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  “Can I help you, Judge?” Although I knew exactly what his complaint would be.

  He harrumphed not once but twice and pointed to the area of the café right next to the book nook. “You can see the problem for yourself. Someone is sitting at Dashiell Hammett. We have an agreement. That table is reserved for me.” He looked at his wristwatch. “Especially at this time of the morning.”

  I set my tray on the counter and looked him steadily in the eye. “Our agreement is that we will try not to seat guests at the table you prefer to use, but when we have an overflow crowd such as we do this morning, it is not always possible. Now, would you like to take a complimentary copy of the News and sit on the bench outside to read it until the table is vacant?”

  He harrumphed once more, probably for emphasis, turned on his heel, took a newspaper from the pile by the cash register and walked out the door. I hustled to serve the food before it got cold.

  Things eventually began to slow down. Soon enough, Judge Harcroft was able to spread his copy of the Fort Myers Beach News across the top of the Dashiell Hammett table while he waited to be served his standing order of Hammett Ham ’n Eggs over hard. He lingered longer than usual, and when I collected his payment at the register, he didn’t forget to say good-bye with his standard, “Enjoy your day. I must Dash.” He took a step toward the door and then stopped. “Er. I hope we won’t have this confusion about my table ever again.”

  I looked to heaven for patience. Bridgy was a few feet down the counter packing a to-go order. She rolled her eyes and shrugged flamboyantly. If she could shrug off the judge’s nonsense with all the turmoil she faced, I mentally dismissed him as one of life’s minor irritants.

  During the lull between late breakfast and early lunch, I refilled the salt and pepper shakers and lined the ketchup and mustard bottles where they would be easily accessible. Bridgy was making the rounds of the few remaining occupied tables with the coffeepots, brown topped for regular in one hand, orange for decaf in the other. I heard her say, “More tea? Sure, no problem.” I poured hot water from the electric kettle into a carafe and pushed it across the counter to her.

  She served the tea and walked slowly back to the counter, fiddling with her iPhone. I hoped she wasn’t getting a troubling message from Owen or that criminal lawyer, what was her name? Georgette. I didn’t want the state attorney’s office spoiling Bridgy’s first day with her mom.

  When she got to me, she slipped the phone back in her pocket and beamed a smile wider than the countertop. “According to the airline app, Mom’s plane is in the air. I’d better call Ophie and give her a deadline. Otherwise she’ll come waltzing in whenever she chooses. I don’t want Mom hanging out by the information desk waiting for me.”

  The café filled up once again. Running from table to table, I didn’t notice the time until the door opened and Hurricane Ophie blew in. My brain instantly paraphrased Bogie in Casablanca. Of all the outfits in all the world, she had to show up in black. Black lace yet. On a day we were all trying to cheer Bridgy up, Ophie was dressed as though she was about to attend Abraham Lincoln’s funeral. Her black wrap dress was trimmed with black lace, and her waist was cinched with a black patent leather belt at least as wide as the three-inch heels on her matching spiked sandals. Black lace fingerless gloves reached her elbows, and her shoulder-length oat-colored hair was gathered up in some kind of black hairnet.

  “Ophie’s here to save the day. And don’t y’all worry about my finery. I brought a full-length apron to protect my dress against spills and whatnot.”

  Of course every head in the room turned toward her. Ophie did a couple of “look at my pretty dress” pirouettes into the center of the room and then stood still and gave a royal side-to-side wave to her adoring audience. I was surprised no one clapped. She pulled a gauzy white frou-frou apron from her enormous black patent leather tote. Then she tossed the tote at me from five feet away. I lunged and caught it, remembering that Ophie’s well-mannered ladies’ rules included “No well-mannered lady should carry a purse indoors.”

  Bridgy came out of the kitchen and affected the southern drawl that sometimes overrode the cultured voice she developed in college when she was working at diminishing her Brooklyn accent. “Why, Aunt Ophie, look at you. Stunning, darlin’, absolutely stunning.” And they did the big ole bear hug that they’d perfected long ago.

