“It didn’t even ring. I immediately got a robot telling me to leave a message.”
“And did you?”
“Scruffy did.”
“Of course he did. Let me talk to him.”
“Scruff, say howdy to your Auntie Sis.”
“Arf.”
As you can tell, his English vocabulary is growing by leaps and bounds.
***
After talking with Sister, I poured a Bai coconut and pineapple drink over ice, added a healthy dollop of spiced rum, and returned to the porch. It was always quiet at the cabin, with few outside world noises reaching us. Frustrated skeeters buzzed the screen, an owl hooted. The cabin sat on two acres, with enough waterfront to not see my neighbors on either side.
I was about to doze off on a lounger when a thought hit me. Why did Sister ask me how many times Jeff’s phone rang before going to voicemail?
Googling the question, I was dismayed. “Scruffy, Mr. Google says Jeff might have blocked us. Looks like I’ve really screwed the pooch here.”
“Woof?”
“Relax, it’s just a figure of speech.”
***
The next few days I got on with life, which was difficult, what with thoughts and memories of times with Jeff constantly interrupting my concentration.
My kitchen cabinets arrived and were installed—a task I knew was above my paygrade—and then came countertops, appliances, my couch—I splurged and bought an oversized one with washable slipcovers—and the propane dude with my tank. As soon as he left I took a long, hot, shower in lieu of my daily dunk in the river.
My family came over for the first meal I cooked in my new kitchen, and I managed not to screw anything up. But then again, who can mess up Frito pie and salad?
The next day I spent hours putting together resumes, aiming each one at the would-be employer’s requirements, fudging as necessary with an assist from Sister’s hubby. Since he worked for a local computer giant, he was my best contact in the industry. He said he could probably get me in at an entry level job at the main campus, but I wasn’t up to an hour-each-way commute every day in a crazy traffic jam. My previous expertise in software development had gone the way of the wooly mammoth, but at least I wasn’t starting from scratch, as in having to go back to school. I hoped.
Researching the Internet for available work-from-home jobs, I took great pains to read as much as I could about each prospective employer, and whether I thought the job description was something I could handle. Or at least fake, until I got a foot in their virtual door. The unfortunate fact that I had disappeared for five years posed a problem; prospective employers do not get warm and fuzzy about that sort of thing.
After Googling my name like a pesky HR person would, I learned that I was either dead and buried in Maine, an ordained minister, the author of three novels, or the real me, who showed up as living in Texas, and working for my old firm.
“Well, yay for us, Scruffers, no mention of me being a fugitive from justice, here or in Mexico.”
I signed up for one of those sites that track people down and used my own Social Security number and name to delve deeper into what a background check would turn up. The info showed me as a homeowner, listed the dates I worked for the software design company and, also, two surprises: I was still listed as an employee of Baja Timeshares, and I had a good credit rating. Okay, now I could explain away five years in Mexico.
“Good heavens, Scruffy, we have a great credit rating? Which begs the question, if I check any dude I might meet, can I trust the internet to vet him? ”
“Woof?”
“No, I haven’t met anyone. Just speculating. I know, you love Jeff, but he isn’t in the picture, and I plan to find someone else to play with. I love you, but I’m getting a little horny. And bye-the-bye, one of us has to get a job. You have any job skills?”
He tilted that loveable big head of his.
“I didn’t think so.”
***
After a long day of striving to make myself look like stellar employee material, or even just regular employee material, I adopted Ben Franklin’s early to bed, early to rise way of life, only taking a couple of swims a day to break the tedium of tackling job enquiries.
Five days after Jeff called, I was settled in my bed with a Kindle in hand and a large dog in his own bed, when he rumbled a warning, stood, and rushed the front door, barking furiously. It was the exact same behavior he used for his snake alarm, so I grabbed my shotgun, hoping the varmint would slither off.
