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I pull down a collins glass and set to layering it. Grenadine, juice, Midori mixed with vodka, then blue curaçao cut with water. The bright colors hold their positions, creating a rainbow effect.
I stab a pineapple chunk, a cherry, and then a green seahorse gummy candy and slide it into the glass. “Here you go.”
“I love it,” she says.
All the women look expectantly at their men, and soon I’m busily mixing a whole round of them. The evening is now above average in drink sales, and Mendo has two people waiting to talk with him about booking the secret cave.
All is well.
But as I go through the motions of mixing, pouring, and taking credit cards, my mind turns to the bridesmaid, with her ocean-colored dress and raven hair. Mendo used her to launch tonight’s version of the story.
She’s long gone, and it’s unlikely I’ll see her again.
I’m glad.
I do have a rule: no tourists in my personal life.
Not even if she is a beautiful, sassy, raven-haired goddess.
Chapter 3
TILLIE
As the reception winds down, I feel more restless than tired.
When we get back to the condo, I hug my sister and brother good night. Despite my newfound fear of crabs, I walk along the shore in front of the condo complex, my sandals dangling from my fingers.
The beach is mostly quiet. The tourists have packed up for the evening. I’m guessing there are other places more suitable for locals. The waves roll in, frothing as they stretch along the sand. The moon is a crescent, reflecting on the water in a bright line.
The thatched-hut bar is still open, colored lights ringing the roof. A few people sit on stools, talking quietly. Maybe a nightcap will be good. I’m sure the green-shirt man is long gone. He’s not among the patrons sitting along the circular counter.
As I choose an empty spot, there’s a clink of glass from inside the bar. I assume that’s the bartender, bent down to deal with barware or inventory.
I slide a laminated menu toward me, curious to see if there’s anything I don’t know how to make. Choosing a cocktail that tastes worse than the ones I mix myself is an occupational hazard as a bartender.
I scan the list, seeing nothing new, then spot a colorful layered drink in front of a woman a few chairs down.
She sees me looking. “It’s not on the menu. Mendo told us all about it. It’s called a mermaid sunrise.” She gestures to a man on the opposite side of the circle peering down at his phone.
At his name, his face lifts, eyes bright against his dark skin. “Oh, hot damn,” he says. “Gabe. Your goddess has returned.”
Goddess?
And who is he talking to?
A head pops up from below the bar.
Then a green shirt.
Oh.
It’s Crab Man.
He’s the bartender. Gabe, apparently.
I freeze, wondering if I should leave.
Everyone’s watching us, as if I’ve been the topic of conversation since the wedding a couple of hours earlier.
