Southern Comfort - Fern Michaels [18]
“Oh, Sandy, that’s wonderful. I hope, for selfish reasons, you pick Miami. We could be roommates if you like, and I won’t charge you rent. You know I still have that beach house on Harbor Island. We can split the utilities. Until you decide where you want to put down your roots, tell me you’ll think about it.” Susie appeared at the table, and the women gave their order. They always went with the special of the day, and today’s special was pot roast, mashed potatoes, green peas, and a Southwestern corn medley.
“Here’s my address and the phone at the house on Harbor Island. I’ll write the directions on the back of the card. If you decide, just show up.”
“Okay, I’ll think about it. You make it sound . . .” She sought the right word, couldn’t come up with one, so rattled off a long string of Spanish.
“I hope that means exciting and wonderful. More than likely it will be dull and boring, hot and humid, but we’ll be right on the ocean. That’s a plus that has no equal. I used to love going to sleep in my grandmother’s house and hearing the ocean all night long.”
“I think you just sold me. Are you sure, Kate? You’re not just inviting me because you feel sorry for me?”
“God, no! By the way, do you know anything about Mango Key? Ooh, here comes our food.”
“You mean Thunder Key?”
“Yeah.”
“Not much. It’s a private Key if I remember correctly. Some kind of land grant to some Indians. I should know, but I don’t. Why?”
“Something is going on down there. But that’s not my problem. Right now I have to learn how to cook, so I can do a cookbook. Maybe I’ll ask Susie for the recipe for this pot roast.” Kate held up her glass of sweet tea, and said, “To women and the decisions they make on the spur of the moment.”
“Yeah,” Sandy drawled as she clinked her glass against Kate’s.
Chapter 4
Eleven Months Later
Kate Rush sat on the front porch looking out at the ocean as she sipped sweet tea. She looked down into the glass and saw that the ice had already melted. She’d only been out here in the heat and humidity less than fifteen minutes, and already her drink was warm. July in Miami.
A quick trip to the kitchen, and she was back on her bright red Adirondack chair, staring out at the ocean. She was bored out of her mind. But she was now Dr. Kathryn Rush. She had no idea what she was going to do with that title. Nor did she have a clue what she was going to do with her life from here on in. She thought about her brilliant idea to write a cookbook and laughed out loud. A cook she would never be. Although she could now make a decent pot roast, she had to eat it and variations thereof for a solid week. She now hated pot roast. Sandra hated pot roast. When Sandy had moved out, she had been glad that she would never have to eat it again.
Kate gulped at the rapidly warming drink. Not only was she bored, she was lonely. Bordering on being a recluse, she knew it was time to make some important decisions. How ironic that just eleven months ago, almost to the day, she’d been sitting on her little terrace in Phoenix making the same kinds of decisions. Decisions she’d followed through on. Once again, it was time to do it all over. Back then, though, she’d had a plan. Right now, that minute, she couldn’t see through to the next hour.
Financially, she was still sound. She’d been frugal, and for the five months that Sandy had lived with her, she’d contributed to the food bill and utilities. She envied her friend because in January she’d started teaching at the University of Miami. She’d bought a condo close to the university and a secondhand car, a Volvo, owned by a little old lady so she, too, was in good shape. She came to the Harbor Island beach house every weekend, and the two of them lazed about, walking on the beach, going out in the water in Kate’s new Boston Whaler. Kate was