  I heard Ophie whisper, “It will all be fine.” I hoped she was talking about Bridgy’s predicament and not her own anxiety because Emelia would be landing shortly in Fort Myers.

  Ophie pulled away from Bridgy and turned around, shaking her head back and forth. The lacy pouch resting on her neck captured her hair as it wiggled from side to side. “So, y’all tell me. What do you think of my snood?”

  “Your . . . what?” I couldn’t help myself, even though I really knew better.

  “My snood. Don’t you pay attention to fashion? A snood is the latest thing in headwear.”

  Maybe in the 1940s. I wisely kept my thoughts to myself.

  A few minutes later, Bridgy pulled the Escort onto Estero Boulevard. “Unless the bridge is jam-packed, we should get to the airport in plenty of time. Maybe we can relax. Have a cuppa before the plane lands.”

  “Sounds terrific. So tell me, what is it with Ophie and her super outlandish getup? This mournful outfit is way over the top, even for her.”

  “Don’t even think about it. She just wants to shock Mom. If she didn’t have to work today, she might have shown up in a bikini. We are only at the very beginning of the battle of the Brice babes.”

  “Brice babes?”

  “Their maiden name is Brice. The Brice babes is what Grandpa called them.”

  I wondered how tough the fighting would get but was distracted by the miniature golf course as we approached Summerlin Road. I pointed off to the left. “Isn’t that the ‘golf with the gators’ place? That would make a nice outing for you and your mom. I bet she’s never fed live gators before.”

  “Come now. You’ve been at my mother’s table for Thanksgiving. Feeding gators would be easy compared to trying to get my cousin George’s twins to settle down and eat their dinner.”

  We both laughed long and loud. It was wonderful to see Bridgy carefree if only for a while.

  “Of course, the newly constructed connection from I-75 to the Terminal Access Road at Southwest Florida International Airport got us a bit confused, and it took us a little longer than we expected, but when Bridgy parked the car in the airport parking lot, she looked at the dashboard clock and whistled. “We have plenty of time to spare. We’ll check the arrivals board, but I think Mom will be coming in on Concourse B.”

  “Great. Isn’t there a bagel place somewhere along there? We can get a coffee and maybe a nosh.”

  “A nosh? Toto, we’re not in Brooklyn anymore.” Bridgy gave a high-spirited laugh, stepped out of the car and rushed to the elevators. Energized by the thought of seeing her mother in a short while, she never even looked back to see if I was behind her. Although she did yell over her shoulder, “The bagel place is behind the TSA station. You’re going to have to settle for a donut.”

  I caught up with her just as the elevator door opened, and we rode down to the terminal walkway and entered the building. Bridgy headed right for the arrivals and departures boards, but a large white sign caught my eye. It said the Port Authority was in the midst of celebrating the tenth year of its partnership with Lee County Alliance for the Arts. They were sponsoring a decorative project called Art in Flight, and visitors would find paintings of talented local artists hanging on the walls along Terminal B and Terminal D.

  “Mom should land in about twenty minutes.” The exhilaration in Bridgy’s voice was palpable.

  “Great. Let’s take a look at the paintings.” I pointed to the sign. “Local talent. It’s always so exciting to discover homegrown artists.”

  “I thought
you wanted coffee.” Bridgy grabbed my arm and tugged me toward the coffee bar nearest the spot where her mother would be deplaning.

  I resisted. “We can always get coffee. These paintings aren’t going to be here forever.” I tried to spend a few moments enjoying each painting, but Bridgy made it clear she was humoring me and hurried along as if her mother would magically appear next to the final canvas. She came to a sudden stop in front of a cherubic blonde with lilac wings standing in a lush flower field. The fairy was waving to others who were flying far into the sky. I could feel her turn was coming, and coming soon.

  Bridgy nudged me. “Look at the title.” Let the Fairy in You Fly. “When we left Brooklyn, everyone said we were looking for a fairy-tale life. And we found it here in Fort Myers Beach.” Her tone hardened. “And I’m not going to let Oscar’s murder ruin it.”

  Mentally, I saluted the artist. As a painter, Paula Eckerty has the ability to touch the soul.

