Confidence Girl: The Letty Dobesh Chronicles

4

One week later, Javier picked Letty up in a black Escalade curbside at Miami International. They headed south into the Keys on the Overseas Highway that crossed the 110-mile island chain. The stereo system blasted Bach’s Four Lute Suites on classical guitar. Letty leaned her head against the tinted glass and watched the world go by.

Land and sea. Land and sea.

On the far side of Key Largo, Javier glanced across the center console.

He said, “You don’t even look like the same woman.”

“Amazing what a little mud rinse and a padlock can do.”

“Your eyes are clear. Your color’s good.”

“I put on ten pounds since you saw me last. Got my hair and nails done. I did a whole spa thing yesterday. I wasn’t sure what to wear for tomorrow...”

“I brought your dress. I brought everything you’ll need.”

Letty couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen the ocean. More than ten years ago at least. The sea was blue-green and the sky straight blue and scattered with clouds that resembled puffs of popped corn. It was early afternoon. Short-sleeve weather. Winter felt like a word that had no meaning here.

They rode through Islamorada and Layton.

Quaint island villages.

Past Marathon, they crossed Seven Mile Bridge into the lower Keys.

The views into the Gulf of Mexico and the Straits of Florida went on forever.

# # #

They reached Key West in the late afternoon and Javier checked Letty into the La Concha Hotel. She tried to lie down but her mind wouldn’t stop. She poured herself a merlot from the mini-bar and went to the table by the window. The breeze coming through the screen smelled like cigar smoke and sour beer. And the sea.

She sat drinking and watching the evening come.

Her room on the fifth floor overlooked Duval Street. It was crowded with cars and bicycles. Tourists jammed the sidewalks. She heard a ukulele playing in the distance. On many rooftops, people had gathered to watch the sunset. She wondered what it would feel like to be here on vacation. To have no plans beyond finding a place for dinner. To be in paradise with someone you loved.

# # #

She didn’t have to see Javier until lunch tomorrow when they would make their final preparations. So Letty slipped into a new skirt and tank top and headed out into the evening.

There was an atmosphere of celebration.

Everyone happy and loaded. Nobody alone.

At the first intersection, she left the chaos of Duval Street. Two blocks brought her into a residential quarter. It was an old neighborhood. She passed restored bungalows and Caribbean-style mansions.

On every block, there was at least one house party going.

Ten minutes from the hotel, she found a Cuban restaurant tucked away in a cul-de-sac.

The hostess told her it would be a ninety-minute wait.

There was a patio out back with a tiki bar and Letty installed herself on the last available stool.

The noise was considerable.

She didn’t like being here alone.

She opened her phone and tapped out texts to no one.

It took five minutes for the barkeep to come around. He was an old salt—tall and thin. So grizzled he looked like he’d been here back when Ponce de Leon first showed up. Letty ordered a vodka martini. While he shook it, she eavesdropped on a conversation between an older couple seated beside her. They sounded Midwestern. The man was talking about someone named John, and how much he wished John had been with them today. They had gone snorkeling in the Dry Tortugas. The woman chastised her husband for getting roasted in the sun, but he expertly steered the conversation away from himself. They talked about other places they’d been together. Their top three bottles of wine. Their top three sunsets. How much they were looking forward to a return trip to Italy. How much they were looking forward to Christmas next week with their children and grandchildren. These people had seen the world. They had loved and laughed and lived.

Letty felt a whitehot hate welling up in the pit of her stomach.

She didn’t even bother to persuade herself it wasn’t jealousy.

The barkeep set her martini down. A big, sturdy glass the size of a bowl. The drink had been beautifully made with flakes of ice across the surface.

“Wanna start a tab?”

“No.”

“Twelve dollars.”

Letty dug a twenty out of her purse.

The barkeep went for change.

The gentleman beside her had worn a sports coat for the evening. In the light of the surrounding torches, Letty could see by the cut it was designer. Gucci or Hugo Boss. She could also see the bulge of a wallet in the side pocket. So easy to lift. Two moves. Tip over her martini glass in the man’s direction and slip her hand into his blazer pocket as he reached for a napkin to help clean up. She’d done it a dozen times and only once did the mark ignore the spill.

And that’ll really make you feel better? To drop a bomb on their holiday.

When she stole, it was out of necessity. Only ever about the money. She’d never made it personal. Survival had been her sole motivation, even at her lowest points. Never the intentional infliction of hurt to boost her own morale.

While the old barkeep was still at the register, Letty slipped off the chair, leaving her drink untouched.

She threaded her way between tables, out of the restaurant, and onto the street.

By the time she reached Duval, she had managed to stop crying.

Her life seemed to be defined by moments like these.

Moments of pure self-hatred.

And this was just one more in a long, long line.