Surface Tension - Kling Christine (хорошие книги бесплатные полностью .txt) 📗

And, of course, given my financial state, a free meal wasn’t a bad deal, either.

That left me with at least an hour to kill before trying to put on a “girl suit.” Red used to say that whenever he saw me get dressed up. Working as a lifeguard or helping him out on the Gorda, I lived in shorts and T-shirts, so he had always been surprised to see me looking like a woman.

When I turned into the Larsens’ drive and there was no sign of B.J.’s El Camino, I wasn’t sure whether I was relieved or disappointed. I hopped out of the Jeep and walked out to the street to get the mail. Bills, bills, and more bills. The only stuff for the Larsens was some third-class junk the post office wouldn’t forward. There was also a note from FedEx that they’d left a package under the mat at the Larsens’ front door. I collected the package and walked around to their back door took the key from under the rock and left the package on their kitchen table along with the rest of their mail. Since we were heading into summer, I didn’t expect them to show up anytime soon, but it was so typical of rich people like the Larsens, having their stuff sent FedEx just because they could afford to.

I showered and sorted through my clothes, trying to find something appropriate. Judging from appearances, James would choose a formal dining spot, and my wardrobe was sorely lacking in that department. I finally decided that since I wasn’t big on chiffon, I’d have to be original. I took a hand-painted silk pareu I’d once bought on a lark and tied it as a sort of off-the-shoulder sarong. I blow-dried my hair and pulled back one side with a small barrette, then rubbed vanilla-scented lotion on my freshly shaved legs and put on some low-heeled leather sandals. That was it. I stood in front of the mirror turning to look at my profile. No, braless was not the way to go when one was nearly thirty. I dug around in my underwear drawer and found an old strapless swimsuit top with an underwire. Presto—cleavage. I checked the mirror again. Good enough. I wasn’t about to trowel on makeup just because I had a date with a guy who looked like he belonged in a cafe on South Beach surrounded by gorgeous models.

I had given James directions to my place, but I’d told him to ring the buzzer outside the fence. Abaco didn’t particularly like strange men, and I didn’t want to start my date off with a dog bite.

The buzzer rang at seven on the dot. I locked the cottage door and hurried out to the gate.

“You look great,” James whispered as he brushed his lips across my cheek. He was wearing a crisp, original Guy Harvey shirt with a picture of a leaping marlin painted on the back, khaki pants, and Top-Siders. I was pleased to see I wasn’t too underdressed.

Looking past him at the car in the Larsens’ driveway, I let loose a loud “Wow!” I walked around the silver Jaguar convertible making all kinds of unintelligible, appreciative noises. He opened the door smiling, but without saying a word. I liked the fact that he didn’t launch into a big lecture about the car. Most guys who drive hot cars like nothing better than to talk about them all the time.

I sank into the soft leather seats and decided I would be perfectly happy if he took me to a drive-in. I could have stayed in that car all night.

We headed north on Federal Highway, making the usual small talk. I laughed when he told me we were going to the Mai Kai Restaurant.

“You don’t like it?” he asked.

“No, it’s not that, it’s just that I have a friend who has several family members who work there. He’s always complaining about the place. See, he’s Samoan, and he thinks the shows are far from authentic—demeaning is the word he uses. Now I’ll have a chance to tell him what I think.”

It felt rotten talking about B.J. like that. Talking about him was making me feel the heat of his kiss all over again.

Fort Lauderdale’s Mai Kai really belongs in Orlando. It was as fake and touristy a place as I’d ever seen, full of vacationing New Yorkers, French Canadians, and Germans. Although we had no reservations, James was taken to a table right away. Several of the waiting tourists glared at us as we were led to a spot near the stage, but there were nods and acknowledgments as James walked past the tables of better-dressed patrons. James explained to me that we would eat first and watch the famed Polynesian revue afterward.

He pulled out my bamboo chair, and before I sat, he brushed away imaginary crumbs with a cloth napkin from one of the extra place settings. He did the same to his own seat. I looked around at the carved tikis, flower leis, fake rock waterfalls, live orchids, and lush palms. No wonder B.J. was irked at his culture being reduced to Disney proportions.

James lifted his glass after the waiter poured us each some Pouilly-Fuisse. “To Elysia. We’ll keep her alive in our memories.” We were seated not across from each another but rather at an angle so we would both have a good view of the stage. We clinked our glasses.

I sipped a little of the wine. I would have preferred a beer.

“You really look lovely, Seychelle,” James said, resting his chin sideways on his interlaced fingers and staring at me. “It’s quite a treat for me to be out with a beautiful young woman instead of a wealthy, wrinkly widow with a large estate.”

“Thank you.” It embarrassed me when men complimented me, but it was a pleasant embarrassment.

“How is it that a beautiful and accomplished young woman like you is not involved with a man at the present?”

I didn’t really want to go into this tonight. I tried for the short version. “I was in a relationship, but that ended a few months ago. I don’t want to jump into anything on the rebound.”

“Hmmm. Tell me about him. Have you two remained friends?”

It seemed like a slightly odd turn for the conversation, but I soon forgot it as our waiter showed up. Though I protested that it was really too expensive, James insisted we both order the lobster Bora Bora. At least we didn’t have to drink any of those silly colorful drinks with the umbrellas in them. The food arrived quickly, and I gave myself over to the succulent flesh. Soon my chin was dripping butter, but I was ecstatic.

I let James do all the talking. I watched as he meticulously dug out nearly every piece of meat without once ever touching the lobster’s shell. He said he was originally from Jamaica, but came to Miami at age six, grew up in Overtown, and had attended Ringling School of Design on an art scholarship. His grandmother, who had raised him, died in a house fire during his third year, and he quit school to take guardianship of his younger brothers and sisters. In need of money, he had started working in clubs in the city, and eventually went back to school for a degree in business administration.

“Art is still my first love, but it just doesn’t pay the bills,” he said.

There was an earnestness as he talked about himself that was charming. He was neither too boastful nor too modest. There was very little not to like about the man, except for the fact that he (I was finding it more difficult to believe it could have been him) or someone else at Harbor House had played some part I didn’t understand in Ely’s death.

I hadn’t yet said a word to James about the Top Ten and Patty Krix.

“There’s something I keep wondering about,” I said,

taking off the plastic bib with a picture of a cartoon lobster on the front.

“What’s that?”

“I keep wondering if there isn’t some kind of a connection between Elysia’s death and Patty’s.”

James looked puzzled. “Patty?” he asked. Again, I couldn’t read his reaction. Either he was an exceptionally good actor or he really didn’t know what I was talking about.

“Patty Krix. You remember her? Ely told me she was a resident of Harbor House for a while.”

“Oh, yes, yes, I remember her now. What happened to her?”