  Bridgy’s phone pinged. She read her mother’s text out loud. “On the ground. Hugs in a minute xoxo.”

  We scanned the trickle of travelers coming around the TSA barrier. As the crowd swelled, we stretched on our tippy toes, as if our being an inch taller would make Emelia easier to see. Abruptly, Bridgy ran into the crowd waving wildly and shouting, “MOM. MOM.”

  The second I saw her, I realized what Bridgy had been trying to explain about the difference between the sisters. I don’t know why I never noticed it all these years. Emelia was dressed in a tan Chanel styled suit with broad-heeled sensible shoes. Barely there pearl button earrings set off her short pixie cut with longish side bangs that kept her gray hair neat and tidy. I doubt there were ever any “she took my best sweater” fights between these sisters.

  Then I saw the woman striding confidently alongside Emelia. She had wild red hair, many shades brighter than my own, and was wearing a flowing caftan highly reminiscent of Van Gogh’s Starry Night. Suddenly, I was the one waving wildly and shouting, “MOM. MOM.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Bridgy and I managed to block the entire exit ramp as we each grabbed a mom and squeezed. A TSA employee wearing a navy blue Sikh turban tapped us on the shoulders. “Ladies, there is plenty of room for greetings. Please take a few more steps,” he said and encouraged us to move toward the main terminal.

  I grabbed Mom’s carry-on and dragged it behind me. One wheel rolled quite smoothly, while the other thumped along. Normally, my practical side would be planning on picking up a replacement suitcase at Bealls Outlet, but my brain was dizzy. As we walked through the terminal, arms around each other’s waists, I realized how happy I was to have my mom here.

  Bridgy and I took turns supporting each other in times of crisis, but we’d never had to face anything as serious as Bridgy finding Oscar dead in his van. We needed all the help we could get. Nothing was better than having the moms.

  “I’m so glad you’re here.”

  “I know you are, my little petunia. When I first saw you, your aura was very cloudy, even murky, but as soon as you saw me, the clouds started to dissipate.” She stopped, turned to look at me directly and stared for a long minute. “See? Better already. Cloudy is gone and your pink is getting brighter. That’s because I’m here. Pink aura equals loving, giving, family, friends. And matters of the heart. Oh, do you have a BAE? Is that why we’re here?”

  “A bay? You mean a horse? Or water, like Estero Bay?”

  She patted my cheek. “Living on this island you are so far behind the times. I learn more on one subway ride to Lincoln Center than you can learn here all year. I listen to the young people. A BAE is someone who comes Before All Else. I’m asking if you are newly in love.”

  The last thing I needed was for Mom to get off on one of her “why aren’t you married?” tangents. It was time to be firm and stop her gibberish. “Luna, stop. Emelia is here to support Bridgy, and you’re here to support me while I help Bridgy.”

  “Oh, Sunflower, haven’t I told you to call me Sage? Really, it’s not that hard to remember.”

  “Sage? What happened to Luna?”

  Only my mom could give the evil eye while speaking in a cooing tone. “That was when I was in my moon phase.” She stopped for a beat. “I am in my earth phase now.”

  In your earth phase? I guess I’m lucky you aren’t calling yourself Mud. I hoped my thoughts weren’t dimming my aura.

  It didn’t take long to get the moms settled in the Turret. As planned, Emelia took the guest room. I turned my room over to Mom, er, Sage. I was glad that we had a very comfy sofa bed in the living room. Looked like I’d be sleeping there for a while.

  Bridgy’s mom changed into an Alfred Dunner–ish pale denim skort topped by a white man-tailored tie-front shirt. Her pearl button earrings were replaced by tiny beige seashells, and she had white and navy deck shoes on her feet. I was beginning to understand why she arrived with so many pieces of luggage.

  When I asked Sage if she wanted to freshen up, she sighed. “I am refreshed by the very sight of you, my little girl. And the sea. How glorious is the sea.”

  I wondered if she would move into her water phase while she was here. What name from the sea would she pick? Octopus? Crab? Not likely. She’d want a romantic name like Coral or something regal like Queen Conch. I could hardly wait.

  I snapped back to attention. Mom was asking if I had any poetry books handy. She said watching the water move to and fro always made her think of poetic meter and rhyme schemes.

  “I don’t have one here, but when we get to the café, I have at least one copy of The Road Not Taken by Robert Frost. It includes dozens of poems, not just ‘Road’. I also have some volumes by Emily Dickinson that I’m sure you’ll like.”

  We piled into the Escort. Bridgy waved me away from the driver’s side door and drove us to the Read ’Em and Eat, where Miguel had promised he would have Cubano sandwiches and batidos for Emelia. With both ham and pork in the sandwiches, I hoped Sage wasn’t on one of her vegetarian cleanse cycles. I remember she once did a vegan prayer fest that lasted for two weeks. If that was where she was in her life cycle, she couldn’t have a batido, either. Well, there was no point fretting. We had lots of food in the kitchen.

  Bridgy rang the ship’s bell and then opened the door. Miguel had dressed for the occasion in a dazzling white chef’s jacket with round gold buttons. His chef’s toque blanche sat on his head at a rakish angle as he came from the kitchen with a bounce in his step and a welcoming smile. When he saw Sage, he began to clap his hands. “¡Qué estupendo! How wonderful! We have both moms. Brooklyn’s loss is our gain. Come, señoras.”

  He had pushed the Robert Frost and Emily Dickinson tables together and covered them with a lovely turquoise and white tablecloth and matching napkins. Several small bud vases sat in the center of each with a different colored rose. So thoughtful. I started to thank him, and then I remembered Ophie. The bud vases looked like her touch. Where was Ophie?

  Saying he would get another place setting, Miguel went back into the kitchen, and within seconds, Ophie came out. By the look on her face, Miguel had practically pushed her into the dining room.

  Bridgy’s mom froze. She stared at every inch of black from the much-too-young-for-her footwear to the outlandish lacy gloves that her sister was wearing. Finally, she drew out the name, “O-phel-ia.”

  Ophie answered in the exact same tone. “E-mel-ia.”

  Right then I knew there wouldn’t be a big ole bear hug for these two. They stood about a foot apart, grabbed each other by the elbow and air kissed both cheeks like Parisian matrons of a certain class.

  Miguel froze in the kitchen doorway, his mouth open and napkins and silverware in his hand. We were all a little afraid to breathe, until the sisters’ greeting ended. Then we all talked at once and began scraping chairs along the floor, clanging tableware and trying to pretend there was no tension whatsoever in the air.


  Ophie gave my mother a warm kiss on the cheek. “Sage, this is a welcome surprise. I didn’t expect y’all to come.”

  I was taken back that Ophie knew my mother had moved into her earth phase and changed her name. Then I remembered Ophie keeps track of the entire universe through Facebook. I guess Sage made the name change on her page and I missed it. Too bad I didn’t miss Emelia’s response to Ophie.

  “Ophelia, Sage is one person, not the 82nd Airborne. The word ‘all’ isn’t necessary.”

  Like a flock of magpies, everyone started to speak at once. I asked Sage and Emilia how the flight was. Bridgy asked what flavor batidos everyone wanted to drink. Miguel offered to bring in the salad and fled to the safety of the kitchen. Sage told me that Miguel’s lovely green aura indicated that he was extremely creative and a hard worker. The sisters ignored us all. Emelia sat with her hands folded primly on the edge of the table, while Ophie adjusted and readjusted her snood.

  Bridgy cleared her throat, raised her voice an octave or two and tried again. “Miguel makes the most delicious Cuban milkshakes called batidos. We have three flavors: orange cream, papaya and mango.”

  “Sage, try the papaya. It’s awesome,” I recommended.

  She agreed. One down.

  Bridgy prodded. “Mom? Aunt Ophie?”

  I caught Ophie glancing sideways at Emelia. I got it. Neither would order until she heard what the other one was having. This was going to be a long visit.

  I raised my hand as though I was the brightest kid in the classroom. “Why don’t we fill juice glasses with samples of each batido? I’ll help you.”