(6)
— Originally publshed in The MacGuffin, Spring 2004
Continued from page (5)
“I’m sorry.” He watched a sparrow begging on the rail. The sun had
started its descent toward the sea. “They have deep-dish pie—”
“Just coffee.”
He drove slowly on the way back. As they skimmed across the Bixby
Creek Bridge with its arch high over the cascade into the Pacific, she put her
hand on his shoulder and leaned forward to see the rock island rearing out of
the sea to the west.
“What’s that called?”
“I have no idea.”
She pulled back her hand. “Were you always so big on giggles and
grins?”
“Sissy’s death made it worse.”
She shaded her eyes and watched the ocean. “Buy me a beer?”
He wanted to see her expression but couldn’t take his eyes off the
curving cliff road. “Okay. The Tickle Pink’s up ahead. They have a nice
lounge.”
“You’ve been there?”
“I’m staying there.”
He heard the intake of breath. “God,” she said. “You really have it all,
don’t you? Money, sophistication, looks. If only you didn’t frown and slump
all the time.”
He gave her a quick glance.
“Lots of big guys do that,” she said, “kind of a sad-sack droop, head
down, shoulders rounded. If you stood up straight and smiled, you’d be
cute.”
He felt a blush creeping over his scalp.
“What does the Tickle Pink cost a night?” she asked. “Never mind. I
don’t want to know. But I’d love to see it. Like the Del Monte thingy on the
Seventeen Mile Drive. Mom bought us lunch there. Cocktails at the Tickle
Pink. That’s better than breakfast at Tiffany’s. Does it really have heart-shaped bathtubs?”
The blush moved to his cheeks. “No.”
From the parking lot, he led her on a tour past the front desk, through
the lobby, to the terrace lounge. “California modern,” she whispered. “Very
chic.” When they reached the deck above the ocean, he seated her at a
redwood table under a cream-colored square beach umbrella.
TOM'S TALES