1
The Great Duffel Debacle
Maisie
A gruff male voice cut through the crowd. "I'm telling you, it's mine!"
From the edge of the bustling ferry dock, I turned to look. Around me, tourists surged past, fumbling with their phones, random luggage, and more than a few bicycles.
I squinted through the crowd and finally spotted the source of the commotion – two men gripping the long, strappy handle of a single black duffel bag.
The shorter guy was definitely a tourist. His bright blue polo shirt stretched tightly across his rounded stomach while his khaki shorts sagged long and loose, stopping just above his knobby knees. His neon sneakers – also blue – practically glowed in the morning sun as he glared up at the other guy.
I followed his angry gaze and felt myself swallow.The second guy was no tourist. Or even if he was, he sure didn't look like one. He was tall – at least six-two – with broad shoulders and a lean, athletic build. He wore a white tailored dress shirt and dark fitted slacks. The shirt looked slightly rumpled, as if he'd fallen asleep fully dressed.
Rumpled or not, the guy reeked of money – the kind made on Wall Street, not Main Street. A wistful sigh escaped my lips.He didn't shop at Walmart, that's for sure.
Before I could obsess over the sorry state of my own finances, the same gruff voice rang out again, louder this time.It was the tourist."So fork it over!" he hollered, giving the bag's strap a hard yank, the kind that would have sent most men sprawling.
But Mister Wall Street? He didn't even budge. His jaw visibly clenched as he replied with a single word. "No."
The sleeves of his shirt were rolled up to his elbows, revealing tanned, muscular forearms, one of which sported an intricate tattoo – something dark and winding that disappeared beneath the white fabric of his pricy shirt.
"What do you mean, 'no'?" the tourist demanded, giving the strap another yank.
Once again, the taller guy didn't budge. His voice, low and ominous, cut through the crisp, springtime air. "Forget it. The bag's mine."
The tourist gave another tug. "Listen, buddy. I don't got time for this."
With a scoff, Mister Wall Street asked, "AndIdo?"
"Well, you must," the tourist said, "because you're not letting go."
The muscles of Wall Street's forearms visibly twitched as if preparing to mangle something – or more likely, a certain someone in a bright blue shirt. He gave the shorter man the stare of death as he gritted out, "Because it'smybag."
The tourist looked beyond insulted. "But I already told you, it's not."
"Then you told me wrong."
The tourist snorted. "You wanna say that to my wife?"
Wife?I glanced around.What wife?
Behind me, the island's main strip – literally called Main Street – was already humming with the usual chaos of tourist season. Visitors crowded the sidewalks, ducking in and out of local shops, while a steady stream of vacationers on bicycles coasted down the narrow street, sharing the road with horse-drawn carriages and delivery carts.
There were no cars, of course. No traffic lights either. This was, after all, Mackinac Island, where motor vehicles werestrictly prohibited – well, except for the rare ambulance or fire truck.
Regardless, here on the dock, the crowd from the ferry had already scattered, leaving the area nearly empty except for a few workers, the two men, and me.
I saw nobody's wife.
As for the workers, they were pointedly ignoring the argument, as if they knew better than to get involved.
If I were smart, I'd do the same. I was no fan of drama, especially the kind that ended with two strangers duking it out on the dock. I had already turned to leave when Wall Street asked, "Is that her?"
Against my better judgement, I turned back to look.Big mistake. They were staring at a woman, alright. And not just any woman.Me.
And I – like a total dumbass – was stupidly staring back.
