Page 48 of Iron Hearts
While St. Augustine was reaching its four-hundred-and-sixtieth year of existence, and the fort had pretty much always been established on the spot, it hadn’t started being built until 1672 – over one hundred yearsafterSt. Augustine was founded. It’d taken twenty-three years to complete the old building, and its weathered and crumbling coquina was something to behold at any distance.
Coquina was a local composite made from limestone and seashells – a sort of cement made by Mother Nature herself. It was a material that was somewhat special to the area, had been surprisingly resilient to cannon fire, and made a good structure for the old fort that’d been built, initially, as a deterrent to pirates and shit.
As soon as we were over the bridge, I passed by the main drag and took the narrow, one-way street up the back of the buildings comprising it. There was a small lot back here that had a few narrow slots specifically for bikes, but wouldn’t you know it? They were all full up. I slid into a spot meant for a compact car and parked, because fuck it. I’d done my due diligence. Rarity was just about to get down when I spotted a scooter about to pull out of street parking.
She got down, and I went for the scooter’s spot, which was closer to our destination anyway.
Rarity stood in the lot, her eyes as big as saucers, and I called back, “Why pay for it if you ain’t gotta?” She laughed, put her sunglasses on the top of her head, and jogged to the sidewalk. She looked both ways on the one-way street, hopped off the low curb, practically floating across the old bricks that formed the street back here, and stopped by my side.
“Thought you maybe decided to ditch me,” she said with a smile, but I didn’t laugh. I didn’t even come close to chuckling.
I just shook my head, expression grave, and said, “I wouldnever.”
Her face softened, and I wondered what gave her a taste of abandonment that it would even cross her mind to worry about that.
I filed it away as something to maybe explore later. Right now? I was low-key starting to gethungry, and we were here.
It was a Cajun-style seafood grill and bar that was popular in town. It sat on the corner of the A1A just before it turned into the bridge of lions over the Intracoastal waterway. I liked it, not because of the view – because it didn’t really have one, but because the food was good and it was a step up from something fast and easy but wasn’t so over-the-top fancy that I couldn’t get away with wearing my cut.
We were parked at the back of the building that housed the restaurant, just shy of the courtyard that was open dining beside it. I took Rarity’s hand and led her through the back gate set in the stucco and terracotta painted wall surrounding the patio and passed into the cool shadow of the building and greenery they had throughout the outdoor seating area.
There was a winding, cordoned-off path that threaded through the tables out here from the back gate to the front gate. The restaurant’s entrance was closer up in the third of the building, closest to the front gate – a hostess’ stand under an umbrella in the courtyard.
It was good weather, and the place was in full swing, which likely meant some kind of a wait, but truthfully, we ain’t had nothing but time.
The wait was shorter than I thought, mostly owing to us not caring where they sat us, inside or outside. We were led to a small, two-seater table in the back corner of the courtyard, tucked up underneath some greenery in the shade. Despite being outdoors, it was nice and cool, and we couldn’t have asked for a better spot.
We settled in, ordered drinks, perused the menu, and made our decision. Then, it was just her and I staring at each other once again.
She laughed, and it was a bit nervously. I just smiled and said, “How’d this suddenly get so awkward?”
“I don’t know,” she said.
“So, when you aren’t bartending or babysitting, what do you do?” I asked, expecting to learn more about what she did for leisure, but not Rarity.
“Oh, I work at the craft store in Ormond Beach at the cutting table.”
“Cutting table?” I asked.
“Yeah.” She grinned. “You know, for like fabrics and sewing projects.”
“Oh, shit. Now I feel dumb.” I laughed, and she joined me.
“You sew?” I asked.
“Mm.” She nodded, lowering her glass of water back to the table. “My grandma taught me. She likes to sew all kinds of things. She makes really fun Christmas stockings and sells them at local church bazaars and sometimes at the flea market over in Daytona.”
“No shit?” I asked.
“Yeah, I started working there to hook her up with my employee discount whenever she came through.”
Shit, even finding ajob,she was thinking about how to best benefitother people. Was there no end to this woman’s generosity?
“Not gonna lie, I asked that question expecting a much different answer,” I said.
“Oh yeah?” She raised an eyebrow. “What’d you expect?” she asked.
“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe something like,what you actually like to do for fun?”
