Beau Pritchett IV was almost out of signal range, perched on the abandoned dock at Krorëza Beach, the Ionian Sea glistening in the late afternoon sun, rolling hills a proud green all around. He had carried a mini cooler up from the boat, and his new friend Artis had supplied the contraband.
Life was good, just like the hat says.
Did I mention that Beau was almost out of signal range? Well, the operative word here is almost. Once the texts started, let’s just say the evening light hit Krorëza from a new angle.
The first one was from Grace. The first one was always from Grace.
Good morning. I hope you’re enjoying the scenery.
Beau looked out at the ocean. Then the verdant hills. He looked back at his phone.
It’s afternoon.
Three dots appeared immediately.
Well. It’s morning here!
Three dots.
Some of us are working. :)
Beau smiled.
Some of us planned better. ;)
Three dots again.
Three dots disappeared.
Came back.
Disappeared again.
That usually meant he made her mad.
Well.
Uh-oh.
Let me tell you about the drive in this morning. Did I mention that it rained all day yesterday? I had to wrap my hair up in a Walmart bag to keep it dry…
You mentioned that.
He didn’t ask her about the drive in. He knew he didn’t have to.
Well.
Three dots.
Did you know we had to go down a dirt road to the venue?
I did. I looked it up.
Oh.
Place is back of beyond.
The sky over the Ionian settled into a slow dance of the setting sun with the mist off the distant hills. Beau donned his fake RayBans ($17 at the touristo, work just fine, he says) and studied the clouds. The warm smell of colitas was in the air.
They were almost to the venue. Hank was on the phone with one of the band members.
“All right, Dawg. That sounds great.”
“What sounds great?” Grace asked.
“We got a little surprise in store. Why are you driving so slow?”
“Hank. I’m not driving. My foot isn’t even on the gas pedal. We’re sliding…”
Hank looked up from his phone. It had been storming the past 24 hours and the red dirt road had turned to mud. He reached for the seatbelt Grace had been harping about the whole way down.
Click.
Then they slid the whole way to the entrance of the barn.
Anyway, Beau, I’d been sweating bullets trying to get us there by 11:00. Then we walked in, the promoter said we were early!
Early?
Yes. Hank lied. We didn't have to be there until 11:45.
I think he was just making sure you weren’t late, Grace. You do have a history…
Three dots.
Then they disappeared.
Here we go again…
Beau: Here is what I want you to understand. I paid a princely sum to rent a boat. There were four of us, including Artis, the pilot. I didn’t know any of them, so I was blessed with anonymity. Quietude. Peace, blessed peace.
We spearfished for grouper in the morning, brought two up. Artis was grilling them over a woodfire. The woods were quiet except for a nearby owl. The gentle lap of the Ionian waves had me in a contemplative space, feeling 7000 years of history unfolding all around me.
Then my phone buzzed.
Grace. Again.
I hope the Albanian Riviera is everything you dreamed it would be.
A beat.
Hank said my lace kimono looks like camping gear.
The phone buzzed again. Hank.
It’s a hundred degrees out here and she’s wearing mosquito netting. I don’t feel sorry for her.
Beau texted Grace.
Lace kimono?
Then,
What kind of event did you sign us up for?
Grace frowned at her screen.
It’s a BOOK FESTIVAL, Beau. And a lace kimono is a perfectly literary thing to wear over a festival sundress.
Oh.
So lots of mosquitoes?
He set his phone down, watched a sailboat off in the distance. A large seabird flew overhead. Beau settled into the weathered dock. Artis sat beside him, quiet. They didn’t share a language, but they shared a vibe.
Beau’s phone vibrated.
Hank’s name popped up on the screen.
“Dawg. She’s putting museum gel on my books. And yours!”
“What’s museum gel?”
“Exactly! I don’t trust that stuff.”
“It’s museum gel!” he heard Grace’s voice in the background. “It’s literally made to hold things still.”
“My books were already holdin’ still.”
“Until somebody bumps the table!”
“Ain’t nobody gonna bump the table.”
“You don’t know that.”
Beau took a sip of his drink.
Grace’s face appeared on his phone.
Video call.
“Hank said I can’t have another lemonade.”
“You’ve had three!” Hank’s voice came from somewhere offscreen.
“It’s a hundred and ten degrees here and I haven’t peed in eight hours. I’m dehydrated, Beau! I need lemonade!”
She turned toward Hank.
“And I’ve only had two.”
“You’ve had enough.”
Grace stared into the camera. “Do you see what I’m dealing with?”
Beau looked at Artis, pointed to the phone, shook his head. Artis knew the drill. They shared a laugh.
Jean-Paul was wearing Grace’s cowboy hat.
“Why is the bird wearing your hat?”
“THANK YOU!” Hank’s head bobbed into the shot. “He kain’t wear a pink hat!”
Grace pulled the phone away. “You leave him alone. He likes it.”
“He looks ridiculous.”
“He looks handsome.”
“It’s bad enough you’re wearing boots up to your knees when it’s a hundred and twenty degrees out here. But you got my boy in a pink cowboy hat.”
“It’s a look, Hank.”
“The boots or the bird?”
“Yes.”
“Beau, tell her JP does not want to wear that hat.”
Grace shielded the screen from Hank. “You don’t know that.”
“I know my bird.”
“He likes it.”
“He does not.”
“He looks happy.”
“Grace.”
“What?”
“Let the bird have his dignity.”
Grace looked at the peacock. Then at Hank.
“Hank. He’s a stuffed—”
Her eyes widened. She dropped her phone as her hands flew over her mouth. Beau was now watching a ceiling fan struggling to rotate.
Grace stared at Hank over her fingertips.
Hank stared at Grace.
“I cannot believe you just brought up his medical condition.”
Beau spoke to the ceiling fan. “Wow.”
“I DIDN’T MEAN IT!”
Grace’s face reappeared sideways, then disappeared again. There was a flash of pink, a blur of lace, and finally Jean-Paul filled the screen.
“I’m sorry, Jean-Paul.”
Hank snorted.
“I am.”
Grace straightened the cowboy hat on Jean-Paul’s head.
“You like the hat, don’t you?”
Silence.
She looked back at Hank.
“See?”
“How in the hell was that a yes?”
“I know my bird.”
“MY bird!”
Grace grinned.
She stooped down and picked up the phone. Her cheeks were pink. Her damp curls were starting to fall. Her lace kimono was sticking to her arms.
Beau covered his face with his hand and did that thing you do when you’re just not sure if reality took a wrong turn at the last stoplight.
“Well. Anyway. We miss you, Beau.”
Hank nodded. Jean-Paul stared at him from under the pink brim.
“All of us…” Grace smiled. “And will you please explain to Hank that I’m allowed to have as much lemonade as I want?”
Hank hollered from somewhere, “No she ain’t!”
Artis, back at the grill, waved Beau over. The grouper was quiet.
