Rebecca’s Cove

Chapter 5

“You are the angel of death. You know that, don’t you? I have never had so many terrible things happen to me in such a short space of time. Are you sure your last name isn’t Mengele?”

BJ folded her arms against her chest and leaned against the red Jaguar. She glared down at Hobie, who was kneeling on the ground.

“Oh, for God’s sake, it’s only a tire, and it wasn’t my fault,” Hobie snapped. She was hot, and having to justify her driving skills to BJ Warren was more than she could take. “It was a nail. I’m sorry, but these are just normal glasses. I forgot to wear my amazing vision glasses so I could see a roofing nail in the middle of the road.”

It dumbfounded Hobie that she had gone thirty-eight years without wishing grievous harm to anyone, but one hour with BJ Warren and Hobie wanted to throttle the woman. “I can’t believe you don’t know how to change a tire.”

“I didn’t say I didn’t know how. I simply said that I don’t change tires.”

Hobie paused long enough to glare at BJ. She didn’t understand what happened next. She certainly didn’t know why. Everything seemed to catch up to her at once. She tried to tell herself that she was hot and grumpy from changing the tire and that she hadn’t eaten breakfast yet. She reasoned that the past twenty-four hours and running into BJ again—literally—had been a chaotic mixture of delight and irritation. No matter how Hobie tried to rationalize her next action, the simple fact was that she threw the tire iron to the ground and began to cry.

Almost instantaneously, BJ looked as though she’d been thrown into a tank full of sharks. An expression like panic settled on her face. “Wha—what are you doing?”

“I’m crying, okay? Is that all right with you?”

“No, it’s not all right...stop it,” BJ said softly. “Please. Come on, stop,” she pleaded.

“Why the hell do you care if I cry?”

“Because I don’t like it when women cry.” BJ inched forward, leaning on the car for support, then reached out and barely touched Hobie’s shoulder. “I especially don’t like it when I’m the one that’s responsible. Look, I know I can be...difficult.”

That declaration seemed to make all the difference to Hobie. A few tender words and her tears instantly quieted. She thought twice about what she had heard, thinking that maybe her ears had been playing tricks on her. The BJ Warren Hobie knew was not the kind of woman to apologize—to anyone. Hobie wiped her cheek with the back of one hand and looked up. She had never seen a more contrite expression.

“Okay,” BJ said. “I can be more than difficult. I can be a bitch some of the time. I know that. I really didn’t mean to make you cry, though.”

For Hobie, in that instant, BJ Warren became human. She could be bitchy, annoying, and selfish, but she had displayed her own human frailty. There was also her awareness of her own actions. For the first time since she’d met BJ, Hobie wondered if BJ’s behavior wasn’t masking her own insecurities. “Thanks. That helps more than you know.”

“So you’re done now? I mean, you’re okay?” BJ asked, although she couldn’t make herself look at Hobie.

“Yeah.” Hobie wiped her eyes with a tissue from her pocket. “I’m done.” She picked up the tire iron once more and tightened the last nut. She stood and replaced the tools in the car’s trunk. “Don’t worry. It’s probably just PMS. I’m about two days from my period.”

“Okay, TMI, TMI.” “Huh?”

“Too much information. I mean, I’m sorry and all, but I don’t want to know any more than that.”

“Sorry. I didn’t know you had such a weak constitution.”

Hobie smiled weakly and BJ breathed a sigh of relief. “Are we ready then?”

Hobie nodded. She was a little more than embarrassed at her sudden and unexpected tears, but she was also stunned at BJ’s reaction. BJ had gone from arrogant to groveling in a matter of seconds. So tears are your kryptonite, eh? You are so lucky I’m not manipulative. She smiled to herself as she realized that someday, someone would come along and capitalize on BJ’s secret weakness.

“I wish you would have let me call the auto club to change that,” BJ said as they got into the car.

“Are you kidding? And have Bubba from the mainland go back and tell all his buddies that he had to change a tire for some helpless woman on Ana Lia? Come on, when you’re healthy, you do this kind of stuff, right?”

“What kind of stuff?”

“This—change a tire, the oil, an occasional headlight.” “Are you insane?”

“Thank you.”

“Sorry,” BJ mumbled. “I just meant that, well, I live in the city, born and raised. Most of the time, I don’t even drive my car. I take a cab or the train unless I’m leaving the city.”

“Seriously?” The admission surprised Hobie.

“Hey, I’m still pissed that they did away with full-service gas stations. I barely know how to unlock the cap to get gas in the thing. I do hope this will remain confidential, however.”

“The fact that you’re a total cherry when it comes to cars will go with me to the grave.”

