I think I was still in diapers the last time someone called me adorable. It’s not a word usually applied to a woman who stomps around in work boots wrestling nuisance critters.

“Thanks,’’ I said. “But back to Kenny …”

She lowered her voice to a seductive purr: “You know, I’ve always wanted to taste something country fresh.’’

“Down, girl!’’ Jason slapped playfully at her wrist.

The glare she gave him did not seem playful. With a contrite look, he stood and shoved his offending hand into a pocket. “I need to get back to the pro shop. Watch out for Angel, Mace. She’s a devil.’’

I had no doubt he was right. “Wait a minute,” I said as he walked away. “What about Kenny?’’

“Can’t tell you much.’’ He spoke over his shoulder. “He usually just picks up a game when somebody’s short a player. Sometimes, he fills in for a threesome with our potty-mouthed mayor.’’

The mayor? I was so surprised, I choked on my Coke. An errant swallow started a coughing fit, which didn’t subside until Jason was back at the cash register in the pro shop. Angel handed me a napkin.

“Do you know anything about that?’’ I finally managed to ask.

“The mayor?”

I nodded, the napkin pressed to my lips.

“Tosses his clubs and swears like a sailor whenever he makes a bad shot, which is a lot.’’

“I meant about him and Kenny.”

She shrugged. “Neither of them is a very good player, so they’re evenly matched. It’s just a round of golf. It’s not like they’re best friends. At least I don’t think they are. I barely know your brother-in-law.’’

My mind refused to form an image of Kenny golfing with Himmarshee’s mayor. Then again, I hadn’t been able to picture him cheating on my sister or wearing that plaid tam-o’-shanter cap, either.

“The mayor’s wife comes out here a lot, too,’’ Angel said. “Her book group meets right over there.’’ She nodded at a round table for ten in the center of the dining room. Couples were beginning to filter in for dinner.

“She runs the group?’’ I asked.

Angel raised her brows. “Have you met Mrs. In-Charge?’’

“’Nuff said.’’

“She’s always spouting off about some ‘important’ book, tossing around a lot of big words like character arc and narrative tension. I don’t understand half of what she says. Of course, that could be because …’’ She cocked back her head and made the hand motion for drinking.

“She’s a boozer?’’ I asked.

“Big time. And the more she drinks, the more she likes to hear herself talk.’’ Angel took a swallow of Coke from the glass Jason left. “I’m not much for reading anyway. My dad always used to say street smarts are better than book smarts.’’

“They aren’t mutually exclusive. Reading’s not just a way to learn about things, it’s a great way to escape reality. Get into an imaginary world.’’

“I don’t need to escape. How about you, Mace? Do you like to try new things? Escape your usual world?’’ Her voice had gone all low again. She reached across the table and stroked my wrist.

I pulled away and held up my hand to display the ring Carlos gave me. “I’m engaged.’’

“That’s all right. Maybe your fiancé would like to come out here and play, too?’’

I suspected she wasn’t talking about golf. Ducking her question, I looked at my watch. Those sharp eyes of hers didn’t miss the gesture. She pushed back her chair and stood.

“My shift’s over. The dinner crew is coming on, and I’m going home. Sorry I couldn’t be more help.’’

Her apology sounded more reflexive than genuine. I dug in my pocket; found a damp ten-dollar bill. I put it on her tray. “Keep the change.’’

Her face lit up. No smirk or seduction now. It was the first truly happy smile I’d seen from her. Money was clearly a strong motivator for Angel Fox.

ten

After I left the bar, I roamed around a bit, waiting to see if Kenny would wander in to the country club. I perused some golf-related art: a bronze sculpture of two old-timey looking players, bags slung over their shoulders; framed posters of greens and fairways at legendary courses; portraits of famous golfers from Ben Hogan to Bubba Watson.

I checked out the driving range, and then made a pit stop in the ladies’ locker room. Its plush carpet was Kelly green, patterned with miniature golf balls and clubs. The place was immaculate. I didn’t detect a whiff of sweat. It smelled sweet, like vanilla candles and maraschino cherries. The sink countertop offered an array of folded hand towels, fancy body lotion, and complimentary combs. I popped one into my purse, preparation for the next morning I left the house without remembering to brush my hair.

Outside, I caught up with a few phone calls. I confirmed with Mama that I’d see her for church in the morning; and then checked on Maddie. Kenny still hadn’t come home. According to my wristwatch, I’d been killing time for at least forty-five minutes. If Kenny planned to show later, I’d have to miss him. Carlos and I had dinner plans.

On the way to my car in the parking lot, I glanced in through oversized windows and saw the dinner crowd. The women were tanned and tight, wearing lots of makeup and jewelry. The men slapped backs and downed dark whiskey from rocks glasses. Angel was still behind the bar. When she saw me staring, she ducked her head, and got busy polishing a brandy snifter.

I kept walking. So her shift wasn’t over after all. Big deal. She wasn’t the first worker dependent on tips to tell a customer a convenient lie. I decided to turn and give her a friendly wave, signaling no hard feelings. When I did, I saw she’d lifted her face to watch me leave. Her eyes were slits; her expression was arctic.

For some reason, an image of the gator my cousin and I had wrestled out of the golf course pond flitted into my mind. I wondered whether another of the big reptiles had moved in to take his place. At least in the wild, you know which animals are predators and which are prey. Unlike people, they don’t have the capacity to conceal their true nature.

_____

Carlos’s phone rang. He answered, listened for a bit, and then eyed me warily.

“I need to take this outside,’’ he said to the caller. Tucking the phone protectively to his chest, he turned from me and walked out the kitchen to the back door. I heard it shut. A few moments later, there came an indistinct murmur from the farthest corner of his apartment’s courtyard.

Jeez. A girl eavesdropped a few times, and he never let her forget it.

Surveying the table, I spooned up the last flecks of a custardy flan from a dessert bowl. Those flecks and crumbs from a loaf of Cuban bread were all that remained of the yummy supper he’d had waiting when I arrived. Bowls of thick garbanzo bean soup, fried plantains, and a cup of café con leche. I was so stuffed I felt like a hot water bottle filled to bursting. I trundled off my kitchen chair and into the living room, intent upon collapsing on the couch.

A framed, vintage travel poster of Cuba held a place of honor on the main room’s wall. A hefty cigar rested in an ashtray; a treat Carlos allowed himself a couple of times a week. Photos of family members were displayed on a small table next to the couch: His grandfather, on horseback at the cattle ranch the family owned before Fidel Castro took power. Carlos’s older brother, who died in a tragic accident when the two were just boys. His parents, standing on an airport tarmac facing an uncertain future as Cuban exiles. His beloved grandmother, cooking picadillo in Carlos’s Miami kitchen.

There were photos of Carlos in police uniform in Miami, but no pictures of his late wife. That loss may still have been too painful for him to remember.

The door slammed shut. I heard the hollow thud of his shoes hitting the tiled floor in the hallway. By the time he made it to the living room, I was stretched out on the couch with my feet on a pillow and the button at the waist of my work pants undone.