Life Is A Beach: Life Is A Beach / A Real-Thing Fling. Pamela Browning
open and taking off into the tiny kitchen, which he could see courtesy of a pass-through to the living room.
He closed the door. “I learned how to run the boat,” he called after her. His words were followed by a loud Splat!
“Good,” she said distractedly. “Damn! I missed it.”
“Didn’t I hear something about an exterminator service around here?”
“Yes, which is personified by a guy named Geofredo. He’s tried his best, and now the exterminating is up to me. The thing about palmetto bugs is that you can’t treat them nicely. One becomes two, which become four, and pretty soon you’ve got a bunch. It used to be against my core beliefs to kill anything, but I’ve had a change of heart.” She flicked the flyswatter back and forth.
“Why?”
“Because this particular roach and his kinfolk were waving their feelers at Aunt Sophie’s bucket,” Karma said, angling her head toward it. The bucket sat on top of the refrigerator amid a tangle of dish towels, a blender base, a potato ricer and a tape deck.
“Fear not. Bwana will hunt down palmetto bug. Bwana will kill.”
Karma shook her head. “Thanks, but this is my fight. If he’d only show his face, I’d nail him.”
“I think I see him poking out from under the baseboard.” The palmetto bug—an enormous one—scurried across the kitchen floor, straight toward Karma.
“Eek!” she squealed, backing fast and furiously until the back of her knees hit the couch. She rallied, feinted, and swung the flyswatter down hard.
“Dead,” she pronounced solemnly. She scooted the carcass out the sliding glass door with one foot. “How about some lunch?”
He rocked back on his heels. “It’s not the most appetizing idea at the moment. Anyway, it’s a little late for lunch.”
“Call it an early supper if you like. I haven’t eaten because I’ve been busy trying to balance my checkbook all day.” She went into the kitchen and began shoving pots around on the stove. “I’ve made linguine,” she called over her shoulder. “With shrimp sauce.”
He noticed with bemusement that she had set the table with turquoise-blue place mats and yellow plastic plates. There were napkin rings that looked like carved fish painted red and pink, and she’d stuck a branch laden with white oleander blooms into an old wine jug. The effect was, well, interesting.
He sat down at the table, and she bore a huge platter of pasta into the little dining area. While he was waiting for her to pour iced tea, he had a chance to look around the apartment. Furniture consisted of what appeared to be flea-market finds, but it was a creative mix. An old couch had a fringed silk shawl thrown artistically across the back, and a shelf on one wall held bottles and jars in jeweled colors, which were lit from within by tiny Christmas tree lights. A coir rug was underfoot, and his sharp eyes didn’t miss the fact that the binding was ripped in the corner behind the rocking chair that almost, but not quite, hid the imperfection from view.
“Nice place,” Slade said. He meant it. It looked comfortable and reflected Karma’s personality.
“Thanks. I hit a dozen yard and garage sales when I arrived here. I didn’t move much down from Connecticut with me since I wasn’t sure I’d stay.”
“Why not?”
She shrugged and sat down across from him. “I didn’t know if I could make a go of the business. I still don’t. There’s so much to do that I hardly have time for anything but work.”
She passed him the linguine, and he helped himself. “As busy as you are, you wouldn’t have had to provide food,” he said.
“It’s the least I can do when you’re going to so much trouble for me.”
As she tucked into the food, he studied her. She was wearing a knit short-sleeved polo shirt, yellow, and navy-blue shorts, and her hair was pulled into a ponytail. She looked wholesome, like a camp counselor, but her expression was decidedly businesslike. Taking his cue from her, he concentrated on eating and making small talk, which turned out to be enjoyable enough. He told her that her bike had been retrieved from the bottom of the bay, and she seemed relieved. She was even grateful when he told her that he’d asked the marina manager’s son to make sure it was rideable and to fix it if it was not. They talked about her uncle, who seemed special to her. It occurred to him as he helped her clear the table that he was really enjoying her company.
By the time Karma climbed into the Suburban beside him clutching the bucket of her aunt’s ashes firmly between her breasts, Slade had already planned what they would do when they returned from their task. They’d have a late dinner on the houseboat, then a walk in the moonlight alongside the bay and perhaps a nightcap before he took her home. And maybe, if he got megalucky, he wouldn’t have to take her home. There was plenty of room in the master stateroom’s bed for two people.
The runabout, fourteen feet long, was painted in the houseboat’s colors and had been given the cutesy name of Toy Boat’s Toy, which was no doubt the idea of Mack’s wife Renee. Karma smiled when she saw the name lettered on the stern, though, and then she spotted her bike, which he had propped against one of the pilings near the houseboat’s mooring.
“The bike looks fine,” she said, giving it a quick once-over before climbing down the ladder to the runabout. “Maybe I’ll ride it home.”
Maybe not, Slade thought involuntarily as he steadied the runabout. After the romantic evening he’d planned, she might want to rethink things.
Phifer had shown him how to start a cold outboard, for which Slade was grateful since his knowledge of boats was sadly limited. Phifer had also loaned him charts and had given him instructions about where to go. As Slade, feeling optimistic about the afternoon and evening to follow, aimed the runabout’s bow toward Key Biscayne, Karma settled herself and her aunt’s ashes in the middle of the boat facing him.
There were a number of boats on the bay, as usual. Karma angled her head so that the sun’s rays fell more evenly on her features, and Slade made himself concentrate on working the throttle as they chugged past Key Biscayne and out into open water.
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