The Third of July: A Romantic Holiday Story

by Rusty Fischer

say, joining her against the railing as the deck starts to empty now that the main event is over. “I… I’ve never seen anything like that.”

  She lowers her hand, allowing herself a crooked smile. “I told you I was good with kids,” she explains, wearing a crooked smile of satisfaction.

  “I see that,” I say.

  She nods, looking ten years younger in her crooked cap and little T-shirt, tied in a knot above the waist of her creased khaki pants. “Thanks,” she says, nodding. “I really needed to just let loose tonight. It was fun.”

  “I’m glad,” I say, inching closer. “I felt bad, about earlier…”

  She waves a hand, then leans back against the deck railing. “Don’t. I don’t know what I was thinking, applying here. I could never do what you guys do.”

  “Sure you could,” I say, joining her at the railing. Beneath us, the Bay ripples against the dock pilings and, above us, the sky is thick with smoke from the fireworks. With the empty deck and the scattered chairs and the drifting smoke, it feels a little like the end of the world.

  “Why… why weren’t you that enthusiastic about your interview?” I ask.

  She chuckles, turning to me. Her face is shiny with the heat, or joy, or both. She shrugs, making her neck full of beads jingle. “Nervous, I guess.”

  “I’m sorry if I made you feel that way, Elliot.”

  “You didn’t,” she insists, picking up her half-empty margarita glass, then putting it back down without taking a sip. “Life does.”

  “You gonna tell me why you ran away from Alabama now?” I ask.

  “I didn’t run away,” she sighs. “I just… left.”

  I nod, the sky quiet now, the deck empty, the busboys hustling to clean the last few tables, servers starting their side work, getting ready to go home. There are things I could be doing, should be doing, but none, it would seem, more important than what I’m doing right now.

  “My brother,” she says, voice tight, growing distant as she turns to stare out over the dark, rippling Bay. “We were very close growing up, and I thought I knew him. Knew everything about him. I guess not. Last Thanksgiving, he didn’t show up for dinner. I knew, I knew right then something was wrong. He’d never do that. Then again, I never thought he’d do… what he did…”

  She breaks off, looks away for awhile, staying silent so long I notice the canned reggae playing just a little too loud over the deck’s speakers. She turns back, eyes glinting in the moonlight.

  “After he was gone, it all fell apart. For forty-two years, I’d lived in a bubble, you know? No one I knew, no one close to me, had ever died before. And then, suddenly, the one person I thought I knew best… gone, forever. I… cracked up, right? Couldn’t eat, couldn’t sleep, couldn’t work…”

  She turns toward me, not quite unemotional, just... numb. “So I left. My parents had each other, their bridge club, their church groups, all I’d ever had was my brother, and now he was gone. For the first time in my life, I wanted to run away from home.”

  “And you came to Egret Cove?” I ask, throat as tight as hers.

  She smirks, wiping a tear. “I liked the name. It sounded… safe. Quiet, a soft place to land.”

  I nod and peer past her to the deep, black water of the Bay at her back. “Why?” she asks, soft as the water’s surface. “Why did you come here?”

  I feel a tightness in my throat. Five years and hundreds of shifts at Buccaneer Bob’s, and I can’t remember anyone ever asking me that before. “My grandmother raised me, back in Tennessee. She died six years ago, and I felt like you. Suddenly, home didn’t feel like home anymore. After a year of wondering what was wrong with me, and why I was so sad, and what was wrong with me, I got in my car and just started driving south. Every mile, I felt better and better. I stopped in Egret Cove for gas, figuring I’d drive to Miami, or even down to the Keys. But it was sunset, and beautiful, and there was a cheap motel next to the gas station, and I stayed the night. Then… the next five years.”

  She touches my forearm, gently, giving it a tight squeeze. I figure she’s going to take her hand right back, but she doesn’t. It stays, soft and warm, right where it is.

  “I’m sorry, Milo.”

  “Me too.”

  We turn and face each other, and I know in instant I can’t let her go home, hopeless, after a night filled with hope, laughter and… fireworks.

  “So,” I say, her hand still on mine. “There’s this thing we’re trying out, before the kids go back to school: Pirate Party Nights. Basically, kids eat free and get free eye patches and crayons and coloring books and we do games and activities. I… I haven’t found anybody who wants to host the night yet, but… I think you’d be perfect.”

  She is crying again, but happily this time, squeezing my arm in a pure vice grip of joy. “Are you sure?” she asks, then, “Are you serious?”

  “I’m both,” I say, nodding enthusiastically. “You know, it’s only for a month or two but I figure, once you get the swing of things around here, you might want to pick up a shift or two as a waitress and maybe, you know, stick around a little longer…”

  She’s shaking her head, smiling, laughing, crying at the same time. “When would I start?”

  “Tomorrow around five,” I say, and at last her hand leaves my forearm. I’m surprised by how much I miss it. “Come in,” I tell her, already looking forward to it, “we’ll do some paperwork, get you set up.”

  “Oh gosh,” she says, straightening, reaching for her purse. “I better get a good night’s sleep then, right Milo?”

  I chuckle. “And eat your Wheaties for breakfast,” I tell her.

  She takes a step away, then turns to face me. “I can’t tell you how much…” Then she gulps and walks away, quickly, before I can tell her “goodbye” or “no problem” or “maybe we could grab some coffee after I’m done here”.

  I hear keys jingling and turn to find Eva, standing there, glittery red stars quivering on her head. “Pirate’s Party Night?” she asks, arms across her buxom chest.

  I blush but then jut out my chin, defiantly. “I’m a manager now, right?” I ask.

  “Barely,” she points out with a curious grin.

  “Well, I’m making a management decision. Pirate’s Party Night, Fridays and Saturdays for the rest of the summer. We’ll see how it works out and, if it doesn’t, she can always bus tables until she gets her sea legs.”

  She smirks, and saunters past. “For her sake, I hope it works!”

  I’m turning, swinging back into manager mode, when Eva pauses, turns, and squeezes my shoulder. “I’m sorry about your grandmother,” she says, making me wonder just how long she’d been lurking in the shadows by the beer cooler. “But I’m glad you chose Egret Cove as your adopted home.”

  “Me too,” I say, watching her race to goad some busboy into wiping down his last table a smidge better.

  I grab the clipboard hanging from a nail outside the beer cooler, turn on the light and step inside. I think of Elliot, racing home to her cheap little one-bedroom apartment, in her cheap little apartment complex, not that far from mine, and smile.

  And hope I never, ever have to interview anyone, ever again!

  A knock sounds at the door to the beer color and I turn, smiling, thinking, hoping, it might be Elliot come to give me a quick “goodnight” or even a “thank you” kiss.

  Wrong; completely wrong.

  “I forgot to tell you,” Eva says, wearing a satisfied grin as her glittery red stars bobble overtime above her curly hair. “Dishwasher quit tonight, so I need you here at seven tomorrow to interview a few new guys for me.”

  “What? But I’ve got to close tonight!”

  She winks, patting me on the butt. “You’re a manager now, remember? And you did such a good job interviewing the new girl, I figured you’d want to jump right back on the horse…”

  * * * * *

  About the Author

  Rusty Fischer is the author of A Town Called Snowflake and G
reetings from Snowflake, both from Musa Publishing. Visit him at Seasons of Snowflake, https://www.seasonsofsnowflake.com, where you can read many of his FREE stories and collections, all about the fictional town of Snowflake, South Carolina.

  Happy Holidays, whatever time of year it may be!!