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Chapter Twelve
It was closer to 1 a.m. than midnight when Sylvia reached Palm Coast. A cup of bad gas station coffee and an intriguing podcast had kept her awake. Alicia had texted her an address just after she’d left her house, which was lucky, since her phone died during her call with Lancelot. In her haste to get on the road, she’d forgotten to pack her charger.
Sylvia was sort of sorry she’d agreed to the journey, now that she knew Lancelot and Hugo had been returning to her house. She felt guilty for even thinking that. Alicia was her friend and she’d asked for help. Sylvia had never considered herself the type to choose a man over a friend in need, but…well, damn, she must be more shallow—or horny—than she’d thought. She tried to comfort herself, to allow herself to pretend she was still a good person by blaming her selfishness on the short time frame on this new affair. Regardless, she had been tempted several times to turn the car around.
She was glad when her map told her it was less than a mile to her destination. She crossed a tall bridge over the Matanzas saltwater river that allowed boats to come and go from the inland marina, where tall-masted sailboats and gleaming yachts waited for their wealthy owners to take them out for a pleasure sail or cruise. Despite the late hour, the marina was well lit, and the water reflected and magnified the illumination.
Her destination, the Matanzas Beach Club sat right on the coast, the drive flanked by low palms lit from below with landscape lighting. The building itself was painted deep teal with accents of golden yellow.
Sylvia pulled up under the porte cochère. A valet came around to open her door. Sylvia passed over her keys, leaving her tote with her overnight things in the car, but taking the one she used as a purse. Glass double doors slid open as she approached the entrance. Cool, dry air washed over her, muting the damp heat of outdoors.
A woman in a uniform dress that matched the subdued tropical shades of the resort color scheme approached her as she entered. “Welcome to the Matanzas Beach Club.”
“Thank you, I’m actually here to meet a friend.”
“You must be Ms. Hayden. Please follow me.”
Sylvia was led through the lobby to an outdoor bar set up on a large crescent-shaped terrace that hugged the edge of the circular building. The view was spectacular, looking out not only over the ocean, but the lush and artistically lit grounds of the club, which included several man-made lagoons and verdant plantings.
A curved wooden bar hugged the edge of the building, a man in the resort colors confidently working a cocktail shaker. A handful of people sat on stools at the bar, and a few of the dozen or so tables were occupied by couples or small groups.
Alicia was seated at one of the two-top tables against the railing. She turned at the sound of their steps and rose, a pleased smile on her face. Sylvia smiled in response, and when Alicia held out her arms, she went in for a brief hug and cheek kiss.
“Sylvia, my dear,” Alicia said. “You look wonderful. That color suits you.”
“You look lovely as always,” Sylvia replied. It was true. Alicia was a tall woman, but statuesque, not gangly. She wore red slacks and a black and white dress shirt with a standing collar. Despite the Florida heat, her outfit looked freshly pressed.
“Please, take a seat.” Alicia gestured with the genteel authority that had made Sylvia long to be her when she grew up.
Now that she was older, she knew that she would never be exactly like Alicia. Sylvia was confident and self-assured, but she knew she didn’t radiate authority the way this woman did. Maybe it was from all those years being a teacher, or maybe it was just who Alicia was.
They took their seats, and Sylvia ordered an unsweetened iced tea—she doubted the ability of anyone who wasn’t a native Carolinian to make sweet tea properly. Alicia requested the same.
Alicia leaned back in her chair looking cool and collected. Sylvia now wished she’d stopped somewhere so she could change out of the creased wide-leg pants and boatneck shirt she’d been wearing for hours while she drove.
Brushing aside her momentary feelings of inadequacy, she leaned across the table to touch Alicia’s hand. “First, let me just say I’m so sorry.”
“What for?”
“For your loss. I haven’t seen you in person since your husband passed.”
“Ah, well, your sentiments are appreciated.”
Sylvia blinked and sat back. They’d hadn’t exchanged letters since Alicia’s husband had died, hadn’t even spoken except for that short phone call, and there hadn’t been much emotion in Alicia’s voice then, either.
Alicia cocked her head. “You don’t approve of my emotional reaction.”
Sylvia crossed her legs. “It is not my place, not anyone’s place, to approve or disapprove of another person’s emotions.”
“A lovely sentiment, but naive, don’t you think?” The question wasn’t condescending, but an invitation for her to reply.
“Far from it,” Sylvia said with a smile. “Naive would be to assume that everyone has to react the way I think they should. Naive would be assuming that I can accurately interpret every person’s words, body language, and expression, and use that information to correctly identify the emotion they’re feeling.”
Alicia laughed, a pleased sound. “It’s been far too long since I talked to you. Our conversations give me hope for the future.”
Sylvia thanked the server who brought her iced tea. Alicia ordered a pitcher of sangria before the woman glided away.
They sipped their tea in companionable silence until the server returned with two stemless wine glasses and a glass pitcher of red-wine sangria. Maybe the caffeine was wearing off, but Sylvia felt a little disconnected from reality. She hardly lived with a traditional schedule, since poetry didn’t require going into the office every morning, but even for her, a late-night four-hour drive to go have a drink with a friend in need was abnormal.
