Never a Bride: A Short Story by Traci Hall Page A

behind the clear goggles. Preston’s cleft chin. But she did not recognize the passion in his embrace with the strange woman. It left a different kind of ache in her heart, besides the betrayal of it all.
    In the next moment, their parachutes tangled together. Celia saw the panic in the woman’s eyes, the certainty that everything would be just fine in Preston’s. She heard the woman’s scream, the flutter of the wind, and finally, there was nothing left to hear or see as the lovers fell into the shark-infested ocean.
    Celia unwrapped a fifth piece of chocolate and pressed the play button once more.

Ambrosia by the Sea - Chapter One
     
     
    Celia arrived in the quaint little town by the sea just as the sun was rising over the ocean. The golden morning light gilded the summery beach cottages and condominiums along Ocean Boulevard. She’d driven all night, too cheap–no, frugal–to waste money on a flea-ridden motel.
    The water sparkled turquoise and sea foam while pelicans soared like prehistoric aviators over lightly lapping waves against an ivory stretch of sand. She’d thought it the best place to heal when she’d closed on her outdated, fixer-upper condo last month.
    “I need a damn miracle.” She pulled into the gas station on the corner as the final plumes of fuel sputtered to nothing. If she wasn’t mistaken, she’d gone the last twenty miles on a flat tire. Her bladder, full to bursting, demanded attention. What emergency to deal with first?
    The car died in front of the pump, which answered one question. She opened the door of her new hybrid and slid out–getting half way before her legs cramped. Starbucks coffee cups fell to the pavement and she scooped them up, shoving them back inside and hoping nobody saw.
    “We’re on empty, but we made it,” she told the car, giving the silver hood a pat. Her hand came away grimy and she looked at her palm in disgust. She took a blue paper towel from the dispenser by the pump, dunked it in the murky water, and washed the biggest smears off her hand. “Disgusting.”
    She walked into the gas station and nodded at the dark-haired woman behind the counter. Dressed in an amber sari with gold accessories, the woman acknowledged her, but didn’t bother with a verbal hello.
    “Do you have a restroom I could use?” Quick, quick .
    “Is that your car?” The woman turned her head toward the lopsided vehicle. “A Prius?”
    “Yes.” Celia had once owned an SUV Mercedes, and the smaller car, fuel and energy efficient at a quarter of the cost, took some getting used to–just like the rest of her life in the past year since Preston’s death.
    “Right there. No need for a key.”
    “Thank you.” Celia made her way between shelves of tampons and fig cookies, spying a can of Fix-A-Flat to her left. The gas station carried the basics, including an industrial coffee maker that brewed burnt French Roast. Not Starbucks, but she was too exhausted to be picky. Another cup would get her through the next hour.
    Using the blue paper towel, she opened the door to the restroom. Single toilet, and a white porcelain sink. The mirror over the top was rusted–something that happened close to the beach.
    Celia looked around for a toilet seat cover dispenser, but there wasn’t one. Hurry. She unbuttoned her Lily Pulitzer shorts and sat her ass down.
    Just in time.
    The three cups of coffee that had kept her up all night, driving toward salvation, raced through her. It wasn’t the relief of emptying her bladder that made her start to cry but the fact that she’d made it. Not to her condo just yet, but the gas station counted.
    She sniffed, blowing her nose into the thin tissue, which just made more of a mess. Once finished, she stood in front of the mirror and assessed the damage from the all-night drive.
    Splashing water onto her face, she patted her cheeks dry with the bottom of her lime green tee. There were no paper towels, and the hand dryer was broken. Celia quickly