Sunset Beach Page 2
He looked her up and down and frowned, noting the form-fitting orange tank top with the bar’s clown logo and the ripped and faded jeans she wore instead of the hated mandatory Bozo’s booty shorts. “You’re out of uniform.”
“Yeah,” she said. “The thing is, I have to wear this big ugly knee brace, and it looks super freaky with the shorts. I’m wearing the top and I swear, nobody will even notice.”
“That’s not the point,” he snapped. “It’s a uniform because I want all the girls to look alike—hot. Those jeans don’t look hot. They look ghetto.” He ducked into the closet-size office, came out with a pair of the microscopic white knit shorts and tossed them to her. “Here. You can change before you go on shift.”
Kaitlin, the lead bartender, came bustling into the kitchen. “Welcome back, girlfriend,” she said, giving Drue a high five. “Now get your ass out there. Courtney’s back in rehab and Shanelle called in pissed off, so we’re short two girls tonight and the natives are restless.”
Drue hustled out of the kitchen in her wake, turning to look over her shoulder at Rick. “Sorry. Duty calls.”
* * *
Old-school rap music blared from the wall-mounted speakers and the Thirsty Thursday crowd was, as Kaitlin had warned, loud and demanding. The sprawling room was packed, the noise level ear-splitting.
“What’s going on?” Drue asked, placing her lips beside Kaitlin’s ear.
“Do you have to ask? Look around.”
Drue estimated the average age in the room at 19.2 years. College kids, sunburned, buzzed and looking for fun in the Florida sun. She knew what that meant. Crappy tips and plenty of customers who thought dine and dash was an intramural sport. “Spring break? Already? It isn’t even Easter yet.”
“It comes earlier and earlier every year,” Kaitlin said. “Hey, how’d you manage to ditch the crotch cutters tonight? Every time I come to work wearing normal pants Prick orders me to go home and change.”
“He was about to make me change when you saved the day,” Drue said. “I think the little perv gets off looking at camel toes.”
“Ya think?” Kaitlin crossed her eyes and stuck out her tongue. “By the way, how’s the knee?”
“Hurts like a mother,” Drue said.
Kaitlin glanced around and lowered her voice. “I’ve got Percocet in my purse, if you want. My boyfriend had dental surgery and he saved ’em for me.”
“I’d love a Percocet, but anything with codeine makes me puke. Advil’s all I can take.”
“Poor you,” Kaitlyn said. “You’re on station three, by the way.”
“Got it.” Drue headed out to her station, six four-tops and four six-tops.
The next two hours were a blur. She took orders, delivered drinks and dodged drunken gropes. At one point she fought her way through the crowd to the bathroom, locked herself in a stall, dropped her jeans and unfastened the brace. Her knee was red and swollen to the size of a cantaloupe. “Not good,” she whispered.
She heard the bathroom door swing open with a bang. “Drue!” Prick’s voice echoed in the tile-floored room. “Get out here, goddamnit! Your tables are backed up.”
“Can I just pee in privacy?” she called, flushing the toilet.
“I’m not paying you to pee. Now get your ass out here and get to work.”
* * *
“Hey!” screamed a petite blonde in an oversize sorority jersey, pelting Drue in the face with a soggy wadded-up paper napkin. “Hey! I mean, could we finally get some service over here?”
The napkin bounced off her forehead and onto the floor. Drue froze in her tracks as the blonde and her college pals around the table giggled and guffawed.
“What can I get you?” she asked.
“Um, well, a new attitude would be nice,” the blonde shot back, tossing her hair over her shoulder. “I mean, don’t y’all work for tips?”
Drue felt the blood rise in her cheeks. “What would you like?” she repeated.
The blonde pointed at the stacked-up empties on the tabletop. “So, I need two of these, and—”
“Could I see some ID, please?” Drue asked.
“What?”
“ID. Like a driver’s license.”
The girl pouted. “You’re kidding, right?”
“Not at all.”
“Oh, for God’s sake,” the girl exclaimed. “Look, I didn’t bring a purse tonight, right? So I don’t actually have my ID on me.”