Hobie’s wide grin was the only sign BJ needed to see that Hobie felt better. “Very funny. Just drive, Doc.”

They agreed that food should be their next priority. Three minutes later, Hobie pulled the Jag into the parking lot beside the diner.

“I didn’t realize it was so close,” BJ said as she carefully extracted her long limbs from the vehicle.

“Yeah, once you get your sea legs under you, so to speak, you could probably walk into town.”

“Gee, I’m counting the days.”

Hobie decided she would ignore BJ’s digs. Her philosophy was that perhaps, like a schoolyard bully, BJ Warren would eventually tire of tossing her underhanded comments if they no longer received the desired response.

BJ took in the sight of the wooden building with its white-trimmed balcony. She had expected cheap neon with a few sections of the light burned out. Instead, a brightly painted wooden sign on a pole by the street declared the structure to be “Rebecca’s Cove, the Golden Key of the Gulf.” She’d seen those types of slogans on restaurants in tourist areas around Florida but never thought twice about them since they usually only meant anything to the owners or the founders of the establishments. She wondered about this one. Perfectly manicured sago palms and yucca plants surrounded what looked to have once been a two-story home. Two massive palm trees shaded the sidewalk to the door.

Just as they were about to enter the restaurant, an older man stepped in front of BJ.

“Hey, can we say ‘personal space,’ bud?” she asked.

“Did you see the game last night?” he asked. He looked to be in his late seventies. His hair was white under his blue-and-gold baseball cap. He wore slacks and a windbreaker, which BJ thought odd considering the heat.

“What the hell—” she said in surprise. “Didn’t ya see the game?” he repeated.

“Yes, Coach Cassidy, we were there,” Hobie stepped in to say.

“Ah, good...good.” The old man looked BJ up and down. “Injured it during the game, eh?” He indicated her leg.

BJ looked to Hobie for help. “Yes, Coach,” Hobie said. “It was last night’s game.” She gave a pleading look to BJ, hoping her expression conveyed the idea that BJ should go along with their charade.

“What position?” he asked BJ. “Huh?”

“Position! Football! What are ya, deaf? What position do ya play?”

“Um...middle linebacker?” BJ said weakly.

“Ha! Ya certainly got the build for it.” The old man slapped BJ’s arm and BJ arched an indignant eyebrow. Hobie had to cover her mouth with one hand to hide her smile.

“Hobie Lynn, right?” The old man turned his attention to the redhead.

“Right, Coach.” “You a cheerleader?”

“No, sir, marching band.”

“Ah. Good, good. Well, carry on.” “Thank you, Coach.”

“What the hell was that all about?” BJ asked as they watched the man walk away.

“That was Walter Cassidy. He went a little off the deep end a number of years back after his wife died. He was the football coach when I was in high school. His family has always been a big deal on Ana Lia.”

“A big deal as in the places we passed on the way here, like Cassidy High, Cassidy Football Field, Cassidy Library?”

“Exactly.”

“The guy’s a nut. Why don’t they have him locked up somewhere?”

“Because when you’re rich, you’re not a nut, you’re eccentric. Actually, he’s harmless enough, just a little detached from reality is all.”

“Alittle detached? I can’t believe you people just let him walk the streets like he’s...normal.”

Hobie paused and looked at BJ with a guarded smile. “I don’t know. I’m beginning to believe that ‘normal’is a subjective term.”

Before BJ could respond, Hobie held the door open to allow BJ to enter first. “After you,” she said. “One of those tables in the back should be the easiest for you to sit at.”

BJ felt like a goldfish in a glass bowl. It was as if all action in the diner had come to a standstill when they entered. BJ couldn’t help herself. She stopped walking about halfway to their table and stared back at the patrons.

“What are you doing?” Hobie asked.

“Letting them get a good, long look,” BJ said loudly enough for those seated around them to hear.

Dozens of embarrassed faces snapped back to their own plates, and conversation once again filled the diner.

“You enjoy doing that, don’t you?” Hobie asked. “Doing what?”

“Calling attention to yourself,” Hobie said as they sat down. “It’s the only way to stay ahead of the crowd. Besides, I don’t like people looking at me like I’m some kind of freak.”

Hobie noticed that BJ spoke that last part with a hurt edge to her voice. “You sound like a woman who’s had that happen before.”

BJ looked at Hobie, not sure if she wanted to reveal anything of her personal life. She gave in a small bit. “Awoman who’s 6’1” gets used to being stared at, but just because I’m used to it doesn’t mean I like it.”

“Understandable. They don’t mean to treat you badly. They’re only curious. I think the whole town knows who you are by now. Word travels fast in Ana Lia, and it’s not because they think you’re a freak. They’re nice people, but it’s a small community. Everybody knows everybody’s business here. If you gave some of them a chance, you might find that you have a lot in common.”