In the back of my mind, even though I was told Dev shipped off to France, I was still on guard. Yes, he’d pleaded with me to marry him—couldn’t live without me—then when he took a powder, and the authorities became suspicious of our marriage, he’d threatened to kill me and my family if I testified against him. I headed south of the border so I couldn’t rat the rat out.
Hugging my shotgun, I sort of hoped it was him, and that he tried to batter down my door, so I could end any worries over him in the future. Texas, after all, is a stand your ground state. Bad Becky!
“Scruffy! Settle down! I can’t hear anything with all your noise.”
I opened a mini-blind over the kitchen sink and peered out. It was dark, but I could make out shapes against the moon glitter on the water. “Kinda looks like someone’s tying up to our dock. We’ll just keep an eye on them, okay pal?”
Night anglers occasionally tied up to any old dock, so I was actually just relieved that I didn’t have to deal with a rattler. Unless I had a human snake on my hands.
Cussing myself for leaving my binoculars out on the screened porch, I stood at the window in the darkened house and scratched Scruffy’s ears, speaking softly to him. He was grumbling, “Lemme at him!” I was sorely tempted to do just that, but I wanted to be sure my dog wouldn’t be harmed.
“Shhhh. No bark.”
He gave me a confused look. I’d spent hours teaching him how to bark, and now I was ordering him not to. Humans are nuts that way.
Staring at the dark waterfront dock, I could just make out the outline of what looked like a pontoon boat like so many I see on the lake every day. When whoever it was climbed onto the dock, I decided to let them know they were trespassing.
Stepping out onto the screened-in porch, I flipped a switch by the front door, and flooded the dock area in a pool of bright light. Both my dog and I were taken by surprise. I froze in place, but Scruffy went plumb crazy. I couldn’t hold him, and quite frankly, I didn’t want to.
I recovered enough to let him out the screened door just in time to prevent him bursting through it, and even then he almost knocked me down rushing past. As he charged the dock, I followed, still cradling my shotgun.
Scruffy, in a full-on gallop, went airborne when his big paws hit the first dock plank, then eighty-five pounds of joyful, unstoppable force hit Jeff, full throttle, in the chest.
A holler and a loud splash told the rest of the story.
By the time I raced down to the dock, Scruffy had scrambled onto the bank and was barking and whining as he paced the rocky beach and stared out at the water.
Fearing Jeff had been knocked out, I first stopped at the boat in case he was hunky-dory and had managed to climb back in via his swim ladder, but no such luck.
Spotting a glimpse of something white bobbing in the dark water offshore, but outside the dock light’s glow, I grabbed a life ring from a hook on the light pole and jumped in.
Pushing the float in front of me, I kicked furiously to close the distance to where I thought Jeff might be. Praying I didn’t find him face down, I cursed myself for loosing the hound, who splashed in behind me, passed me, and was trying to herd me back to the dock, which blocked my view of what I thought was Jeff.
Getting around Scruffy proved impossible, so I rammed him with the ring and kicked furiously to push him in front of me. The water was fairly warm, but a feeder spring nearby made for chilling cold spots capable of inducing hypothermia, and also in the back of my mind lurked a
fear of the lights attracting snapping turtles and water moccasins, something none of us needed to cope with.
“Jeff! Jeff! Where are you?” I yelled.
“Over here, Becky,” he answered, “and I’m fine. Scruffy knocked the wind out of me temporarily, but I’m a strong swimmer. I’ll meet you on the dock.”
Scruffy, on hearing Jeff’s voice, gave up pushing me back to shore and took off, leaving me to dogpaddle back to the dock alone. I was tiring fast, mainly from an adrenaline crash that left me wearied. Luckily I had a floatation device, so I took my time, knowing a boarding ladder awaited.
When I finally climbed up, Jeff was already there, holding out a large, very familiar, beach towel. “What took you so long, Red?”
“What took me so long? You walk out of my life four months ago, and you’re asking me that question?”
Scruffy, who had moved in to lick lake water from my legs, moved away when he heard the strident tone of my voice.
I dried my face then shook the towel at Jeff.