“How were you planning on paying for your drinks?” Drue asked.
The blonde gave an arch smile and turned toward the balding salesman sitting next to her. She flung an arm over his shoulder. “Oh, no worries. My new friend Sammy here is buying tonight. Right, Sammy?”
“Right,” the salesman replied. “But, uh, it’s Stanley. Not Sammy.” He flipped a platinum AmEx card onto the table. “Bring the lady whatever she wants.”
“Sorry,” Drue said. “But I can’t serve her alcohol without a valid ID.”
The girl half rose from her seat, until her face was inches away from Drue’s. “Look,” she said, her voice soft. Her breath stank of rum and fruit juice. Her face was flushed, her eyes were glazed. “Don’t be such a bitch. I need two of those strawberry thingies. Okay? Stanley’s gonna take good care of you, you understand?”
Drue moved two inches backward. “I understand perfectly. And you need to understand that I still can’t serve you alcohol. We both know you and your girlfriends here are underage.”
The girl’s face twisted in rage. “What the hell do you care? Are you a fucking cop?” Her high-pitched voice rose to a shriek. Heads turned, their eyes glued to the unfolding drama at table six. “Now go get my drink, bitch!”
Drue started to say something, but before she could respond, she felt a hand tighten on her upper arm.
It was Prick. “In my office. Now.”
He turned to the table. “Sorry for the misunderstanding. I’ll send somebody over with a round for the table. On the house.”
* * *
They didn’t make it all the way to the office. He turned to her just inside the doors to the kitchen. “What the hell?” he yelled. “You come in here tonight with a shitty attitude, out of uniform, but I cut you some slack because I feel sorry for you. Then you limp around out there like some kinda lame-ass zombie and spend half the night hiding out in the bathroom. Your job here is to smile and sling drinks, not get in a fight with the paying customers.”
“I had to pee. One time. I was off the floor for five minutes. And that blond chick threw a napkin at me!” Drue protested. “Called me a bitch. And she was totally underage.”
“I don’t give a shit,” Prick said, hands on his hips. “Go ahead and clock out. You’re gone.”
“You’re firing me?”
“Damn straight.”
“I’ll go,” she said, her voice steely. “But don’t even think about trying to stiff me for my share of the tip-out tonight. With this crowd it should be at least two hundred bucks. And I’m not leaving here until I get my money.”
“Fat chance,” he said, sneering.
She ripped off her apron and tossed it in his face. “Two hundred dollars,” she repeated. “In cash. Tonight.” On a whim she pulled her cell phone from the pocket of her jeans and held it up for him to see. “Or I call the state beverage control board and text them photos of all the shit-faced underage Barbies in here tonight. And tomorrow night your spring break bonanza comes to a screeching halt.”
* * *
Out in the parking lot, Drue smoothed the crumpled-up wads of bills on the front seat of the Bronco. The total came to exactly two hundred. She closed her eyes and rested her head on the steering wheel. The sobs came from deep down in her chest, wracking, choking, gasping, uncontrollable sobs. After what seemed like a long time, she sat back up, pulled the Bozo’s tank top over her head, wiped her eyes and blew her nose on it. Then she tossed it out the window onto the parking lot pavement and drove home in her sports bra, which was more
than a lot of women wore in Fort Lauderdale that time of year.
When she got home she sat alone in the dark for a long time in Sherri’s nearly bare condo. Her mother had sold the furnished condo at the onset of her diagnosis to help pay her medical expenses, but the new owners, snowbirds from Michigan, had allowed the two women to stay on until the end of the month, which was fast approaching.
She’d donated all Sherri’s personal effects to charity, and her own belongings were packed up too, awaiting the now-aborted move to Trey’s place. Drue stretched out on the sofa, swallowed three Advil, and eventually drifted off to a troubled sleep.
