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Well Read, Then Dead(109)

By: Terrie Farley Moran


            “No hay problema, only a drop.” He snapped his fingers indicating the mere hint of rum, “to give a taste of Cuban nights.”

            Then he poured a bit more than I would have. What the heck, I wasn’t driving. We stood at the stove together and dished out the torrejas.

            “Just like at the café, eh?” Miguel asked.

            He was right; this was comfortable, like a normal workday.

            I carried our plates out to the patio, which had a luxurious view of the bay dappled by the shade of sand pines and mangroves.

            The torrejas were incredible and I told Miguel so, adding that we should put them on the menu at the café. A shadow crossed his face.

            “You think Ophelia would like to make them?”

            “Ophie? No. She leans more toward grits and hush puppies. You’re our international chef. Who else do you know that can make clotted cream?”

            “Ah, the British, of course. But you know I can only make it when I am able to find unpasteurized milk. Not easy to come by.” He used both hands to move his cast-bound leg slightly to the left. “So, I can come back to work?”

            I was aghast. “Well, not today, but hopefully soon. We’re hanging on by a thread without you.”

            “Ah, then it is settled. I am not moving back to Miami.”

            “Moving?” My voice arched so high I squeaked. “How could we run the café without you? Even with Ophie’s help, we’re stretched to the max. We need you back.”

            “Bueno. I will tell my sister that I am staying here.”

            “Your sister?”

            “She said you found a replacement so quickly, I must not be necessary to the kitchen of the café.”

            I laughed so hard that the stitches on the back of my head throbbed, but I didn’t care.

            “Miguel, you are the kitchen of the café. Without you the whole café goes haywire. You should see Bridgy and Ophie battling over whether or not Swiss cheese belongs on a hamburger.”

            “Of course it belongs. The Swiss Family Robinson Cheeseburger.”

            The indignant look on his face sent me back into gales of laughter, which brought Bow out from behind a planter to investigate the noise that disturbed her nap. Clearly we didn’t look interesting, so she walked past us, nose in the air, and settled in a just-the-right-sized circle of sunshine, stretched out with her head on her right paw and closed her eyes.

            Although she was unmindful of us, we smiled at her like two doting parents fawning over the newborn window in the maternity ward.

            “She seems content.” I wanted to pet her but was afraid I’d break the mood.

            “Sí. I think she is lonely for Miss Delia, but so many of her haunts and her old friends are nearby. It must provide some comfort.”

            I patted his hand. “I think Miss Delia is dancing in heaven knowing that her beloved cat is here with you, although she might think that green ribbon with yellow polka dots is too bold a color scheme for her sweet Bow.”

            The rest of the week I hung out on our patio and took my fifteen-minute walks around the parking lot. After days of practicing new hairstyles to cover my bandage with absolutely no success, I wasn’t sure whether it was boredom or vanity that made me decide to splurge the day before I was due to go back to work. Either way, I walked over to Creative Hair and practically cried with relief when Nancy said, “No big deal. A little layering goes a long way. You’ll be gorgeous.”