“Position! Football! What are ya, deaf? What position do ya play?”
“Um...middle linebacker?” BJ said weakly.
“Ha! Ya certainly got the build for it.” The old man slapped BJ’s arm and BJ arched an indignant eyebrow. Hobie had to cover her mouth with one hand to hide her smile.
“Hobie Lynn, right?” The old man turned his attention to the redhead.
“Right, Coach.” “You a cheerleader?”
“No, sir, marching band.”
“Ah. Good, good. Well, carry on.” “Thank you, Coach.”
“What the hell was that all about?” BJ asked as they watched the man walk away.
“That was Walter Cassidy. He went a little off the deep end a number of years back after his wife died. He was the football coach when I was in high school. His family has always been a big deal on Ana Lia.”
“A big deal as in the places we passed on the way here, like Cassidy High, Cassidy Football Field, Cassidy Library?”
“Exactly.”
“The guy’s a nut. Why don’t they have him locked up somewhere?”
“Because when you’re rich, you’re not a nut, you’re eccentric. Actually, he’s harmless enough, just a little detached from reality is all.”
“Alittle detached? I can’t believe you people just let him walk the streets like he’s...normal.”
Hobie paused and looked at BJ with a guarded smile. “I don’t know. I’m beginning to believe that ‘normal’is a subjective term.”
Before BJ could respond, Hobie held the door open to allow BJ to enter first. “After you,” she said. “One of those tables in the back should be the easiest for you to sit at.”
BJ felt like a goldfish in a glass bowl. It was as if all action in the diner had come to a standstill when they entered. BJ couldn’t help herself. She stopped walking about halfway to their table and stared back at the patrons.
“What are you doing?” Hobie asked.
“Letting them get a good, long look,” BJ said loudly enough for those seated around them to hear.
Dozens of embarrassed faces snapped back to their own plates, and conversation once again filled the diner.
“You enjoy doing that, don’t you?” Hobie asked. “Doing what?”
“Calling attention to yourself,” Hobie said as they sat down. “It’s the only way to stay ahead of the crowd. Besides, I don’t like people looking at me like I’m some kind of freak.”
Hobie noticed that BJ spoke that last part with a hurt edge to her voice. “You sound like a woman who’s had that happen before.”
BJ looked at Hobie, not sure if she wanted to reveal anything of her personal life. She gave in a small bit. “Awoman who’s 6’1” gets used to being stared at, but just because I’m used to it doesn’t mean I like it.”
“Understandable. They don’t mean to treat you badly. They’re only curious. I think the whole town knows who you are by now. Word travels fast in Ana Lia, and it’s not because they think you’re a freak. They’re nice people, but it’s a small community. Everybody knows everybody’s business here. If you gave some of them a chance, you might find that you have a lot in common.”
“I find that highly unlikely,” BJ said with her typical haughty flair. “I bet you’re one of those who’d rather blend into the background, aren’t you? Just do what’s expected. Don’t make waves and never rock the boat.”
“For the most part...I suppose I am. Is there anything wrong with that?”
“Not if you’re a lemming.”
A waitress set two glasses of ice water on the table, abruptly halting their conversation. “Mornin’. We wondered where you got to, Hobie Lynn.”
“Good morning, JoJo,” Hobie said. “This is Evelyn’s granddaughter, BJ Warren. Ms. Warren, this is Joanne Hart, the owner of the Cove.”
“It’s very nice to finally meet you, Ms. Warren. Your grandmother talks about you all the time.” “Thanks. You’ve got, um, a...nice place here.”
“Thanks right back. The restaurant’s been in my family for years.”
“Her grandmother is Rebecca Ashby, the woman the Cove was named for,” Hobie explained.
“I see.” BJ nodded. It always surprised her, but for a woman who made a living with words, she was never good at small talk, and she wondered what she should say next.
“Yep. She’ll be ninety-five this summer. She gets around a whole lot slower these days, but she’s still got it all up here.” JoJo tapped an index finger against her temple. “You get Hobie Lynn to bring you around to the house sometime.”
“Uh, sure. Thanks,” BJ said.
Neither BJ nor Hobie knew how to tell JoJo that this was the most civil they had been since their accidental, yet brutal meeting. The furthest thing from each woman’s mind was becoming friends and socializing.
“So then, what’ll it be for you ladies?” JoJo held a pen and a pad of receipts in one hand.
“How about a mocha java with double espresso and extra cinnamon?” BJ wished aloud as she looked at the menu.
“Sure thing. You want skim, two percent, or whole milk in that?”
Hobie laughed at the dazed expression on BJ’s face. “Um...two percent.”
“Orange juice, Hobie Lynn?” “Yes, please.”
“Let me get your drinks and I’ll be right back for your order.” JoJo headed for the kitchen. On her way, she scooped up dirty dishes and exchanged a few jibes with the customers.
“And you thought the island was backward.” Hobie smiled. “Are you a little happier now that you know the Cove is Ana Lia’s answer to Starbucks? May I say, as a medical professional, I think that you’ve been experiencing the beginnings of espresso withdrawal.”
“Very amusing.”
“Okay, folks.” JoJo returned to take their order. “What can I get for you?”
BJ ordered poached eggs, whole wheat toast, and fresh fruit. She then sat in stunned silence as she listened to Hobie give her order to the waitress.
“Three eggs over easy, ham, toast, hash browns. Wait, hold the toast. I’ll have a side of pancakes instead, and can I have another juice with my meal? Oh, and can you add another egg to that?”
“You got it.” JoJo left to place their order. BJ looked under the table at Hobie’s feet. “What?” Hobie asked.
“Nothing. Just looking to see if you had any starving orphans under there you were planning to feed.”
“Very funny. I have an extremely high metabolism. I burn everything off too quickly. I can be standing on a street corner and wham! My blood sugar bottoms out and I’m down for the count.” Hobie tried to stop herself. She felt as if she was giving BJ too much information, but she couldn’t seem to stop talking. Finally, she cleared her throat nervously and waited for the mocking tone she was sure would come.
“Marching band, eh?” BJ surprised Hobie by changing the subject. “Was that true, what you told the old guy?”
“Oh, that. Yeah.”
“Let me guess. Flute or clarinet.” “Flute, smarty. How did you know?”
“It figures. I knew it had to be some kind of girly instrument.”
“Girly? Were you even in band?”
“High school class of 1977. Actually, I played in school bands for eight years. You just try marching in Chicago. I froze my ass off during the winter and practically collapsed from heat exhaustion every summer. I seriously hold marching band responsible for the aversion I developed to seasonal celebrations. It’s probably why Halloween is my favorite holiday...no parades.”
“And what was this butch instrument you played—the tuba?”
“Oh, you’re such a comedian. No, it was the trumpet.”
“Geez, how hard can the trumpet be? You only have three keys on the thing and you can see them!”
“It’s a lot of work when you hate it.” “Why’d you play if you hated it?”
“Some rat bastard told me that being in band was an easy way to get girls. That theory turned out to be a major disappointment. I can’t begin to tell you how sorry I made Joey Bruder throughout the rest of junior high and high school.”
“So you spent eight years playing an instrument you hated? How miserable.”
“You’re telling me. Actually, I liked the thing when I first got it. I had the usual ‘bright shiny object’infatuation, but that lasted for about two months. Once I realized they wanted me to practice for thirty minutes a day, the party was over.”