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I glance at the wedding party, which is breaking up to head to the reception dinner. “I was trying to thank you, but you’re damn crabby.”
“You would be, too, if you knew anything about the island.” His neck is as red as the invading crustaceans’ eyeballs, and it’s hard to leave him. But I have to go.
“Thanks, anyway.” I attempt a jaunty twirl to head in the other direction, but end up kicking sand on his shorts.
He grimaces and dusts it off, muttering, “Tourists,” before heading toward the bar.
Great. I couldn’t have made a worse impression. Might as well put a finish on it.
As his form recedes down the beach, I call out, “I hope you get all the crabs you deserve!”
Chapter 2
GABE
I stomp through the sand back to my bar, flipping up the hinged section of the counter, and survey the empties in front of the customers.
Mostly tourists.
Can’t live with ’em. Can’t make a living without ’em.
But my friend Mendo is sitting there, too. And by the amused look on his face, he saw the whole thing.
“That’s quite the fine lady you were talking to there.” Mendo runs his palms over the shaved sides of his hair, his habit when people are looking at him. “You ask her out?”
“I don’t date tourists.” I point at a young couple and, at their nods, wash my hands and grab two clean hurricane glasses from the rack overhead.
“Right, you’re a fighter, not a lover, no?” Mendo lifts his pint glass with a wink. “You are all brawn and scowl and women will not trifle with the likes of you.”
“Mendo ...” I cut off my growl. I have tourists to serve.
“Here is Gabe in his true form,” Mendo tells the customers. “Strong, angry, tough. His exterior is as impenetrable as a conch shell, his heart as dried up as the husk of a coconut.”
The couple next to him, snuggled close and most certainly honeymooners, look from Mendo to me to see how I will respond.
I sigh. Here we go. “Knock it off.”
But I know my protest will have zero impact. Mendo loves telling wild tales to tourists. “Poor Gabe.” He turns to the couple. “He once was in love with a woman not of La Jarra. She was beautiful and entrancing. Everyone who saw her fell for her instantly.”
I dump ice into the glasses, shaking my head to dismiss the story. I will have no part in this.
The honeymoon couple is rapt, hanging on Mendo’s every word.
He lifts his hand as if painting a picture for them. “She had long hair, black as night, that fell in ringlets. Her nose was as tiny as a pixie’s, and her eyes were the cornflower blue of a perfect robin’s egg.”
Other patrons of the bar lean forward, trying to catch his words. He’s good, making his La Jarra accent heavier for effect. He does boat tours and always hams it up for tips.
He continues his story. “This woman arrived one morning like dawn itself, wearing a dress as blue as the sea, her eyes on fire from the reflection of the rising sun.”
I pull my hurricane mix from the fridge below the bar and measure out the red liquid. Another man holds up an empty pint glass, and I acknowledge him with a nod.
“Where was she from?” the first man asks.
“No one knows,” Mendo says. “It was as if she was born of an ocean wave.”
Mendo loves his details. I add rum to the drinks and give them a deep stir.
“What happened?” a woman asks.
