Читать книгу Spinning Forward - Terri DuLong - Страница 11

“It’s for you,” Ali said, passing me the phone.

Expecting to hear Monica’s voice, (who else would call me?) I was surprised to hear a Southern drawl.

“Hey, there, sweetie. Ida Mae here. I have your application and I’d like to hire you.”

“Me?” I replied, stupidly.

I heard Ida Mae’s laughter come across the line.

“Sure. You. I think you’d be reliable and dependable. Not like those teenagers who say they want to work and then lounge around. So…tomorrow’s Thanksgiving. That means a very busy weekend. Could you start on Friday? And your days would be Friday, Saturday, Monday, and Tuesday? This way you’ll have two pretty busy days and then two slower ones. How would that be?”

Be? I never thought I’d be so excited to gain employment as a waitress. We discussed salary, and I was surprised to hear she’d be paying me a little more than minimum wage, plus my tips, of course.

I clicked to disconnect the phone, grabbed Ali, and proceeded to dance her around the kitchen, both of us giggling and laughing like we used to in college.

“I take it you got the job?” she teased.

“Can you believe it?”

Slowing down to catch her breath, she said, “Of course I can believe it. You have a lot to offer in any position, Syd. Believe in yourself.”

I felt good. The best I’d felt in months. “Here,” I said, sitting her down at the table. “Let me practice and pour you some sweet tea.”

Just as I’d placed the glass in front of her, the phone rang again. My confidence evaporated as I prayed it wasn’t Ida Mae changing her mind.

“Monica,” Ali said, passing the phone to me again.

“Hey, sweetie,” I said, feeling more positive than I had in ages. “Guess what?”

“You’re coming back up here?”

Why couldn’t that girl get it through her head that up there was a dead end for me? “No, I’m not. But…I did get myself a job today. I’ll be a waitress at Cook’s Café downtown. Four days a week.”

“Oh, God, Mom. Are you serious? Doing waitress work at your age? What about your bad leg veins? How the heck are you going to stand on your feet for hours, carting heavy trays?”

I have to admit…my daughter certainly had a way of bursting my bubble. “My age? Christ, Monica, I’m hardly ready for a nursing home. I’m still ten years away from Social Security. No, it won’t be easy. But I have to do something for income.” I found myself apologizing to my daughter. For what, I wondered.

“Well, I didn’t mean to imply you’re over the hill, but…whatever. I just wanted to call and wish you a Happy Thanksgiving a day early. Jen and I are heading out tomorrow morning for the White Mountains. They’ve had snow and the skiing should be good.”

“You and Jen? Aren’t you spending Thanksgiving with Russ?” My daughter had been dating the Boston attorney for almost a year. He’d written a book and they’d met at a party the publishing company she worked for had given.

There was a brief silence and then she said, “Russ and I are finished.”

That was it. No explanation. Nothing.

“Oh,” I replied, not knowing what else to say.

“Right. So anyway, have a good day tomorrow. I’ll be back on Sunday, so I’ll touch base with you next week.”

I hung up the phone, looked at Ali and shook my head. “I don’t know what it is about Monica and me. We got along so well when she was younger. But lately…we’re like oil and water.”

“Is she giving you a hassle again?”

“I think it’s safe to say she’s not enthused at all about her mom working as a waitress. Probably ashamed. And I just found out that she and Russ are over. I don’t understand that either. She gets into, what seems like, serious relationships and then before a year has passed, they’re history.”

“Well, she’s twenty-six and still has plenty of time to find Mr. Right. Girls today stay single much longer than we did.”

“Hmm, true. She might not be happy for me, but I’m going to take Lilly and go for a nice walk downtown to the beach to celebrate getting back into the work force.”

“Good for you. I think you’ll enjoy working at Cook’s. Ida Mae’s from another family that’s been here forever on the island. Some of the people you’ll meet will be a bit quirky, but they’re good people, and I think you’ll enjoy them.”

“Speaking of quirky,” I said and proceeded to tell Ali about the woman with the dark glasses I’d encountered the day before.

Alison laughed. “Oh, yeah. That would be Sybile. Sybile Bowden—a real character. Lived here all her life. Rumor has it that she left the island at age eighteen for the big lights of New York City. But after a very lucrative divorce settlement, she came back. The prodigal daughter, I guess.”

“Was she an actress?”

“Into modeling, I think. I’m not really sure. She keeps pretty much to herself. Has a sister here on the island, but they’re like night and day. You’d never know they were sisters. Sybile lives in a very unusual home—the Lighthouse. It’s on Rye Key. I think when it comes to marching to the beat of a different drummer, Sybile has me beat by miles.”

