Aground on St. Thomas Read Online Free PDF

almost an hour, the Mojito Man sat peacefully in his wheelchair, quietly sipping his favorite drink.
    With the help of a generous tip, the author had cajoled a waitress at an Irish pub into mixing up the cocktail and pouring it into a foam cup.
    The only downside to the resulting silence, she reflected, was that the area around her seat had grown far more crowded than before. Fellow travelers stood within arm’s length in every direction.
    Most members of the encroaching mass were new arrivals, blissfully unaware of the earlier mojito siege. The author gazed up at them as she munched on her breakfast sandwich, envious of their ignorance but happy to have a chair.
    The group included a number of curious characters, the most notable being a Miami socialite with a carry-on-sized lapdog. The woman and the tiny canine wore matching outfits: the owner a sparkling tank top, necklace, and sandals, the pet a shiny collar and vest.
    With a smile, the author wrapped the remains of her breakfast, wiped her hands on a napkin, and reached for a small notepad she carried in her backpack. This was the type of detail that might come in handy for a future work of fiction. She scribbled a brief description, looked up to confirm her observations, and did a blinking double take. She had missed an item on the list of human/canine similarities.
    The woman and the dog also sported matching pedicures.
    After adding a bemused notation to the notebook, the author shifted her attention to a priest who had walked into her periphery.
    His was a less obvious oddity, but it was still one that drew her interest.
    The man was dressed from head to toe in a brown cassock—a monk’s garb, if she had to guess.
    That conclusion, however, didn’t jibe with the rest of his outfit. Beneath the pious outer layer, he wore hand-stitched leather shoes. An expensive watch glinted on his wrist, a ruby ring garnished his index finger, and a gold chain hung from his neck. Even the simple brown cassock, she now realized, had been tailored with an elegant drape.
    The author tapped her pen against the paper, trying to sort out the man’s religious denomination. She hadn’t met many monks in her life, so she had few comparisons in her memory banks, but she couldn’t reconcile him into that category. His wealth, while discreet, was far from subtle.
    No, she thought, intrigued as the jeweled hand reached into one of the cassock’s hidden pockets and pulled out a high-end cell phone. This guy’s in an entirely different income bracket.
    She leaned forward in her seat, continuing to study the religious figure.
    His hair had been shaved close to his head, accenting the round curves of his skull, and a pair of fashionable rimless eyeglasses rested on his nose. A goatee sprouted from his chin, the gray hair a contrast against his satin brown skin.
    There was something grand and powerful about his appearance, an intangible quality that commanded respect.
    Seeing the author’s fascination, the Mojito Man gummed his straw, bent toward her, and whispered loudly in her ear.
    “Bishop of St. Thomas,” he said informatively.
    “I doubt it.” Her brow furrowed. “Wrong costume.”
    She glanced over at the check-in counter. The plastic phone was at last being put to good use. The settings had been adjusted to broadcast across the departure lounge. Anyone who needed assistance or extra time to traverse the gangway was now invited to board.
    The author looked at her wheelchair-bound companion, expectantly raising her eyebrows. At first, he seemed not to have heard the announcement—or to comprehend that the preboard invitation applied to him.
    “Oh, right,” he finally said after the agent repeated the message.
    The author waved a relieved good-bye as he rolled his chair toward the counter.
    Slipping her pen and notepad into the backpack, she muttered wearily, “I hope he’s seated on the opposite end of the plane.”

~ 8 ~
    The Middle Seat
    A HALF HOUR later, the author found