Cocktails on the Beach by Helen Hardt & Leah Marie Brown & EmKay Connor & