Sunset Beach(2)

She stumbled over her flip-flop and toppled onto the grassy verge just in time to avoid being mowed down by a white-haired octogenarian wearing wraparound sunglasses and a Tampa Bay Rays sun visor furiously pedaling past on an adult tricycle.

“Hey!” Drue yelled after her. “Get on the bike path.”

“Up yours,” the woman called, turning around briefly to flip her the bird.

As she struggled to her feet, she saw, almost in slow motion, the city bus passing her by. She winced in pain, but also at the ad emblazoned along the side of the bus.

SLIP AND FALL? GIVE BRICE A CALL! The ad was accompanied by a five-foot-tall airbrush-enhanced color portrait of W. Brice Campbell, arms crossed defiantly, his chiseled chin jutting pugnaciously, a stance Drue knew all too well.

The bus slowed momentarily at the bus stop. The air brakes whooshed. “Stay there,” Drue muttered. “Stay right there.” She broke into her current version of a run, a lopsided, sorry, limping affair.

A young Hispanic woman stepped off the bus, turned, and waved goodbye to the driver.

“Hey,” Drue yelled breathlessly, closing the gap, now maybe only three bus-lengths away. She waved her arms over her head. “Hey!”

The woman turned and gave the stranger a hesitant smile. “Hey.”

The bus’s brakes whooshed again and it started to move.

“Tell him to stop,” Drue cried. “Tell him to wait.”

But it was too late. The bus picked up speed. It moved on. The woman stood by the bus shelter. She was dressed in a gray and white uniform smock, her name, Sonia, embroidered above her left breast.

“Sorry,” she said softly, as Drue approached, limping badly. “Are you okay?”

Drue grasped the back of the bench as she tried to regain her breath. The bench was painted blue and white, with the Campbell, Coxe and Kramner signature logo superimposed across Brice Campbell’s visage. HAVE A WRECK? WE’LL GET YOUR CHECK!

“No,” Drue managed, as she collapsed onto the bench. She jumped up immediately, gingerly extracting a half-inch wood splinter protruding from her right butt cheek. “No. Definitely. Not. Okay.” She looked down at the screen-printed face of Brice W. Campbell. Her new boss. Her long-lost father, and as always, a major pain in the ass.



* * *



A job in his law firm had been the very last thing Drue had wanted from her long-estranged father. But what choice did she have? That five-second midair kiteboard collision three months earlier, and her mother’s subsequent death, only reinforced the fact that she no longer had any reason to stay in Fort Lauderdale.

Drue had been adrift, self-medicating with tequila and Advil and wallowing in self-pity on the day of her mother’s funeral. As she was leaving the memorial service, with the bronze urn containing Sherri’s remains tucked under her arm, she’d been shocked to spot a well-dressed businessman standing uneasily at the back of the church.

At first, she wasn’t even absolutely sure it was really him. His hair was longer, touching the collar of his open-neck shirt, and flecked with silver. He was tanned and slim, and in his expensive tailored blazer and sockless Gucci loafers looked distinctly out of place in the former fast-food restaurant turned Fortress for All Faiths Chapel of Prayer.

She approached him warily. “Dad?”

“Hi,” he’d said softly, giving her an awkward hug.

She’d endured the embrace with what she thought was admirable forbearance.

“What are you doing here?”

He shifted from one foot to the other. “Why wouldn’t I be here?”

“I mean, how did you know? That Mom died? I didn’t even put an obituary in the paper until today.”

“Sherri called me. To tell me she was sick. And I asked the hospice people to let me know … when it happened.” He glanced around the church, which was nearly empty now. “Look, can we go somewhere else to talk about this?”

“Like where?” Drue wasn’t about to let him off that easy. Twenty years ago, he’d shipped his sullen teenage daughter across Florida, from St. Pete back here to Lauderdale, choosing peace with his second wife and her obnoxious sons over loyalty to his only daughter. He’d dutifully sent the birthday cards and child support checks right up until her eighteenth birthday, but she hadn’t laid eyes on him since that boiling hot summer afternoon so long ago. She wasn’t about to let him waltz in here today and play the grieving dad and ex-spouse.

“I thought maybe we could go to lunch somewhere.” His blue-gray eyes took in her frumpy black dress, the only remotely funeral-ready dress she owned, and the too-large black pumps, which she’d appropriated from Sherri’s closet.

“Why?”

He let out a long, aggravated sigh. “Why? Because your mom is gone and I’m now your only living relative. And because there are some business matters we need to discuss. Okay? Can you just cut me some slack and go to lunch? Or do you really need to keep busting my balls for the rest of my life?”

She shrugged. “I guess I could do lunch. Where do you want to go?”

“I heard there’s a bistro on Las Olas that has great mussels.”

“Taverna.” Why was she not surprised that he’d chosen the most exclusive, expensive restaurant in town?

Outside, in the parking lot, Brice pointed a key fob at a black Mercedes sedan and clicked it. Drue went to the backseat and opened the door.