Great Big Beautiful Life(14)
“I’ll take hers,” Cecil puts in.
“Oh! And a large iced green tea,” I add on a whim.
“You got it,” the barista tells us, and I hand my card over to pay, punching the tip into the tablet when he swivels it toward me.
“So,” Cecil says as I step back to join him. “What’s a gal like you doing flying solo on our little island?”
“I’m here for work,” I tell him.
He frowns at this. “Work? This is the wrong place for that!”
“Well, I love my work,” I say. “So it’s also kind of for pleasure.”
“And what is it you do?” he asks. Then: “Actually, who is it you are? You seem to know my name, but I don’t recall yours.”
“Oh! Sheri told me who you were,” I say, holding my hand out to shake his. “I’m Alice. And I’m a writer.”
“Charmed to meet you, Alice the Writer,” he says, pumping my arm twice before dropping my hand.
“Same to you,” I agree.
“And what is it that you write? Is our fine home to be the locale for a murder mystery?” He seems delighted by the thought.
“No, no. At least not one written by me. I’m a journalist.”
He whistles through his two front teeth. “How about that. An article about Little Crescent. Finally getting our due.”
I don’t correct him. I gave the NDA a quick read last night before sending it off to my lawyer (read: friend from college, who is now a lawyer), and while I’m not confident I understand the full scope of it, I am fairly sure Margaret wouldn’t appreciate having her presence on the island revealed before she’s even agreed to do the book.
“We had one once, you know,” he says. “Travel journalist from Rest and Relaxation. But frankly, she wrote more about her travel companion than she did about us.”
“Two iced brown sugar cinnamon lattes,” another barista calls from the next window over. “One iced green tea.”
Cecil and I step up to collect our respective drinks. “You extra thirsty?” he asks, eyeing the tea. “Or are you meeting someone?”
“Meeting someone,” I say, then add, “maybe. I’m not sure.” If Hayden happens to run past again, I’ll give it to him. If not, I’ll drop it by his room after.
Cecil frowns. “Alice! If you have to wonder whether he’ll show, he’s not worth it! That’s my two cents, not that you asked.”
I feel myself smiling. He’s way older than my dad was, but there’s still something in this man that reminds me of my father. The confident but relaxed posture, or the barrel chest.
I appreciate the little ache that sends through my throat, the reminder of how lucky I was to have my family, how lucky I’ve always been. “I’ll definitely keep that in mind.”
“Well, I’m afraid I’ve got a long day ahead of me,” Cecil says, fishing his wallet out of his pocket. “But if you need anything while you’re around, here’s my info.” He tucks a business card between my fingers and the cup of coffee.
“Thanks! I really appreciate that,” I tell him.
He waves me off as he heads toward the steps down to the dirt drive. “And, Alice?” he shouts over his shoulder.
“Yeah?”
“Don’t wait too long.” He juts his chin meaningfully toward the green tea.
I lift it in salute to the captain, and he chuckles as he shuffles off.
I carry both cups down to the stone patio off the side of the platform, setting them on a wrought iron table nestled between a bunch of lush potted plants. A matching wrought iron gate rings the patio, ivy and kudzu crawling over it to give the space an enchanted feeling.
A couple of women in workout gear chat over croissants at a table in the far corner, and once I set my laptop up, I go back to the window to order two myself.
The coffee shop has decent Wi-Fi, so I pull up all of my bookmarked Margaret Ives sites as well as my preliminary notes document as I nibble on the pastry, dividing up the almond center bits so that each bite is the perfect ratio of buttery to sweet.
Assuming my lawyer friend and my agent both give their approval in the next two days, I should be able to start interviewing Margaret by Saturday, and I want to be prepared.
I also fire off an update to my group chat, Itchy Bitches, with my closest friends from The Scratch. The last message was from Priya, last night, a blurry bar selfie, her raven hair twisted into a topknot and a guy sitting behind her with the caption Does he look like Pedro Pascal?? (I’ve had five beers.)
The message came in after two a.m., and no one’s replied, though both Bianca and Cillian thumbs-upped the picture in apparent approval.
His face is barely visible, I point out, but I can tell he has a certain je ne sais quoi.
Then, in a separate message, I add, BTW M agreed to give me a shot. One month audition, basically.
HELL YEAH, Bianca writes a few minutes later. Though you should probably tell your editor…
Putting it in a formal email rn, Ms. Ribeiro, I write back, then pull up my inbox on my computer. I type [email protected] into the To field to make my formal request. I’ll still be working here, just mostly on stories that can be done remotely, by phone and email. Nothing too intensive.
After I send the email, I go back to the group chat.