think that all of a sudden her life was so special? Just because she’d found the courage to go dancing everything would be okay? Suddenly Whitaker would say yes and he’d finish what would be considered the finest novel of all time? They’d erect statues of David in downtown St. Pete?
Oh, how absurd.
When she twisted the key in the convertible, the reggae came blasting out. She quickly reached for the knob and turned it all the way down, until it clicked off.
Before she pulled away, Whitaker called for her from the front door. Had he changed his mind? She’d seen this pivot before at the bank. He was so indecisive. Her heart soared. Maybe the world did follow some kind of order.
Then she saw him holding up the composition books, and she dropped her head.
“You forgot these,” Whitaker said, handing them to her.
Without a word, Claire set the composition books on the passenger seat and pulled away. Screw the no-smoking thing. As she left Gulfport and drove back to the beach, Claire snapped on her glove and wrapped the scarf around her hair. The smoke entering her lungs delivered a tiny sense of relief, but her mind quickly returned to Whitaker, who dampened her mood.
When she crossed onto Treasure Island—while working on her second American Spirit—blue lights flashed in her rearview.
“This can’t be happening,” she said, taking one last toke. She pulled into the parking lot of a Putt-Putt course and waited. A young family was giggling as they each attempted to putt their balls through a plastic pirate ship.
Claire looked at the cars passing by on Beach Boulevard. The only problem with having a convertible was everyone noticed you.
The officer stepped out of his car and marched her way. He had a very deep tan and filled out his uniform nicely. A small shaving cut marked his chin. “Ma’am, you’re driving way too fast. Twenty miles above the speed limit.”
Removing her glasses, Claire shook her head. “Sorry, I felt like I was creeping.”
“You were eighteen over. I should write you a reckless-driving ticket.” He pointed to her hand. “Why do you have a glove on your right hand?”
Claire couldn’t believe she’d forgotten to take it off. “Oh, that’s . . . it’s so I could have a cigarette and no one at work would know.”
He looked at her strangely. “I’d like you to step out of the car.”
“I have this whole routine. Glove, scarf, gum, hand sanitizer.”
“Are you drunk?”
Claire dropped her chin. “No.”
“Step out of the car right now.”
A boy yelled “Hole in one!” from somewhere behind the pirate ship.
“Are you joking?” Claire asked. “It’s ten in the morning. You think I’m drunk? What am I . . . a serial killer too?”
The officer opened her car door. “Let’s go.”
“If you only knew what I’m dealing with right now. You and your little speeding tickets are the last of my worries.”
With the subtle threat only a person with a badge can pull off, he said, “Get out of the car, ma’am.”
Claire relented. Several people on the Putt-Putt course were rubbernecking. So much for discretion.
The officer ushered her into the back of his patrol car and ignored her as he climbed behind the wheel and logged on to his computer. Claire was furious, but he ignored her further pleas.
Finally, he said, “You want to take a Breathalyzer for me?”
“Fine.”
The officer let her out of the back and handed her the Breathalyzer. He gave her instructions. “As hard as you can. There you go.”
When the digital readout stayed at zero, she offered a smile. “Told you.”
He nodded. “Seems like you’re having a bad day, so I’ll let you off with a warning.”
Her shoulders fell in relief. “Thank you. I’m sorry for being a . . . you-know-what.”
“I’ve dealt with worse. Hope your day turns around.”
The officer wrote her a warning and patted the top of the car as she drove away. It didn’t take her two minutes to put the glove back on and light another. This one was justified, and she puffed with fury as she processed the last hour of hell.
Once she neared the café, she followed her regimen to erase the evidence of her habit. Confident she’d succeeded, she pulled into her space and walked into work. Every chair was occupied. Beyoncé was coming out of the speakers.
Claire marched behind the bar and turned down the music. She looked around, waiting to find the guilty DJ. Jevaun, who was busy making a line of Bloody Marys, shook his