her accent sounded frustrated. “I want you to turn round, march back, and give that boy your phone number.”
I slowed my pace, considering her suggestion. “But I don’t know my phone number.”
After some more incoherent muttering, Molly shrieked. “I give up. You’re such a bloody conventional Yankee . Next thing I know, you’ll have run off with one of those creepy ponytail lads with a Darwin fish on his bumper, then move to a farm in Idaho to raise alpacas.”
I lowered my cell and stared at it. “What?”
“I think you know what I mean, missy.”
I laughed again and hung up.
The heat of the morning had kept most of the day-trippers off the cobblestone streets of the Seaside Town Square. Instead, they sought shelter in backyard swimming pools, air-conditioned restaurants, or bigger cities with malls. I passed by two long rows of brightly colored bicycles—cruisers, like mine, with big tires and a basket hanging between the handlebars. The man running the rental stand sat off to the side under the shade of a tree, his nose in a book, fanning himself with a magazine.
I looked over my shoulder, thinking of Todd. So cute, so un Hollywood. Tomorrow I’d go back for the dolphin, for sure. Then the next day, maybe I’d just sort of pop in for no reason, all breezy-like. Guys love that. My smile stretched, and I was suddenly in the mood to make out in the balcony of a theater.
When I arrived back at Modica Market, my bike was unmoved, leaning against the outside of the store. I reached for the handlebars, about to pedal down the sandy sidewalk, retracing my path from an hour ago. Instead I stepped over it toward the front window. Cupping my hands around my eyes like a quintessential Peeping Tom, I peered through the glass. Behind the solitary, non-computerized, punch-in-the-keys cash register at the front, the little store was packed with fresh produce, local specialties, and 1950s-style wooden shelves stocked to the ceiling with cans, bottles, and jars of every color, shape, and size.
I knew what my next adventurous mission was going to be: I would spend that machine-washed five-dollar bill on one jar of Modica homemade jam. Lindsey knew I died for the stuff, especially red currant. She used to send it to me wherever I was, in squatty jars with scalloped labels. I hadn’t had any in more than a year, not even a lick off the back of a spoon. Sugar equals fat, you know.
Oh, screw it , I thought, I’m on vacation.
After a long, preparatory exhale, I pulled the door open halfway and then froze when a little bell tinkled above my head. An older man with a bushy gray beard and a stiff red apron glanced my way, nodded, and returned to his work. He looked like Santa. I liked that. I leveled my chin and crossed the threshold, allowing that little bell to tinkle its heart out as the door closed behind me.
The display of preserves was right by the entrance. Score! I knelt in front of it, scanning the shelves, but alas, no red currant. As I was about to turn and ask a clerk if there might be any in the back, I spied a jar behind a row of elderberry. Just as I was reaching, a small brown hand jetted out for it.
“Hey,” I complained indignantly. “That’s mine.” Before I knew what I’d done, I snatched the jar back, right out of the hand.
“Mummie, Mummie. She took my jelly.” I turned my eyes to find a little boy, his pouty lips quivering, empty hand still outstretched. “Ees mine !” he squealed through a colorful island accent. He backed away and wrapped his arm around someone’s leg. I looked up.
Her black dreadlocks were swaddled in a purple and orange hair wrap that matched her bright floral dress. She was obviously his mother, all tall and exotic and striking, and she was glaring absolute daggers at me.
The bell on the front door tinkled as someone new entered the store. Great. I kneaded my forehead, worrying for a quick second about the scene I was causing. Max would be irate.
“Aw, of
I slowed my pace, considering her suggestion. “But I don’t know my phone number.”
After some more incoherent muttering, Molly shrieked. “I give up. You’re such a bloody conventional Yankee . Next thing I know, you’ll have run off with one of those creepy ponytail lads with a Darwin fish on his bumper, then move to a farm in Idaho to raise alpacas.”
I lowered my cell and stared at it. “What?”
“I think you know what I mean, missy.”
I laughed again and hung up.
The heat of the morning had kept most of the day-trippers off the cobblestone streets of the Seaside Town Square. Instead, they sought shelter in backyard swimming pools, air-conditioned restaurants, or bigger cities with malls. I passed by two long rows of brightly colored bicycles—cruisers, like mine, with big tires and a basket hanging between the handlebars. The man running the rental stand sat off to the side under the shade of a tree, his nose in a book, fanning himself with a magazine.
I looked over my shoulder, thinking of Todd. So cute, so un Hollywood. Tomorrow I’d go back for the dolphin, for sure. Then the next day, maybe I’d just sort of pop in for no reason, all breezy-like. Guys love that. My smile stretched, and I was suddenly in the mood to make out in the balcony of a theater.
When I arrived back at Modica Market, my bike was unmoved, leaning against the outside of the store. I reached for the handlebars, about to pedal down the sandy sidewalk, retracing my path from an hour ago. Instead I stepped over it toward the front window. Cupping my hands around my eyes like a quintessential Peeping Tom, I peered through the glass. Behind the solitary, non-computerized, punch-in-the-keys cash register at the front, the little store was packed with fresh produce, local specialties, and 1950s-style wooden shelves stocked to the ceiling with cans, bottles, and jars of every color, shape, and size.
I knew what my next adventurous mission was going to be: I would spend that machine-washed five-dollar bill on one jar of Modica homemade jam. Lindsey knew I died for the stuff, especially red currant. She used to send it to me wherever I was, in squatty jars with scalloped labels. I hadn’t had any in more than a year, not even a lick off the back of a spoon. Sugar equals fat, you know.
Oh, screw it , I thought, I’m on vacation.
After a long, preparatory exhale, I pulled the door open halfway and then froze when a little bell tinkled above my head. An older man with a bushy gray beard and a stiff red apron glanced my way, nodded, and returned to his work. He looked like Santa. I liked that. I leveled my chin and crossed the threshold, allowing that little bell to tinkle its heart out as the door closed behind me.
The display of preserves was right by the entrance. Score! I knelt in front of it, scanning the shelves, but alas, no red currant. As I was about to turn and ask a clerk if there might be any in the back, I spied a jar behind a row of elderberry. Just as I was reaching, a small brown hand jetted out for it.
“Hey,” I complained indignantly. “That’s mine.” Before I knew what I’d done, I snatched the jar back, right out of the hand.
“Mummie, Mummie. She took my jelly.” I turned my eyes to find a little boy, his pouty lips quivering, empty hand still outstretched. “Ees mine !” he squealed through a colorful island accent. He backed away and wrapped his arm around someone’s leg. I looked up.
Her black dreadlocks were swaddled in a purple and orange hair wrap that matched her bright floral dress. She was obviously his mother, all tall and exotic and striking, and she was glaring absolute daggers at me.
The bell on the front door tinkled as someone new entered the store. Great. I kneaded my forehead, worrying for a quick second about the scene I was causing. Max would be irate.
“Aw, of
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