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“I will, Joe.”
Gabe picks up the bottles and leads me outside.
“Hooligans?” I ask.
“We get rowdy tourists at times.”
“You think you need to save me from the very element I’ve served daily since I was old enough to work?” Before, actually, but I don’t plan to mention my fake-ID days.
“Nope,” Gabe says. “I wouldn’t dream of it. Probably you’ll have to save me.”
That’s better. He stuffs the bottles in his little trunk, padding them with a bar towel.
And then we’re off again.
The local and the Georgia hottie drinkslinger.
I like it.
Chapter 8
GABE
I really hope Tillie isn’t insulted by Mendo’s flyers. I could wring his neck. Hottie drinkslinger? He made it sound like it’s a club where cocktail waitresses wear halter tops and booty shorts.
And he’s putting the flyers where the locals go. We’ll have people we know showing up. I prefer to work with strangers. That way if they annoy me, at least our relationship is short.
My hands tighten on the grips as we turn toward the metal structure where the farmers’ market is set up. Tillie straightens behind me, trying to see over my shoulder.
Only when I’ve pulled my helmet off and heard the familiar “Gabriel, who’s this?” do I realize I’ve made a grave mistake.
That’s right. It’s Saturday. The one day my mother sells her candles over here instead of by the cruise port.
Oh boy.
Her frizzy spiral curls, dyed black with stark white roots, pops over the top of a stall. Her broad face lights up when she sees the two of us on the motorcycle. She’s on the opposite side of the wall. I can still get away.
Tillie swings her leg over the bike and pulls off her helmet.
Mom must be standing on tiptoe to get her whole head visible. “Gabriel? Who’s this young woman?” Her lilting, melodic tone is atestament to all the blending of cultures that led to her deep roots on the island. Mine feel shallow in comparison.
Tillie’s gaze meets mine. “Another friendly local like Joe?”
If only. “Something like that.”
Mom remains on the wrong side of the aisle, so I simply wave at her and steer Tillie to the opposite corner of the covered pavilion. Pete’s stand will be the best bet for coconuts and the other fruit, with the bonus of being on the end of the market farthest from my mother’s candle booth.
But the crowd isn’t heavy yet today, and Mom decides to leave her stall, moving with determination and purpose to the end of the row to get to us.
There’s no getting around this.
“Mom’s about to ambush us,” I tell Tillie.
“Mom?” Tillie’s expression freezes, like I’ve zapped her with a Taser.
I rub my jaw. “Yeah. She makes candles to sell to tourists.”
Tillie tugs the top of her red tube top up, and the cutoff hems of her denim shorts down. She touches her hair.