“I hope you didn’t go to all this trouble in order to dump me again.”
“Huh?”
“Is this not the very same towel you spread out on the beach in front of del Coronado? That day you said we needed to talk, and then you chickened out and later wrote me a Dear Becky letter instead?”
He looked at the towel and shook his head. “You remembered the damned towel?”
“I remember everything, Jeff, and don’t you ever forget it.”
“I certainly won’t. Look, I’m here. Can we talk?”
I glared at him. “You dump me like a hot tamale in San Diego, disappear for months, and then waltz in here like nothing happened? You have some nerve.”
He grinned. “Technically I motored in, but guilty of two out of three is bad enough. However, I didn’t expect Scruffy to try and drown me. You’ve done one hell of a job of turning this mutt into a guard dog.” He held out a peace offering.
I snatched the proffered beer and stomped back to the porch, Jeff and Scruffy hot on my heels. Before the screen door slammed behind me, Scruffy scooted through, leaving Jeff to stand forlornly on the other side.
“Uh, Becky, can I come in? There are mosquitos out here.”
“Serves you right.”
“Look, I’m sorry. Will you let me explain?”
“What do you think, Scruffers? Should we let this miscreant into our lives again, however briefly.”
“Woof.”
“He says you have to beg forgiveness.”
“He woofs English now?”
“Yes, no thanks to you.”
“Okay, I’m begging. And apologizing. I have been a bad father. What can I do to make it up to him? I love him. I love both of you.”
He had his nose to the screen, that blonde/gray hair plastered his forehead, and those blue, blue eyes spoke pure sincerity.
I mean, what’s a girl to do?
I opened the door.
Epilogue
The morning after Jeff showed up and wormed his way back into my heart, we were having coffee on the porch when he told me he was on a leave of absence and wanted to stay with me as long as I’d let him.
“Whoa there. What? After ravishing me all night, you’re telling me you might be taking off again? I swear, Jeff, I’m tempted to go get my shotgun. Leave of absence from where?”
“My job.”
“Which is?”
“If I tell you, Red, you have to promise to marry me.”
“What happened to the old saw, ‘If I tell you I’ll have to kill you’?”
“Not applicable. Well, not any more. Let’s just say, I am not a bad-guy. Can you just trust me for now? I’m sort of in the middle of a career change.”
“Well, if I have to marry you to find out the truth, then okay.”
“Was that a yes? If so, it is the least romantic ‘yes’ I’ve ever heard.”
“Really, Jeff? That was the lamest proposal I ever heard. And just how many women have you asked to marry you?”
“Including you? One.”
“In that case you are forgiven your soporific try on the grounds that you haven’t had much practice.”
“Was mine at least as good as Devereaux Goot-yay’s?”
“Well, he is French, you know.”
He grinned. “I do know, but did he have a ring in his pocket?”
“Do you? Or is that a pistol you’re packing?”
“Check for yourself,” he said, pulling his pocket open.
I giggled, remembering a schtick from reruns of a television oldie my dad loves. “I feel crazy,” I said, reaching into the pocket.
Jeff didn’t miss a beat. He waggled his eyebrows, and said, “Reach a little deeper and you’ll feel nuts.”
Plunging my hand down a little farther, I pulled out a damp black velvet box and opened it to reveal a stunning Belle Epoque diamond ring.
“Wow, Scruffers,” I said, showing him the ring. “This guy knows what we like, and Daddy would approve since he’s a Groucho Marx fan. So what do you think? Do we want to get stuck with a man of mystery for the rest of our lives?”
Scruffy licked the ring.
Dear Reader, I hollered, “Yes! Yes! Yes!”
THE END
About the Author
Jinx Schwartz is the author of fourteen books, including ten in the award-winning Hetta Coffey series.
Raised in the jungles of Haiti and Thailand, with returns to Texas in-between, Jinx followed her father's steel-toed footsteps into the Construction and Engineering industry in hopes of building dams. Finding all the good rivers taken, she traveled the world defacing other landscapes with mega-projects in Alaska, Japan, New Zealand, Puerto Rico, and Mexico.
