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Well Read, Then Dead(9)

By: Terrie Farley Moran



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            It had been a long time since Bridgy and I did the morning setup at the café, but we fell into the old rhythm, Bridgy as the chef, with me as scullery maid.

            Fortunately, the breakfast rush was steady but not heavy. Not until January would we have folks waiting in line for tables. Right before eight o’clock someone pulled the chain on the old bronze ship’s bell hanging beside our door. It clanged loud enough to wake half of Fort Myers Beach. At a table for four, the two ladies gave a yelp but one of the men laughed. “Don’t know a ship’s bell when you hear it? Reminds me of my days in the Navy.”

            The door flew open and Aunt Ophie breezed in, tottering on bright pink heels so high and stylishly strappy that I’m sure I’d know the brand if only I paid attention to such things.

            She patted my face with a white gloved hand. “Y’all must be so relieved to see me.” She swung a pink patent leather purse right at my stomach. It took a second for me to realize it was my job to take custody. Well-mannered ladies didn’t carry purses indoors. It had been a while, so I’d forgotten the “well-mannered ladies” conventions. Bet I’d be reminded of all of them within two, three hours, tops.

            “I would have been here sooner, but the Publix on San Carlos don’t open ’til seven. I didn’t ’spect y’all to have the ingredients for my buttermilk pie.” She looked around, pleased that she had the attention of the entire room. “No one makes it good as I can.” She winked at the retired sailor. “My dear departed and most sainted husband always said it tastes like kisses from heaven.”

            I was so busy wondering which husband, the one who departed for the great beyond, or the one who departed for Mobile with his manicurist, that I almost missed her hand fluttering in the direction of the door.

            “Sassy, my things are in the car. Bring in the supermarket bags first. Freshness, you know. And where—there she is!”

            Bridgy came out of the kitchen, plopped a couple of hot breakfasts on the counter and practically sang. “Did I hear my dazzling Aunt Ophie? How did you know? How did you know we need your help? Do you have a crystal ball? Tarot cards?”

            Ophie blushed and opened her arms wide. While they were doing the big ole bear hug thing, Bridgy pointed to the plates and mouthed, Christie. Pancakes for the lady.

            There’s a strong family resemblance in the way they order me around. I stashed the pink purse under the counter. While I was serving the food at the Christie table, I heard Ophie say, “Facebook, you darlin’ girl. I saw your status last night about Miguel’s broken leg. I knew you’d need me to come a’running. I packed up my things and left Pinetta not long after midnight. I-75 was empty. Only me and a string of long-distance truckers. Would have been here earlier, if that sorry excuse for a Publix had been open. And of course that bridge. One lane on, one lane off the island. Need a new bridge is all I’m saying.” She primped her oat-colored shoulder-length hair, confident that one word from her and the town council would widen the bridge in a week or two.

            When I struggled through the door lugging the bounty of Ophie’s shopping, she was seated at Emily Dickinson, sipping a glass of sweet tea. Taking no notice that my arms were filled with her grocery bags, she smiled. “Sassy, honey, could you get me a sprig o’ mint?”

            Without so much as a “hey,” a gray-haired man with bronze leathery skin wearing torn cutoffs and a rumpled camouflage tee shirt followed me in and placed his thermos on the counter. He dropped his duffel bag next to his feet. The duffel gave me the creeps. He’d carried that human skull around for months, and when he finally gave it up, I never understood why he didn’t trash the bag. I headed to the kitchen to unpack the groceries but gave him a cheery “Be right with you.” Skully shook his head and pointed to Bridgy coming through the door carrying mint sprigs on a dish.

            After I put away Aunt Ophie’s groceries (did she really think we needed twelve quarts of buttermilk?), I crossed back into the dining room and roamed from table to table with an orange-topped pot of decaf in one hand and a brown-topped pot of regular in the other. Standing at the counter, Skully and Bridgy were deep in conversation, while, from her seat at Emily Dickinson, Aunt Ophie was watching them intently. Hopefully, she was admiring her niece; Skully didn’t strike me as husband material if she was looking for number three.