Then she turned.
Her expression changed when she saw me.
Not dramatically.
Just enough to make the three outfit changes feel slightly less humiliating.
“Well,” she said as I approached. “Look at you.”
I glanced down at the dress.
“Is that bad?”
“It’s alarming.”
“That sounds bad.”
“No. Alarming like when someone brings homemade brownies and you suddenly realize the day has possibilities.”
“That is a very specific kind of alarm.”
“The best kind.”
Her gaze moved over me again, slower this time.
“You clean up nice, Mysterious Annie.”
“I was told there would be terrible music. I wanted to show respect.”
“The steel drums appreciate formalwear.”
“This is a sundress.”
“On this beach, that is formalwear.”
The musician launched into what I suspected was “Margaritaville,” though it sounded as if the song had been translated into another language and then abandoned in a hot car.
Ellie winced affectionately.
“He’s improving.”
“At what?”
“Confidence.”
“I don’t think confidence is the issue.”
“That’s what makes him special.”
A woman leaned out of the truck.
“You eating or insulting the entertainment all night?”
“Both,” Ellie said.
The woman looked at me.
“You’re the egg girl.”