Like the protagonist in her series, Jinx was single, with a yacht, when she met her husband, Robert “Mad Dog” Schwartz. They opted to become cash-poor cruisers, rather than continue racing the rat, sailed under the Golden Gate Bridge, turned left, and headed for Mexico's Sea of Cortez, where many of her books are set.
After losing the love of her life to cancer in 2016, she has divided her time between her boat, traveling the Baja, and writing. She is now out on a new adventure in her RV, wandering around and hoping to meet many of her readers.
To follow her meanderings, as well as updates on new and free books, you can follow Jinx here on:
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A Note of Gratitude
Thank you so much for reading my work. If you enjoyed the experience, please post a short review on Amazon, BookBub or Goodreads. Reviews are the gold standard for authors and, believe me, we appreciate each and every one of yours.
I’d like to acknowledge and thank Holly Whitman, who has been the first round editor of every one of my books. She keeps me out of the ditch when I write myself into one. Thanks Holly!
And, I have amazingly sharp-eyed beta readers who catch all sorts of things this author overlooks. Deep thanks to: Stephen Brown, Jenni Cornell, William Jones, Jeff Bockman, Lela Cargill, Fran Knowles, Mary Jordan, Lee H. Johnson, C. S. Repsold, Sybil Dean, and George Burke.
With all those eyes on my words, boo-boos do manage to creep into a book, no matter how many great folks read it before publication. If you find an error, it’s all on me. Should you come upon one of these culprits, please let me know so I can smite it with my mighty keyboard! You can e-mail me at [email protected]
Books by Jinx Schwartz
The Hetta Coffey Series
Book #1: Just Add Water *Excerpt Below!
Book #2: Just Add Salt
Book #3: Just Add Trouble
Book #4: Just Deserts
Book #5: Just the Pits
Book #6: Just Needs Killin'
Book #7: Just Different Devils
Book #8: Just Pardon My French
Book #9: Just Follow the Money
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br /> Book #10: Just for the Birds
Other Books
The Texicans
Troubled Sea
Land of Mountains
Baja Get Away
Insider’s Guide To The Best of Mexico (anthology by 42 experts)
Excerpt: Just Add Water
Book one in the Hetta Coffey series
Chapter One
From our window table at a trendy waterfront eatery in the People’s Republic of Berkeley, Jan and I commanded a postcard vista of where Tony Bennett left his heart. Piped music spared us Mr. Bennett’s signature song, but not Dock of the Bay. San Francisco Bay sparkled despite washy late summer sunshine. A fog bank glowered on the horizon, held in abeyance by the famous red steel guardian at her gate.
Settling into velvety, overstuffed armchairs under a canopy of Boston ferns, and surrounded by enough stained glass to compete with a European cathedral, we projected a studied image. Our makeup was meticulously applied to look as though we weren’t wearing any. Chic, sleek, blunt-cut coifs, hers long and naturally ash blonde, mine a short “naturally enhanced” red, were designed to look oh, so casual. After all, we were on a mission.
Jan’s Brooks Brothers jacket draped gracefully on her tall frame while my Armani tested its button’s tensile strength across my unfashionable boobs. We both wore de rigueur Gap khakis. Chunky gold bracelets, rings, Rolexes, and loop earrings—no démodé dangles or diamonds—along with Fendi bags and Ralph Lauren turtlenecks completed our ensembles. I sported my favorite red Converse High-tops for a touch of whimsy.
Jan’s tall, slim, blondness contrasted with my short, chunky, perkiness, saving us from Tweedledee and Tweedledum-dom. Cute enough to draw looks, but not so done up as to telegraph “gals on prowl.” Even though we were. If, that is, one could call two aging broads out trolling for triceps cute. And since I seem to operate on an ecologically correct catch-and-release system, one might wonder why I even bother baiting up.
Baja Get Away Page 12
