Well Read, Then Dead(5)
Chapter Two ||||||||||||||||||||
Sirens blaring, the ambulance rushed toward the mainland. I tried to follow, my rusty, trusty Heap-a-Jeep bobbing and weaving through the traffic on Estero Boulevard. When the ambulance turned onto San Carlos, heading for our antiquated one-lane-in-each-direction bridge to Fort Myers, cars pulled onto the embankment to let the ambulance pass but immediately filled in behind it like the Gulf washing over the sand at high tide. I fell hopelessly behind.
By the time I got to Health Park Medical Center and found the emergency room, Miguel was on a gurney in a curtained alcove, wired to an IV drip. As soon as he saw me, he clawed at my arm and pleaded, “Take me to Miami, mama. I wan’ go home.”
The attendant assigned to take Miguel up to the OR must have been used to dealing with the power of pain meds. He pulled the gurney away from the wall and said in a soothing voice, “Little Havana, here we come. Vamos a Miami.”
Miguel let go of my arm, gave a cheerful wave and went off with his new friend. His heart was bound for home and family; no matter that his leg was going to the operating suite.
Hours dragged by. I alternated between thumbing through old magazines and pacing around the visitors lounge until a surgical intern came to tell me Miguel was out of surgery and doing nicely in the recovery room. And no, I couldn’t see him.
I finally got back to the Read ’Em and Eat right after closing. When I opened the door, Bridgy jumped up, planting her hands on her hips. “I’ve called you a half dozen times. No answer, voice mail, voice mail.”
“I turned off my cell at the hospital. I guess I forgot to turn it on again.”
“And you never thought to call me? I’ve been worried sick about Miguel. How do you think I felt when Ryan stopped back after work to ask about Miguel and I had no information?”
She and Ryan were eating Miguel’s mega-aromatic Old Man and the Sea Chowder. Think red pepper flakes, onion and tarragon slathered on the planks of a fishing pier. Ignoring us, Ryan reached for the plate of crackers set mid-table and crumbled a few into his bowl. He wore his off-duty uniform, baggy shorts and a Fort Myers Beach tee shirt. This one read: “Deputies Do It Safely.”
“The hospital called Miguel’s sister in Miami, and during one of his more lucid moments, Miguel gave me his cousin Rey’s cell number. Remember him? Last Fourth of July? Anyway, he’s driving down from Lake Butler.”
“Can he cook?” Ryan asked, raising a spoon brimming with bits of grouper and carrots.
“Cook? I don’t know.” Then I understood. Who was going to make breakfast when we opened in the morning? “Oh. The kitchen.”
I folded my arms and looked straight at Bridgy. The café part of Read ’Em and Eat was her idea, and she did fancy herself quite the gourmet cook.
“I can manage for a few days, but with snowbird season right around the corner . . .” She hesitated. “We’ll be awfully busy. And I don’t know most of Miguel’s specials.”
I sighed, knowing what was coming.
In her tiniest indoor voice, Bridgy said, “Aunt Ophie.”
“Who?” Ryan’s eyes swung from Bridgy to me and back again, slightly alarmed by the dread mixed with resignation crossing both our faces.
“My Aunt Ophelia is the best cook on planet Earth, but, well, she’s a little different.”
“What kind of different?” Ryan rested his spoon on the table.
“Let me,” I said. “Three years ago when we first opened, Bridgy’s aunt Ophelia offered to come down from Pinetta to help with the cooking until we found a chef. You know how folks round here say that north Florida thinks it is really south Georgia with that y’all southern charm mind-set? Living barely south of the Georgia border, Aunt Ophie takes her role as Antebellum Grande Dame to heart.”