* * *
She was skimming along the surface of the water, the sun at her back, her red-and-white-striped kite high in the air, her boots firmly planted on the board beneath her feet. When the moment came, she bent her knees, leaned back on her heels and suddenly, gloriously, she was aloft. She felt the familiar rush of adrenaline, heard her own heart pounding, the blood humming in her veins. In midair she looked around and then down, saw the bright blue curve of the ocean meeting sugary sand, tiny specks she knew to be people, toy-size cars in the parking lot.
Time and life stood still and she was flying—soaring past seagulls and pelicans and jet airplanes and billowing clouds. The wind was perfect and the kite kept her aloft, the longest hang-time ever. She closed her eyes, and then, in a split second, it happened. An arrow, a lightning bolt, a bullet, a knife blade, slashed at her right knee.
And then she was falling, endlessly spiraling down and down. She worked her feet out of the boots, feeling the board fall away. Frantically she thumbed the quick-release button on her harness again and again as the surface of the water grew nearer. She heard the splash of her body hitting the water, felt the impact on her chest and back and knees, the still-inflated kite dragging her face-first through the water, filling her eyes and nose and mouth and lungs with the burning salt water. Her body was broken and she was drowning …
Drue woke up, gasping for air, her body slick with sweat. She clawed at a clammy sheet that seemed to be dragging her back down beneath the surface of the water. “No, no, no,” she heard herself whimper.
Freed of the sheet, she pushed herself up to a sitting position on the sofa, her chest heaving, pulse pounding. She fumbled around on the coffee table, found her phone, thumbed the home button. It was 2:15 A.M. There would be no more sleep tonight. She could never resume sleeping after the dream descended upon her in the night, which it did regularly.
She walked stiff-legged to the kitchen, found the bag of frozen peas in the freezer, and limped back to the sofa, where she extended her right knee and applied the makeshift ice pack.
She reached for the phone, scrolling through the list of contacts until she found his number, which he’d insisted on typing into it.
“No.” Drue shook her head. She shoved the phone under the sofa cushion. Ten minutes later, she sighed and dug the phone out from its hiding place.
She tapped the text message into the phone. Hey Dad. About that job?
3
“This is a terrible idea,” Drue muttered, as she approached the green stucco bungalow housing the law offices of Campbell, Coxe and Kramner. Several other homes on the quiet, tree-shaded street had also been converted to commercial space. She’d spotted a dentist’s office, a title search company and three other law firms as she walked down the block from the bus stop, searching for the address Brice Campbell had texted her.
Their Friday-morning conversation had been brief. “You changed your mind!” Brice said when he called. “I mean, I’m glad, but frankly, I’m surprised.”
“Me too,” Drue told him. “Change of circumstances. So, when would you want me to start?”
“The sooner the better,” Brice said. “As I said, we’re shorthanded and about to roll out a new ad campaign. Could you start Monday?”
“Why not? Uh, what about the cottage? Is it okay for me to go ahead and move in? I mean, you did say it’s mine.”
He hesitated. “It’s yours, free and clear, but I don’t think you want to stay there right away. I did tell you it’s a wreck. But I guess you could stay with me until you’ve gotten the place cleaned up.”
“Yeah, maybe.” Never gonna happen, Drue told herself. “But tell me about the job, okay?”
“Sure. We’ll start you off as an intake clerk on the Justice Line. We can discuss salary when you get into town, but I assure you, it’ll be much more than you’ve been making waitressing. We have to be competitive to get the best kind of employees. You’ll have full medical and dental benefits, of course.”
“That sounds great,” she managed. “So … I’ll see you Monday. And, uh, what time should I show up?”
“The office opens at nine, but don’t you want to maybe get together over the weekend?”
“No thanks,” she said firmly. “I’m not sure how long it’ll take me to wrap things up here in Lauderdale. I haven’t even started packing yet.”
“Okay, well, if you’re sure.” Brice sounded disappointed. “Call me when you get into town, okay?”
“Will do.”
* * *
Of course Drue hadn’t called him. Physically and emotionally exhausted from the ordeal of leaving her old life behind, she’d finally rolled into St. Petersburg on Sunday shortly before midnight and checked into a cheap beach motel she estimated was only a block or so away from the cottage.