“I find that highly unlikely,” BJ said with her typical haughty flair. “I bet you’re one of those who’d rather blend into the background, aren’t you? Just do what’s expected. Don’t make waves and never rock the boat.”

“For the most part...I suppose I am. Is there anything wrong with that?”

“Not if you’re a lemming.”

A waitress set two glasses of ice water on the table, abruptly halting their conversation. “Mornin’. We wondered where you got to, Hobie Lynn.”

“Good morning, JoJo,” Hobie said. “This is Evelyn’s granddaughter, BJ Warren. Ms. Warren, this is Joanne Hart, the owner of the Cove.”

“It’s very nice to finally meet you, Ms. Warren. Your grandmother talks about you all the time.” “Thanks. You’ve got, um, a...nice place here.”

“Thanks right back. The restaurant’s been in my family for years.”

“Her grandmother is Rebecca Ashby, the woman the Cove was named for,” Hobie explained.

“I see.” BJ nodded. It always surprised her, but for a woman who made a living with words, she was never good at small talk, and she wondered what she should say next.

“Yep. She’ll be ninety-five this summer. She gets around a whole lot slower these days, but she’s still got it all up here.” JoJo tapped an index finger against her temple. “You get Hobie Lynn to bring you around to the house sometime.”

“Uh, sure. Thanks,” BJ said.

Neither BJ nor Hobie knew how to tell JoJo that this was the most civil they had been since their accidental, yet brutal meeting. The furthest thing from each woman’s mind was becoming friends and socializing.

“So then, what’ll it be for you ladies?” JoJo held a pen and a pad of receipts in one hand.

“How about a mocha java with double espresso and extra cinnamon?” BJ wished aloud as she looked at the menu.

“Sure thing. You want skim, two percent, or whole milk in that?”

Hobie laughed at the dazed expression on BJ’s face. “Um...two percent.”

“Orange juice, Hobie Lynn?” “Yes, please.”

“Let me get your drinks and I’ll be right back for your order.” JoJo headed for the kitchen. On her way, she scooped up dirty dishes and exchanged a few jibes with the customers.

“And you thought the island was backward.” Hobie smiled. “Are you a little happier now that you know the Cove is Ana Lia’s answer to Starbucks? May I say, as a medical professional, I think that you’ve been experiencing the beginnings of espresso withdrawal.”

“Very amusing.”

“Okay, folks.” JoJo returned to take their order. “What can I get for you?”

BJ ordered poached eggs, whole wheat toast, and fresh fruit. She then sat in stunned silence as she listened to Hobie give her order to the waitress.

“Three eggs over easy, ham, toast, hash browns. Wait, hold the toast. I’ll have a side of pancakes instead, and can I have another juice with my meal? Oh, and can you add another egg to that?”

“You got it.” JoJo left to place their order. BJ looked under the table at Hobie’s feet. “What?” Hobie asked.

“Nothing. Just looking to see if you had any starving orphans under there you were planning to feed.”

“Very funny. I have an extremely high metabolism. I burn everything off too quickly. I can be standing on a street corner and wham! My blood sugar bottoms out and I’m down for the count.” Hobie tried to stop herself. She felt as if she was giving BJ too much information, but she couldn’t seem to stop talking. Finally, she cleared her throat nervously and waited for the mocking tone she was sure would come.

“Marching band, eh?” BJ surprised Hobie by changing the subject. “Was that true, what you told the old guy?”

“Oh, that. Yeah.”

“Let me guess. Flute or clarinet.” “Flute, smarty. How did you know?”

“It figures. I knew it had to be some kind of girly instrument.”

“Girly? Were you even in band?”

“High school class of 1977. Actually, I played in school bands for eight years. You just try marching in Chicago. I froze my ass off during the winter and practically collapsed from heat exhaustion every summer. I seriously hold marching band responsible for the aversion I developed to seasonal celebrations. It’s probably why Halloween is my favorite holiday...no parades.”

“And what was this butch instrument you played—the tuba?”

“Oh, you’re such a comedian. No, it was the trumpet.”

“Geez, how hard can the trumpet be? You only have three keys on the thing and you can see them!”

“It’s a lot of work when you hate it.” “Why’d you play if you hated it?”

“Some rat bastard told me that being in band was an easy way to get girls. That theory turned out to be a major disappointment. I can’t begin to tell you how sorry I made Joey Bruder throughout the rest of junior high and high school.”

“So you spent eight years playing an instrument you hated? How miserable.”

“You’re telling me. Actually, I liked the thing when I first got it. I had the usual ‘bright shiny object’infatuation, but that lasted for about two months. Once I realized they wanted me to practice for thirty minutes a day, the party was over.”

