“She’s going to be fine. She’s at the vet. I’m sure Doctor Mays would be happy to hold her until you are released—”
“Cat can’t live in a canoe like a man can. I only meant to find her a home.”
A nurse came to change his intravenous medication, and we wished him happy dreams.
People were streaming through the lobby, most leaving but some were hurrying upstairs to catch a few minutes with a loved one before the end of visiting hours. Bridgy and I never said a word until we were in the car. I took a sharp right turn out of the parking lot and the words burst from me like an unexpected swell catching a surfer off guard.
“You know what this means? Skully is Delia’s heir. If she owned islands, he owns them now.”
Bridgy sniggered, “That’ll set Tighe Kostos on his heels.”
“Um-hm. Him, Rowena, Judge Harcroft, even the nephews. They’re all in for a surprise.” My mind was racing. “You know what? I don’t think we should tell them. Not up to us. Let them tilt at windmills.”
On the drive home, we took turns guessing how they would all react when they finally heard the news. Bridgy couldn’t decide whether Judge Harcroft would sentence everyone involved to a lifetime of listening to him pun Dashiell Hammett’s name in a repetitive soundtrack of “I must Dash, I must Dash.” Or perhaps wrapped in the ignominy of it all, he’d give up his lawyerly persona and one grand and glorious morning we’d find him wandering Times Square dressed in cutoffs and a low-cut tank, his tangled gray chest hair overflowing.
I voted for the cutoffs and chest hair. I’d heard “I must Dash” enough times to last me until my nursing home years.
* * *
During the breakfast rush I had a lot of trouble pushing Miguel to the back of my mind. Every time I went to pick up a meal at the pass-through, I thought about how unresponsive he’d been, how depressed he looked. Miguel was one of the most cheerful, energetic people I knew. It was painful to see the accident have this effect on him. I made a mental note to call our insurance agent to check on our workers’ compensation policy. I couldn’t remember, with all the papers we signed, how that was handled in Florida, or how long Miguel would have to be out of work before it took effect.
Our small business health care plan would help with his medical bills, but it had a deductible, plus he was going to need car service, home care, physical therapy—I was sure they weren’t covered. Bridgy and I already agreed to pay his salary at least until his first workers’ comp check came. We were blessed by having free help in the kitchen via Ophie, so the pressure was off for the moment. Although we flippantly lamented that we might have the added expense of a cleaning service to follow her around.
With all the money and recovery worries, no wonder Miguel was feeling down; he had a lot to mull over. I was determined to talk things out with him, alleviate his concerns as soon as I had the chance. I hustled through the dining area serving, bussing tables, and when I had a free moment, I refilled the coffeepots and the iced tea pitcher we kept behind the counter.
When I saw Rowena open the door, I grabbed my order pad. She was always in a hurry. As if to prove it, she slapped her hand on the counter, demanding attention, no matter I was a mere two feet away.
Annoying as I found her behavior, I pasted a smile on my face and asked what I could bring her.
“I have a new client coming in and I’d like three, no make it four, of those muffins I had the other day.”
“Lemon with poppy seeds?”
“The very ones”—she lowered her voice—“and I need a few minutes of your time.”
Not clear whether buying the muffins or taking up some of my limited time was her highest priority, I stood there waiting for her to snap at me to hurry with the muffins, or to yammer at me, likely telling me how I could solve the “life or death problem” she mentioned at Miss Delia’s funeral reception.