Unfashionably Dead

Chapter Twelve

I think of Channelside, specifically the ice cream shop Lanie and I would frequent after break-ups, concerts, or just to celebrate the weekend. I will myself there and brace for the head spin. Fortunately, when I open my eyes, I land right in front of the ice cream counter.

The counter is empty, except for the tags that list the varieties of ice cream. I stare longingly at the sign for cake batter. At least I won't have to worry about the lactose intolerance, but the thought of no ice cream for the remainder of my existence is cruel.

I pass through the freezer and find the container labeled "cake batter" and am tempted to see if I can actually taste it. Grossed out by the prospect of ghosts hanging out in our food, I jump out of the freezer. I should probably get over that or life...er...death as a ghost might be a tad difficult.

A few people walk in the courtyard. They're bundled like the temperature is -7. In truth it's probably fifty degrees outside. That's just how Florida dresses if it's colder than seventy. You'd think a blizzard that would have you snow-bound for three weeks was on its way to Tampa.

At the dock, a cruise ship dwarfs the bars and restaurants, Howl at the Moon and The Dirty Pelican never seeming smaller. In another hour, the ship's passengers will flurry onto the scene, sunburned, hung-over, and trying to remember where they parked in the garage two blocks away.

I scan the courtyard for hiding places, but the rays are already beating down onto the coral cement. By the time Margaret arrives, they will be in full-force, causing those who are bundled-up to shed layers of clothing and me to gain layers of veil. I can only hope she selects a table under the shade of a palm tree or that she engages the umbrella.

It isn't long before Margaret sashays into Channelside. She's dressed in her Rag & Bone black skinny jeans and a fuzzy emerald sweater. Her crimson bra peeks out of the v-neck. Her hair is secured in a messy bun, spiral tendrils framing her face and bouncing with her every step. A monogrammed beach bag hangs over her shoulder. From its bulk, my shoes are snug inside it.

She finds the table nearest the stage where musicians will perform Christmas songs this afternoon. Metal grates against cement as Margaret scoots herself to the table and rests her elbows atop it. A man carrying a guitar case waves at her and she gives a cute wave that feigns shyness. If he only knew....

She sips a coffee, steam rising from the paper cup, and reads her phone as she waits patiently. Occasionally, she looks up from her phone and smiles at the children playing in the courtyard after disembarking the ship.  The sun's rays grow warmer, and Margaret flicks the umbrella.

I will myself to the center of the table, its wire mesh cutting through my body. Thankfully its shade protects me completely from the sunlight. I breathe a sigh of relief.

"Mind if I join you?" a man with a steaming cup of coffee in his hand asks Margaret. His confident smile and warm, hazel eyes strike me first.

She doesn't look up from her phone. "I'm waiting for someone, but you can stay until then."

I'm baffled that he doesn't leave. Do guys really like it when women treat them like dirt?

His eyes narrow, but he takes a seat. "Seen you around here, but never alone. Name's Tony." He extends his hand across the table. "And you are?"

Margaret finally breaks her attention from the phone. She looks at him from his closely cropped, light brown hair, to his Tommy Bahama shirt, to his khakis, and then smiles, seeming to approve of his taste in wardrobe. "I'm Margaret, Margaret Bertwinkle."

During their conversation, I learn Tony works for a software company and that he relocated here from California over the summer. He lives on Davis Island, the next island over, he doesn't have a girlfriend, and he loves flying. Margaret hangs on every word as he discusses flights to the Bahamas, Bermuda, and Miami. Once his wealth seems legit, they exchange numbers.

A barista comes racing out of the coffee shop, a gold piece of plastic in her hand and her blonde ponytail swaying. She stops at the table and looks at Tony. "There you are, Mr. T--"

Tony interrupts her. "It's just Tony, please."

A confused look crosses the barista's face as she looks at the card and back to Tony.

Tony sighs. "I go by my middle name, miss."

Her face seems to brighten. "Oh, okay. I can see that your face matches the picture on it and I know you forgot it, but I guess you can never be too vigilant." She hands the credit card to Tony and he quickly deposits it into his billfold. "Sorry about that Mr. T....er...Tony."

He waves her off and she returns to the coffee shop, while he and Margaret resume their flirting.

A woman with a squirming toddler in her arms and two preschool boys trailing behind her stops a few feet from the table. She stares at Margaret awkwardly before approaching her.

"Are you the woman selling the Manolos?" the woman asks between huffs of air. When Margaret nods her response, she sets the little girl down and orders the boys to watch their sister.

Tony reaches for Margaret's hand, gives it a light squeeze, tells her he looks forward to seeing her again, and leaves. The woman stares after him and says, "I'd never leave the bedroom if he were my man. Wow. You know how to pick 'em."

"We'll see. You can't always judge a book by a cover." She pulls the shoes out of the bag and shows them to the lady.

The woman inspects the shoes. As she turns over the shoe with the faulty heel, a thud, followed by a shrill wail, distracts her. Her daughter rises from the concrete, blood trickling down her chin. She scoops the child into her arms and fumbles inside her purse until she finds a napkin. She blots it against her daughter's fat lip and soothes her as she applies pressure to the wound.

Margaret asks the boys how old they are and offers the four-year-olds bubblegum from her purse. They sit in the seat next to her and talk about Legos, smacking their lips between words. Margaret is engaged in the conversation and seems to genuinely enjoy talking with the children.

Situation contained, the woman thanks Margaret for entertaining the boys. She turns the good shoe over and nods when it meets her approval. "Will you take a check?"

Margaret's eyes narrow. "$300 cash, that's what we agreed upon."

"Just checking," the woman says. "I've got it here but was hoping to hang on to some of it for the sitter tonight."

Margaret wears an expression that makes it clear it's not her problem.

The woman fishes the money out of her wallet and counts fifteen crisp, twenty-dollar bills. Margaret takes the money and stuffs it into her bag. Business over, they part ways, the boys blowing kisses at Margaret as they walk away.

Once they're out of earshot, Margaret says, "300 down, 2200 to go."

One o'clock comes and goes. Margaret eyes her cell phone, her lips pressed into a line. After fifteen minutes, she dials Adam's number and hangs up when there is no answer. She calls again and again, finally leaving a message after the fifth try.

"I don't appreciate being stood up. We'll make this simple. I want three grand by midnight. If I don't have it by then, I'm calling the hot cop from last night. I'll bet he'd be interested in what I have to tell him. Got it? I'll be at the Dirty Pelican tonight. See you there." She lets out a sigh as she places the phone inside her bag.

For a moment, she lingers, muttering that she could kill Adam and quite possibly enjoy it. Her lips twist into a smile and then readjust as she whines that her apartment won't clean itself. Shoulders sagged, she scoots her chair backward, not bothering to return it to the table or to throw away her empty coffee cup when she leaves.

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Author's Note: Thank you for still being here. I hope you're enjoying the story. I'd love to hear your thoughts!

Please bear with me over the next few weeks. As I type this, I know I've just slept the last time in my own bed until only God-knows-when. The next few weeks are going to be crazy busy with the drive to our new city, finding a house, unpacking our things, and registering the kids for school. I will do my best to stay in contact and continue posting the story. Thanks again.