Home > No Words (Little Bridge Island #3)(9)

No Words (Little Bridge Island #3)(9)
Author: Meg Cabot

So it was fine for me to take some time off and float on a raft in this beautiful pool with a margarita and read Will’s incredibly crappy new book. No one could judge me for that.

And no one was, since I seemed to be the only person staying at the Parrot who’d had the common sense to think of relaxing in the pool. Garrett had disappeared into his room—102, just below mine and facing the courtyard, so I knew it had nothing like my amazing view—as soon as we’d arrived to “get some work done.”

Sure. Whatever, dude. You get right on that. I’ll be in the pool, reading The Moment.

I didn’t tell him this, of course, out of fear he might try to join me. Instead, I sunnily answered, “Of course!” when he asked if I’d meet him later in the lobby in time to catch the author bus to the festival’s first event—a cocktail meet-and-greet, followed by a sit-down dinner with donors.

But even as I’d assured him I’d be there, I hadn’t been sure I’d have the guts to actually show. And now, floating in the sun, I was even more certain. Grateful as I was even to be invited to such events—the author everyone used to love—I couldn’t help dreading them, even when they didn’t include Will Price. I, like so many writers, was horrible at making small talk, and even worse at eating and drinking while doing so.

I was hoping an hour or two of floating in the sun would help trigger what Rosie had mentioned had happened to her other author: a sudden rush of artistic inspiration, so I’d actually come up with an idea for Kitty Katz #27 that felt exciting enough to write down. Two chapters a day? I would take that in a hot New York minute.

What was happening instead was that I was getting sucked into Will Price’s insipid, highly readable prose.

Meeeeee-OW!

Unfortunately, I’d already failed rule number one of relaxing while in the tropics: leaving my phone behind. I realized this when I heard its official Kitty Katz mobile ringtone blare from the towel on which I’d left it at the side of the pool.

Meeeeee-OW!

Because of the book I was holding—the cover carefully bent back so no one would see it was Will Price’s latest—I had to paddle one-handed to reach my phone. It took me quite some time to get there.

Meeeeee-OW!

Oh, no. I’d missed a call from my dad. I quickly called him back.

“Hi, Dad, it’s me. Is everything okay?”

Dad’s voice, rough from years of singing with his folk-rock group (that had never become popular enough to earn any money, but had a large enough cult following that he remained hopeful), said calmly, “Of course everything’s okay. You’re the one who never called when you got in. I thought we had a deal? You’re always supposed to call.”

“Of course.” I winced guiltily. “Sorry, Dad. I got in okay. Guess where I am right now?”

“Hmmm, let me see. Boise, Idaho.”

Laughing, I said, “No, Dad, I told you before I left. At a book festival in the Florida Keys. But guess where I am right this minute.”

“Since it’s the Florida Keys, I’m going to guess a bar. Green Parrot in Key West? You know the boys and I once played there. Sonny got so drunk, he—”

“No. Floating on a raft in the hotel pool on Little Bridge Island, drinking a margarita.”

“Sounds terrible. Get out of there!”

“Dad, stop it.” I was still laughing. As much as my dad frustrated me sometimes, he could always make me laugh. “You know this could be your life if you’d just take my advice. Did you manage to watch the virtual tour of that place in Mount Dora?”

“Oh, I saw it.”

He did not sound pleased. Still, I barreled on, keeping my voice chipper.

“And? What did you think? It’s a nice place, right? Better than the last one.”

“Not exactly.”

“What do you mean, not exactly? This one has everything you’ve been asking for: all on one level, with a nice yard and even a detached garage for you to practice in.”

“Yeah,” my father said, “but did you look at the neighbors’ garbage cans?”

“What do you mean, the neighbors’ garbage cans?”

“After the tour, I used that Google Maps thing you showed me to zoom in on the house, and I could see the neighbors’ garbage cans,” he said. “And right there, I saw it: a Dead Head sticker.”

Oh, no. “Dad.”

“The neighbors have Grateful Dead stickers on their garbage cans! You know how I feel about jam bands.”

“Dad.” I sighed. Suddenly my nice, relaxing time in the sun didn’t seem so relaxing. “I’m sure those Google Map photos are really old. The people who own those garbage cans probably don’t even live there anymore. Mount Dora is a lovely town, I’ve been there. They have tons of arts and folk music festivals there, and the average seasonal temperature is seventy-five degrees. It’s a very charming—”

“No, I don’t think so. I think I’ll just stay in New York.” Dad started to cough, which unfortunately he’d begun doing all too often lately as soon as the temperature in the city neared the freezing mark. “It’s cold, but I know all my neighbors, and they respect serious music. And there are festivals here in New York, too, you know.”

“Dad, are you sure it’s the stickers, or the fact that you’re too stubborn to let your daughter buy a house for you? Because you know what Mom would say about that.”

“Oh, she’d kick my rear end for being a chauvinist pig!” Dad chuckled. “So of course it isn’t that. But I really do think you should save your money, sweetheart.”

“Dad, I have plenty of money. I want to spend some of it on you. Nothing would make me happier.”

“But that’s silly. You need to save it for when you get married and have kids of your own.”

Like that was happening anytime soon. At this point I was about as likely to get married and have kids as Melanie West, whose husband Johnny “Ace” Kane had (accidentally? Or on purpose?) run over and killed while smuggling moonshine in the first chapter of The Moment. The first chapter! Will seemed to like to get his trauma into his books early.

“What if I don’t want to get married and have kids?” I asked. “You know, Dad, for a musician, you really are awfully closed-minded. Has it ever occurred to you that the millions of people who love the Grateful Dead might actually be—”

“Um, sorry to interrupt.”

I looked up to see a petite Asian woman with short, purple hair standing by the edge of the pool. She was wearing a pretty pink dress coupled with a necklace made of very lethal-looking—but plastic—daggers.

“It’s almost time for the author bus to dinner,” she said, pointing at the face of her smart watch (which of course I was too far away to see). “Are you going to get out of there and get ready, or are you going to wear your swimsuit to the party?”

“Bern!” I nearly fell off my raft in my haste to paddle to the side. “Dad, I gotta go.”

“I’ll talk to you later, kid. Let me know how the rest of your festival goes.” He hung up.

“Bernadette!” I held out my arms for a welcome hug. “I’m so glad to see you!”

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