“Coral Castle,” I repeated. Was this a joke? I’d spent the last seven years in South Florida. Surely, I’d know if there was a castle an hour and a half from my condo. “Sorry, but what is that?”
“It’s a little sad, really. I need to preface this by saying it isn’t a castle in the sense you’re thinking. It’s hard to describe. This Latvian immigrant single-handedly built the entire thing from limestone. And I mean giant slabs of it. No one knows how he did it.”
I set my fork down, intrigued. “What’s sad about that?”
“He built it as a monument to the love of his life, who left him one day before their wedding. The guy spent twenty-eight years building this thing, and she never even saw it.”
“That is really sad.”
Alex shrugged. “It’s probably not the kind of castle you were looking for, but I know the event planner. I catered this psychic event when they were in a pinch, and I bet she’d let us stay on a night they don’t have anything going on. If you wanted, that is.”
I pulled out my phone to look up the place. Essentially, Coral Castle was a giant courtyard surrounded by towering limestone walls and filled with strange limestone sculptures. It was... weird. Florida weird in the truest sense. And Alex was right, it wasn’t what I’d envisioned when I added this item. But then again, almost nothing this summer had turned out like I’d planned. It would certainly make for an interesting blog post.
“Why the hell not? It’s not like I have a lot of options here.”
Alex looked up from the cutting board. “Really? You’d be into that?”
I showed him the photo of Coral Castle on my phone. Giant limestone statues of moons and planets filled the frame. A creepy filter outlined each statue in a purple glow. “What woman in her right mindwouldn’twant to spend a night here?” I said.
“I’ll call the event planner, then.” Alex nodded to my plate. “Feeling better?”
I closed my eyes for a moment, taking stock of my head, then my stomach. “Actually, I am. Thank you, Chef Alex.”
“You’re very welcome, Stewardess Jo.”
“What’s this?” a voice said. We turned to find Nina at the galley door, papers clutched in her hand. She gestured to my empty plate. “This iswork, you know, not a diner.”
“I wasn’t feeling well.”
“Wasn’t, which means youarefeeling well now. We’ve got a fun charter today, so there’s a million and one things to do.”
Afuncharter could only mean one of two things. “Child or animal?” I asked.
“Animal.”
“Pomeranian or bichon frise?”
“Bichon frise.”
Alex and I groaned in unison.
Nina shot Alex a dirty look. “What are you complaining about?Youonly have to cook for it.Wehave to pretend to love it as much as the primaries do.”
Nina placed three sheets of paper on the island counter. I stood to join her and Alex. At the top of one sheet of paper was a photo of a dog with a bow on its head. “This is Bitty,” she explained.
“Bitty is on a low-carb, grain-free diet,” I read aloud. “Her favorites include lavender-infused water, gluten-free biscuits with blueberry compote. Her owners request a special birthday lunch of foie gras.” I looked up at Alex. “Can dogs even eat foie gras?”
Alex shook his head. “My plan is to makefauxgras. With lentils. Fools them every time.” He scanned the sheet again. “That is a definite no-go,” he said, pointing tobeef carpaccio. “No way I’m getting blamed if Mistress Bitty getsE. coli.”
“You know a lot about what dogs can and cannot eat for someone who has never had a dog,” Nina said.
Alex shrugged. “Comes with the job.”
“And they wantusto throw the dog a birthday party?” I said to Nina.
“Bitty is turning ten years old,” Nina said. “Why wouldn’t she have an extravagant birthday party with a price tag equivalent to an entire college education?” Nina pointed at Alex. “This will be the true test. Is Chef Alex as unflappable as he seems? Dog charters bring out the worst in everyone.”
“I don’t mind dogs,” he said. “They can’t complain about the cooking.”
