Aground on St. Thomas Read Online Free PDF Page A

out pathetically, his parched voice rasping.
    For those trapped in the departure area that morning, the popular Cuban cocktail would never be the same. The classic image of a narrow glass filled with muddled mint leaves, light-colored rum, sugarcane juice, and a splash of lime was now inextricably linked with that of the alcohol-obsessed cancer patient, for whom any public sympathy had long since dissipated. For years to come, mere mention of the sweet drink would bring to mind the sight of the pestering man, disconcerting in both his overt ogling of every passing female and his corpse-like appearance.
    As for the unwitting author who had drawn his attention, her mojito misery was just beginning.
    •
    WITH A VULNERABLE target identified and pinned within reach, the Mojito Man refined his approach. His plea was no longer directed to the departure lounge as a whole. Instead, he focused his efforts exclusively on the woman seated next to his wheelchair.
    The author had missed her chance to find another place to sit. If she moved now, her only choices were to stand on the crowded floor space or to lean against a wall. Given the limited options, she’d decided to remain next to the wheelchair.
    She had tried without success to shrug off her neighbor’s pleas. She avoided eye contact with him, even shielding the side of her face with her hand. At one point, she lifted the magazine she’d given up trying to read, propping it like a fence between them.
    This too proved an ineffective barrier.
    The raised magazine resulted in a verbal pause from the wheelchair, accompanied by a strained shuffling sound. Seconds later, a twenty-dollar bill folded in the shape of a paper airplane flew over the magazine’s top edge.
    “
Mo
-jito! I beseech thee, beautiful lady. Please, bring me a mojito!”
    The author checked her watch, estimating the minutes remaining until boarding would commence. She had just enough time to circle through the nearest food court. Capitulating, she slid the magazine into her backpack.
    She suspected she was being sent on a futile mission.
    While mojitos were commonly served throughout south Florida, she couldn’t imagine where the man had come up with the idea that the drink would be readily available inside the airport. It wasn’t the type of item served by the many fast-food burger joints and coffee kiosks that operated within the terminal.
    She figured her best bet was to try one of the airport restaurants, but it seemed unlikely she’d find a bartender serving cocktails during the breakfast hour—or that she would be allowed to purchase an alcoholic beverage in a to-go cup.
    She shrugged her shoulders. Given the harassment she’d endured during the past forty-five minutes, she didn’t much care one way or the other.
    She was, however, feeling a tad hungry. Maybe I’ll get something to eat for myself, she mused.
    I’ll take a bacon, egg, and cheese biscuit plus a mojito—to go, she thought wryly.
    “Keep an eye on my seat,” she said out loud, in what she knew to be an unnecessary request. Wearily, she hefted her backpack onto her shoulders and grabbed the handle for her roll-around suitcase. “I’ll see what I can round up.”
    The man gave her a crafty grin.
    “You’re so kind. Thank you, love.”

~ 7 ~
    The Bishop of St. Thomas
    AS THE MINUTES ticked by, the agents behind the check-in counter doubled and then tripled in number. While they waited for confirmation from the flight crew that the plane was ready to board, a great amount of effort went into fussing about the computers, scanning passenger printout lists, and speaking into an antiquated plastic phone—anything, it seemed, to avoid making eye contact with the crush of antsy passengers who had transformed the departure lounge into a three-ring travel circus.
    It was a typical preflight scene, a mix of travelers in mental states from crazed to dazed and everything in between—with one isolated spot of serenity. For the first time in