Her plan had been to wake up early, check out her new home, then report for work. But things didn’t go as planned. They seldom did in Drue Campbell’s life.
She stood on the sidewalk in front of the law office, fighting the instinct to run. Dread gnawed at the pit of her stomach. Why had she agreed to move back here? To the scene of the crime, as it were. And to work for the very man who was the architect of so much of her unhappy childhood?
Because, she thought. Because there is nothing left for you, back there in Fort Lauderdale. At least here you have a house. Papi’s house, she reminded herself. And a job.
She took a deep breath and pushed open the front door to the law office. A pale-faced young man with round tortoiseshell glasses resting on cherubic pink cheeks sat at a large reception desk. He was dressed in a lime green dress shirt and a skinny purple tie. He wore a headset and was typing on a computer terminal. He nodded at the visitor and held up one finger, signaling he’d be right with her. Drue nodded back.
The reception area had been carved out of the former living room. Thick Oriental carpets covered the gleaming hardwood floors and stiff formal draperies framed the picture windows that overlooked the street. There was a handsome fireplace and glass-front bookshelves full of obsolete leather-bound law journals. A pair of navy leather armchairs flanked the fireplace and a matching leather sofa was placed against the adjacent wall. A framed generic color photograph of a Florida sunset hung over the mantel.
“Hi,” the young man said, turning to her. “Can I help you?”
“Hope so. I’m Drue Campbell. My father is expecting me.”
“The new girl!” he squealed, clapping his fingertips together. “Thank God!” He stood and extended a hand. “Welcome! I’m Geoff. Spelled with a G, not a J. It’s so nice to meet you.”
“Okay,” Drue said slowly. “Good to meet you too.”
“Listen,” he said. “Brice is in with a client right now, but he asked me to take you back to Wendy, the office manager, since she’ll be doing your new-employee orientation.”
She followed him through a doorway and down a short corridor until he paused in front of an open door. He poked his head inside. “Hi, Wendy, I have our new employee here.” He gently pushed her into the room. “This is Drue.”
The office manager sat at a contemporary glass-topped desk. She lowered a pair of Chanel reading glasses onto her nose and looked up, her pale eyes appraising Drue with a hint of amusement. She was very tan and wore a chic blush pink sleeveless sheath dress with a string of rose quartz beads looped around her neck.
Drue returned her gaze with an uncertain smile of her own. There was something eerily familiar about this woman.
Before either could speak, Brice burst through the door of his adjacent office.
“Oh good, you’re here,” he said, beaming at Drue. He stood behind the glass desk, one hand placed lightly on his manager’s bare shoulder.
“Drue, you remember my wife, Wendy, right?”
She gawked, trying to make sense of the surreal scene in front of her. Drue knew that name, but the rest of the package was different. This Wendy was slender and petite, not pudgy and awkward. The orthodontia and mall bangs were gone. The frizzy long strawberry-blond hair was now short and sleek and a shimmering red. The sharp chin and high, rounded cheekbones were the same, but the lips were plumper. It was the nose that had thrown her off. This nose was definitely not factory equipment.
“Wendy Lockhart?” She blurted out the name, glancing at her father for confirmation. “Wait. You married Wendy Lockhart?”
“That’s right,” Brice said. “It’ll be three years on the twenty-eighth.”
“Twenty-seventh, you shameless cradle robber,” Wendy cooed. She gave Drue a mirthless smile. “So that makes me your stepmother. Isn’t that hilarious?”
“Hysterical,” Drue mumbled, sinking onto the wing chair facing the desk. “Mind-blowing.”
What’s the worst that could happen? she’d asked herself, the previous night on that long, mind-numbing drive across Alligator Alley from Lauderdale to St. Pete. And now she had the answer to that rhetorical question. This. Right here. The prospect of having Wendy Lockhart, her junior high best friend/worst frenemy as both stepmother and supervisor. This was absolutely the worst that could happen.
* * *
“I didn’t even know you’d remarried,” she finally managed, when her brain began to thaw.