Based on what I’d observed the day before, I had to admit Alison was probably right.

Unlike the cold and gloomy New England Novembers, afternoons on the island were perfect for walking and soaking up the semi-tropical climate. I stood on the bridge heading to Dock Street and paused to watch airboats cruising out from the marina into the Gulf. Their loud motors reverberated through the otherwise silent air. Mullet jumped in the water below and further away, I could make out the silver fins of dolphin jumping. Yeah, each day it was becoming easier to see what drew Ali to this place.

Walking along Dock Street, I ended up at City Park and the beach. Unclipping Lilly’s leash to let her run, I went to sit on a bench and sip my afternoon coffee. The yipping of a small poodle drew my attention to an elderly man entering the park. He raised a hand in greeting as he took the bench next to me and his dog ran off to play with Lilly.

“Beautiful afternoon isn’t it?” he said.

I nodded. “It sure is. Coming from New England it’s hard to believe that tomorrow’s Thanksgiving.”

“You visiting here?” the man inquired.

“An extended visit, you might say. My friend Alison owns the B and B, and I’m staying with her.”

The man turned to face me. His baseball cap stated he was a member of Eagles Aerie 424 and his T-shirt, suspenders, and baggy pants reminded me of Jeb on The Beverly Hillbillies. A weather-beaten face showed too many years of sun and caused deep furrows in his forehead and cheeks. But these features faded when he smiled.

Extending his hand to accompany a grin, he said, “Why, I know who you are. Yup, you’re that friend of Ali’s she said was comin’ from the Boston area. Nice to meet ya, ma’am. I’m Saren. Saren Ghetti.”

I accepted his handshake and laughed. “Are you serious? That’s really your name? Like the Serengeti Plain?”

He joined my laughter. “Yup. My mama and daddy, they thought if they gave me a different kinda name, I’d go on to do great things in the world.”

I couldn’t resist. “And did you?”

“Well, now, that depends what ya think great things are. I’m an artist. Nah, not as great as Picasso or Monet, but I’ve gotten by. Sold a lot of paintings around the world over the years.” He nodded his head emphatically. “All those sales have provided for me in my old age. So I guess I did okay.”

I detected a resiliency in the man’s demeanor. “Do you still paint?”

Saren removed his cap, scratching his head before replying. “Yeah, guess ya could say I do. But not as much. The old fingers don’t work like they used to. Damn arthritis tightens them up.”

I glanced at his hands that were twisted with swollen joints.

“But ya gotta keep movin’. What’s that they say? If ya don’t use it, ya lose it. Well, I don’t intend to lose it. I turn eighty-two on my next birthday and I say life is what ya make of it.”

Good philosophy. The man obviously took the bad with the good. “Cute little dog,” I said, watching the black poodle dash into the water to catch Lilly.

“Ah, that’s my Aggie. Me and her, we go way back. She’s fourteen. Never know it though, would ya? That’s ’cuz I keep her as active as I am. We walk three times a day. Don’t know what I’d do without my Aggie. She’s my best friend.”

The simplicity of his words touched me. “All of your love for her shows. She looks great.”

Saren waved his hand to somebody in back of me and I turned to see the strange woman with the sunglasses walking past the park.

“Hi, Saren,” she called in greeting and kept walking.

Today she was wearing bright orange slacks, an orange tank top, and spangled wedge-heel sandals. A white bandana with orange polka dots covered her head. I could see she did have an enviable figure for an older woman.

Saren nodded toward the departing figure. “Have ya met Miss High and Mighty yet? Thinks she’s queen of the island, she does. Ain’t no better than the rest of us, but she doesn’t know that. Comes back here a failure and thinks she’s a celebrity.”

“I saw her at Cook’s the other day. Alison said she left the island years ago to become a model.”

Saren pursed his lips and grunted. “She wasn’t no Christie Brinkley, that’s for sure. I don’t know what all she did up there in that fancy town, but if it was so great, what’d she come back here for? Probably to bury her secrets, that’s what I say. She only speaks to me when she has a mind to.”

I was beginning to realize that fishing wasn’t the only past time on the island. Gossip flowed as easily as the water.

Saren stood up and whistled. The poodle came running without hesitation. “This here is Miss Aggie.”

I leaned over and let the dog sniff my hand. “Well, you sure are cute and it looks like my Lilly has found herself another new friend.”

“Sure ’nuff she has and we’ll see you tomorrow for dinner. You take care,” he said, walking away with the poodle close at his heels.

I remembered that Alison had said she’d be cooking for five other people, but was surprised that Saren Ghetti was to be one of the guests. I smiled as it occurred to me that the dinner conversation would probably be pretty lively.