Just Deserts (Hetta Coffey Series, Book 4) Read Online Free PDF Page A

kissed him goodbye, watched his tall lanky form head for the runway, trudged back to my car, and sat in the parking lot, waiting until his plane took to the air. Driving to Walmart for supplies, my spirits plummeted, and by the time I was back on the road to San Carlos, his parting shot had taken on, in my mind at least, less of a request and more of a warning. Maybe even a threat. I do not like being warned or threatened.
    Even so, with my crappy track record where men are concerned, the thought of losing the only good guy I’d ever been with was devastating, and when I’m devastated I tend to hole up and drink wine, or worse, hit the bar scene looking for a distraction. Those distractions have brought me a world of hurt in the past, so, on the sunny side, this boat bottom thing came along in the nick of time to save me from my miserable self; the one who’d been replaying Willie Nelson’s soulful version of "Am I Blue" ad nauseam while drinking myself blue in the face.
    Being forced back into the work world greatly reduced my odds of messing up with Jenks, but his admonishment, which I took as ominous, set my bleach-enhanced teeth on edge. I despise being in a position of vulnerability, and that’s how I felt: vulnerable. With most sensible people, fragility might instill caution, but in my case it can spin me into a foolhardy spiral that bodes badly for me and everyone around me.
    Maybe a case of bleesters is someone’s way of letting me know I need an attitudinal correction?

Chapter 4
     
    It only took one night aboard the boat in dry dock to convince me this was no way to live.
    Monday morning, after a restless night high and dry, I was more than ready to jump ship. Even though I made two preemptive after-dinner trips to the marina loo, I feared I’d have to trek over during the night, which, of course, made it so.
    Not only did I lose sleep, I was exhausted from the drudgery of putting the boat to bed for a prolonged period. I gave all the packaged and perishable food to the gate guards and other boaters, shut the sea cocks on the through-hulls to keep out bugs and critters. Wrote myself notes on everything I’d done that would need undoing when I went back into the water—open all sea cocks, for instance—covered the windows with aluminum foil, removed canvas, tarped what I could.
    To ensure my boat didn’t flood on dry land, I arranged for Mario to keep an eye on the batteries so the bilge pumps remained operational during rainstorms. My solar panels keep a trickle charge on the batteries, but one cannot be too cautious. Then there was Se Vende , my panga. I had been fortunate to get a small enough slip so as not to share with another boat, leaving ample room for my skiff. Now I had to find a place to put her, as the slip would be rented to someone else. It became apparent that the only thing to do was haul her as well, so now I was paying storage on two boats.
    The list went on and on, and so did I, until I was too tired to even go out for dinner. I ate a bag of potato chips instead and skipped the beer in light of the distance to the bathroom, for all the good that did.
    By the time I got behind the wheel of my old Volkswagen Fox Monday morning, I was sick to death of my boat and ready to move on. I didn’t look back, not that if I did look back I could see anything; every square inch of the car, with exception of the driver’s seat, was crammed with my stuff. Jed Clampet et famille might come to mind, were it not for the fact that my VW Fox was totally restored and therefore quite respectable looking for her age.
    While I merrily cruised around in Mexican waters, a dastardly old enemy of mine rudely pushed my Fox into the Oakland Estuary, which should have been it’s demise, but the VW held sentimental value; it had belonged to my dog, RJ. Okay, so he didn’t actually drive it, but in the old days before I bought the boat, I drove a dandy little BMW convertible, and dog slobber upon my leather