Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 76664 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 383(@200wpm)___ 307(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76664 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 383(@200wpm)___ 307(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
Put a song on the ancient jukebox and ask her to dance? Offer my vintage copy of Great Expectations for her entertainment by way of further apology? See if I can find an open shoe store willing to deliver a new pair of heels at this hour?
Not likely in a storm, but worth a try.
As I open a search window on my cell, Red pulls a pen and paper from her purse. She begins furiously scribbling, muttering something about a “career obituary” and “death by poinsettia” beneath her breath.
Death…
Death is not funny.
If she’s that upset, I owe her more than a new pair of shoes.
I stand, crossing to the bar. When I slide onto the stool two down from hers, she doesn’t look up, but her pen stops moving.
“I am deeply and honestly sorry,” I say, in my most conciliatory tone. “Please, don’t commit death by poinsettia. You seem like a lovely girl, and that sounds like an awful way to go.” I wait until she glances my way before adding, “You’d have to eat an obscene amount of it, as well, since it isn’t actually all that poisonous. And that’s far too much work for someone who’s already down on her luck. So…”
“I was kidding. But thank you. I’ll mark death by poinsettia off my list.”
“May I?” I ask, gesturing at the paper.
After a brief hesitation, she slides it over with a shrug. “Sure, why not? It’s not like tonight can get any more embarrassing.”
Her handwriting is surprisingly tidy for a woman who looks like she’s never met an iron, a hairbrush, or a cup of coffee she wouldn’t spill on her skirt.
Post-Worst-Day-Ever Action Items
1. Track down Belinda Moore and beg her forgiveness on your hands and knees. On your belly, if necessary. Offer to de-thorn roses in her shop until you pay her back for the damage you’ve caused.
2. Find a new career, a gig you can work alone in shame-free isolation. (Librarian? Lighthouse tender? Dog walker? Dogs don’t judge nearly as much as rich people. Especially rich British people)
3. Change name. Get new nose. Possibly new face.
4. Give Maya your share of the business while apologizing profusely for being a failure who fails.
5. Move to a remote island where no one plans parties or has social media.
6. Become hermit.
7. Learn to make furniture from coconuts.
8. Drown sorrows in the ocean.
9. Drown sorrows in island rum.
10. If sorrows refuse to be drowned, consider poetic method of death. Possibly by poinsettia.
“Well, this won’t do at all,” I mutter, brow furrowing as I scan it again. “Your nose is perfect the way it is. Your face is quite nice, as well. And I’ve heard that coconuts are notoriously difficult to work with.”
She arches a wry brow. “Oh? Is that right?”
“It is,” I assure her seriously. “Far more difficult than rich people. Even rich British people. Coconuts are all attitude, wrapped in a spitefully hard exterior. And strangely hairy. No fruit or nut should be that hairy. It’s bizarre. And unpleasant.”
She huffs. “Noted. I’ll cross that line out, then. Think of something else.”
“I think that’s best,” I agree. “And can I suggest one more modification?” When she nods her permission, I push the list back across the bar. “New number one: Let annoying British man buy you drinks, food, and songs on the jukebox until the storm passes. Put off all life-changing decisions until tomorrow.”
Her lips twitch. It’s not quite a smile, but it’s progress. Definite progress. “I don’t know. That many changes might violate the integrity of the list.”
I frown. “List integrity? I thought you Americans were all about breaking the rules and rewriting the lists?”
“Maybe most Americans, but I’ve always felt more comfortable in other cultures,” she says. “Especially ones that like rules and don’t rush to change them.”
I hum beneath my breath. “Well, you’d love where I grew up, then. The village council has been fighting to keep a parking lot from going in by a popular local farm stand for years. They intend to stand in the way of progress and fun at any cost.” I shrug. “But mostly at the cost of the poor farmer looking for a way to keep his head above water after another shite harvest. There are times when rules and lists simply must be changed, Red.” I spin my nearly empty whiskey on the bar before adding in a more pointed tone, “Especially when it comes to death of any kind, but especially by poinsettia.”
When I glance her way again, her gaze is softer, less guarded.
I shoot her my most winning “please have pity on me, I didn’t mean to be an ass” forehead wrinkle. “So…about that drink?”
To my delight, she laughs. “Fine. You can buy the next round. But fair warning, I’m playing exclusively carols on the jukebox. I’m determined to get back in the Christmas spirit.”