Except for the bandages, she thought she looked…decent. She wasn’t going to win any beauty contests, but that was the case any day of the week.
She exited the room after throwing on the hotel’s complimentary robe and slipping into her flip-flops. All her clean clothes were in her bag on the catamaran, so she’d sent the dirty clothes she’d been wearing to the hotel laundry with a note pleading with them to get everything washed and back by tomorrow morning.
She hoped everyone would simply assume she was wearing a swimsuit under her robe. After all, this was Key West. People tended to run around robed when hopping from their rooms to the pool to the beach.
Once she was in the hallway, she turned toward the elevator. She had one destination in mind. The downstairs bar.
Number one, she could use a stiff drink. Number two, she was starving. And if memory served, the kitchen stayed open ’til midnight.
As she waited impatiently for the elevator to arrive, she ticked off on her fingers the events of the day. She’d gone all gooey over a guy who was a big fat liar, had learned to shoot a handgun, hadshota handgun, had been shotat, had seen three men die violently, had watched the big fat liar get stabbed, had hitched a ride for the second time in her life on a Coast Guard cutter, had been questioned to exhaustion by local, state, and federal authorities,andhad stood by helplessly as all her hopes and dreams of the big fat liar had died an instant death.
She laughed a little hysterically and thought,What will I do tomorrow for an encore?
Then the elevator arrived. When it opened, she made sure her expression was appropriatelyunneurotic looking. She didn’t want to frighten the elderly couple who moved aside to make room for her.
Her theory about the robe/swimsuit combo proved correct when the man, who bore a striking resemblance to George Burns, said, “It’s a beautiful night for a swim.”
“Mmm,” Alex hummed noncommittally. She didn’t want to be rude, but it was difficult to speak when she was busy chewing nails.
“Just be careful of those bandages, dearie. I’m sure you’re not supposed to get them wet,” added the man’s…wife?…sister?…friend?…lover? Alex wasn’t an ageist, sexist, or traditionalist; she didn’t want to make any assumptions.
Since she figured what would come next was a question about how she’d injured herself, since she didn’t currently have the wherewithal to think up a good lie, and since shesureas heck couldn’t tell them the truth, she forced herself to spit out the nails, paste on a passive smile, and ask, “Is this your first time to Key West?”
“Oh no, dearie.” The woman chuckled. Alex couldn’t tell if her eyes were gray or just clouded by cataracts. “We come every year to celebrate our anniversary.” The woman patted George Burns’s arm. “Yesterday marked fifty-eight years of marriage.”
“Wow! Happy anniversary.” Alex wondered ifshewould ever find someone who would love her for fifty-eight years.
Judging by her current trajectory, the odds weren’t looking good.
“I bet you want to know the secret, huh?” The man winked at Alex. Since the lenses of his round glasses magnified his eyes to about three times their normal size, the experience was a little startling.
“Do tell,” Alex enthused, surprised she didn’t have to fake it. The little couple was just too cute. It was impossible to hold on to her pique around them.
“Find someone whose favorite breakfast cereal is different from yours.”
The man’s wife nodded enthusiastically. “That way, you never start the day with a fight over who gets the last bowl.”
Alex smiled. “That’s all it takes?”
“Oh, no, dearie.” The woman grinned. “But if we had the true secret to making a marriage last, we’d be millionaires and celebrating our anniversary in Fiji.”
Ding!
Alex was chuckling when the elevator hit the ground floor. She waved affectionately at the couple before stepping into the lobby.
A quick right took her to the bar, which was filled to capacity with sunburned tourists and leather-skinned locals. The air was heavy with the smell of suntan lotion and booze. And the Rolling Stones blasted from the speakers in the corners—good ol’ Mick lamenting how he couldn’t get no satisfaction.
You and me both, brother, Alex thought as she headed toward the bar, her steps quickening when she saw the tall, spare man seated on a stool at one end.
Doc Simmons didn’t have an ounce of wasted flesh on him. And his handsome face and devil-may-care hair usually meant he was surrounded by a bevy of female admirers. Tonight, however, he appeared to be drinking alone.
“Doc!” She pushed through the crowd toward him.
She would be forever grateful to him for coming to her rescue at the docks earlier. Seeing Mason with Donna—Mason with that body and those eyes and that smile turned toward someone else—had been too much. Alex had needed to run and…find shelter from the vicious thing eating at her insides. Doc had provided all of that when he hollered her name and opened his arms.
“Hey, Baby Bear.” He used the nickname he’d adopted for her one day after Bran called them into the kitchen to taste test his latest homemade lasagna.
Doc, a true westerner with little tolerance for spice, had declared the lasagna too hot. Alex, on the other hand, had pronounced it just right. Bran had made a “Goldilocks and the Three Bears” joke, and from then on, Doc was Papa Bear and she was Baby Bear.