“It’s funny what educators learned from our generation, isn’t it? Kids who take an instrument now have band or orchestra practice every day, just like math or English. That way, they don’t end up being forced to practice at home.”

“Really? Little rat bastards don’t know how good they have it. How do you know that?” BJ asked.

“Oh...um...I see a lot of the kids in my office with their pets. So you hated it, yet you kept on with it.”

BJ shrugged. “My mother made me. She locked me in my bedroom for half an hour after school every day. As I got older, I figured it would look good on a college application. What?” she asked when Hobie shook her head.

“I’ve just never known anyone to go about something with such a generous helping of apathy before.” BJ laughed at the remark, and Hobie breathed a sigh of relief.

“Apathetic and proud of it. There were four trumpets in the middle school band. I was fourth seat trumpet until high school. Always last, but being last is highly underrated. When you’re on the bottom rung of the ladder, people don’t expect so much from you. My freshman year, I moved up to third chair. The only reason was because the kid ahead of me moved away.”

“I would have thought you were the kind of person with more ambition than that.”

“Why?” BJ hurried on to explain, “Ambition is decidedly overvalued. Besides, it only serves to disappoint.”

“You sound more like a bitter woman than a philosopher.” BJ smiled briefly. “None of the above. Simply a realist.”

The conversation lagged suddenly and both women looked as though they were revisiting their own memories of youth. The sounds of JoJo delivering their breakfast pulled them from their thoughts. Once she had moved away from the table, BJ continued.

“I’ve found that having little or no ambition lends to a more spontaneous way of life. I don’t know if I’ll always be successful. It’s not that I don’t care, it’s just that it takes more energy than I want to expend to ensure that I’ll remain on top. Perhaps it’s that I haven’t found the one thing in life worthy of all that work. On the other hand, maybe it’s just that I’ve never been able to put off my own self-indulgences.”

Hobie was only slightly surprised at the hedonistic attitude with which BJ lived her life. She was curious as to how much of BJ’s way of thinking was truth and how much was a cover-up for her own insecurities. Neither woman appeared anxious to continue the conversation. They concentrated on their food, but in the back of their minds, they had a nagging feeling that there was more to say.

The art deco style of the restaurant made BJ feel at home. It reminded her of all the diners she had gone to, growing up on Chicago’s South Side, the kinds of places that served breakfast twenty-four hours a day. The décor included lots of stainless steel and colorful plastic. She had sobered up from many a night on the town in those establishments.

Once she’d finished her meal, BJ spent the next hour keeping up her end of the conversation. They stuck to safe subjects like sports and computers, realizing that other topics touched on too many controversial points. BJ thought it odd that the one person in town who could manage to get on her nerves at the drop of a hat was the same person with whom she suddenly found it so easy to converse.

She found herself people-watching most of the time. Rebecca’s Cove certainly seemed to be the hub of operations for the island. People not only came there to eat, but to meet, hear news, and catch a tidbit of gossip or two. There always seemed to be enough room, even though the diner appeared full.

Hobie had been right when she said everyone knew everyone else in Ana Lia. Nearly all of the patrons stopped to say hello and exchange pleasantries with Hobie. She had a smile and a good word for every person she met, which annoyed BJ. People who were too friendly had always annoyed her.

“I said, are you about ready to go?”

BJ realized that her own thoughts had so thoroughly captured her attention that she hadn’t heard a word Hobie had said. “Oh, yeah, sorry. I’ll just—” She reached for her wallet, which she carried in the back pocket of her jeans, quickly realizing that her wallet wasn’t there because her jeans weren’t there. She was still wearing Mack’s sweatpants. “Shit!”

“What?”

“I forgot my billfold.”

“Oh, is that all? Don’t worry, I’ve got it.” Hobie reached for the check that JoJo had placed on the table.

“I’ll pay you back,” BJ said in embarrassment. “I’m not worried about it.”

“Yeah, but the clothes I wanted to pick up. I just don’t want to—”

“Owe me?” Hobie finished BJ’s thought.

“Nothing personal. I don’t like being indebted to anyone. It makes me feel...I don’t know, obligated.”

“Heaven forbid,” Hobie said. “Look, let’s not make a big deal out of it. It’s not as if you plan to buy Versace sweatpants, right?”

BJ smiled in spite of herself. Then she remembered that such accommodating and unpretentious behavior annoyed her. She couldn’t let herself become enamored of Hobie’s disarming smile. BJ tried to remember the last time she had to guard herself against such a thing. When had it ever been easy to like someone, especially when that someone was a woman? The thing was, she couldn’t remember a time.