. Dressed in a plus-sized version of her son’s T-shirt, she continued dragging him in the direction of the elevators.
But the young man had other plans.
“Wait, it’s the Karate Kitty, the one on the computer!” Darla heard the boy stubbornly insist. “I want to meet him.”
He broke from his mother’s grasp and started running in Darla’s direction, his flip-flops slapping frantically upon the marble. “He really is the cat in the video, isn’t he?” the boy excitedly demanded of Darla as he skidded to a stop before her. “The Karate Kitty?”
Darla smiled. “You’re right; he really is. You’re pretty smart to recognize him. Hamlet thought he could go undercover down here in Florida.”
The boy, meanwhile, had dropped to his hands and knees before the feline. Hamlet sat back on his haunches and gave the child a cool green look in return. The boy widened his own eyes, but to Darla’s relief kept a respectful distance, even though he was literally bouncing with excitement.
“Wow, this is better than meeting Mickey! Can he do karate now? Can he?”
“I’m afraid Hamlet doesn’t do karate on demand. He’s very stubborn that way. But don’t worry, you can have his ‘paw’-tograph.” Darla pulled one of the fliers from her bag.
The boy stared in awe at the stamped paw print and then leaped up.
“Wow! Thanks!” he yelled, and then ran to meet his mother, who was still trudging toward them. The woman gave Darla a sour look as she grabbed her child’s hand and swung back around toward the elevators once more. The boy seemed not to notice his mother’s pique, however, for he was busy explaining to her how he’d just met the famous Karate Kitty.
“Sorry, Hamlet. I guess not everyone is a fan,” Darla told the feline. “Come on, let’s get a little exercise while it’s still light, and then we’ll grab some supper.”
Their first stop was the hotel gift shop, which offered, in addition to the usual snacks and emergency pharmaceuticals, an upscale collection of coastal-themed souvenirs. Several were items that Darla had seen in her own room: the embroidered guest robe, the tropical prints, the glass seashell sculpture, and even one of those pastel throw pillows Nattie had admired. Darla bought a handful of postcards to mail to friends and family. She also purchased a guest robe each for Robert and James, which she scheduled to be delivered up to her later that evening once she returned to the room. Then she and Hamlet—who had indicated his boredom with shopping by plopping down in the middle of the store and flinging one leg over his shoulder while he licked the base of his tail—headed for the great outdoors.
Leaving the hotel lobby, the pair headed down the sidewalk, making their way along picturesque Las Olas Boulevard. A mild breeze along with a setting sun made Darla glad she’d grabbed her sweater. The boulevard was stop-and-go with shoppers headed home and hungry diners headed in; still, the street traffic was far less frenetic than she was used to back in Brooklyn.
The pedestrian traffic, however, was a different story.
Feeling a bit smug now that she’d lived a year in a city where walking was the norm, Darla could immediately spy those tourists who rarely left the confines of their cars. These were the people who stopped smack in the middle of the sidewalk to discuss dining options, or who walked three and four abreast, so that anyone coming from the opposite direction had to step off the curb to let them pass. Not to mention the ones walking with travel brochures clutched in their hands, their heads bent back to ogle their surroundings.
“Hey, chica!”
The vaguely familiar-sounding salutation came from the street behind her. Darla tore her attention from a store window to see if she were the chica being hailed. Sure enough, she saw behind her a taxi whose bearded young driver was leaning toward the open passenger window, one tanned, tattooed arm waving in her direction.
“Looks like you found your ride,” the cabbie from the airport called with a grin. “And that must be el gato—the cat—you had in your bag. So, you and your gato need a cab now?”
“No, we’re just out enjoying a little walk,” Darla replied with a smile. “And I hate to tell you, but that snowbird lady who almost rear-ended you at the airport turned out to be my ride.”
“Seriously?”
The look of dismay he gave her made Darla laugh outright, her amusement earning her a slanted look from Hamlet. “Yeah, I know, but we made it here in one piece, so all’s well.”
“Well, be careful. You read the paper, and the police, they’re always pulling those old people’s cars out of canals and crashed buildings,” he warned. Pointing at the phone number on the cab door, he added, “Next time you need a ride, call and ask for Tino T. I’ll get you where you want to go. No crashes, I promise.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Darla told him, not sure whether he was kidding about the canals and buildings. But having recently experienced the road with Nattie at the wheel, she was inclined to believe him.
He nodded. “Oh, if you and your gato get hungry later, that’s my sister’s place,” he added, indicating a shop a few doors down. The sign said “Jennie’s Bakery,” the same place Darla had noticed on the drive to the hotel. “She makes the best Cuban pastries in town. Tell her I sent you and she’ll give you a sample.”
“I’ll do that,” Darla assured him.
Tino nodded and waved aga
in before blending back into traffic. Still smiling, Darla turned her attention back to Hamlet. “Okay, that talk about pastries was the last straw. How about we call it quits on the walk and grab a bite at the hotel?”
Fifteen or so bistro tables on the sidewalk along the hotel comprised the outdoor dining at the Waterview’s restaurant, fenced in by waist-high wrought iron and leaving the rest of the walkway clear for pedestrian traffic. Each table was appointed with crisp white napkins folded into crowns and green glass chargers that matched the empty imported water bottles serving as vases for single red hibiscus blooms. Seats were already filling up despite the early hour, so Darla felt fortunate to score a table with a clear view of the street and activity across the way.
At the end of the row of tables, a column supported the permanent overhang sheltering the sidewalk dining area. Behind that column, a saxophonist was playing something light and breezy that made Darla think of piña coladas and ocean surf. Inspired, she waved down her server, a petite girl dressed in black slacks and a gold Waterview blouse topped by a long black apron, and ordered one—a drink, not an ocean.
“And water for my cat, please,” she added to the departing girl as she looped Hamlet’s lead around the leg of her chair. Unimpressed by the ambiance that so pleased Darla, the feline responded by leaping up onto the seat next to her and plopping into an inky heap.
“No sulking,” she told him. “I’ll buy you a nice shrimp cocktail to make up for the flight.”
A few minutes later, the frosty rum, coconut, and pineapple concoction in her hand and Hamlet’s bowl of water safely under the seat, Darla ordered their suppers and settled in for a bit of people watching. There was plenty to see from her vantage point. Most of the passersby were dressed in either tourist regalia: logo T-shirts (variations on the Mouse predominating) and shorts or jeans for both male and female; or what she’d dubbed “South Florida casual”: flirty sundresses like hers for the ladies, and Hawaiian shirts over cargo pants or chinos for the men.
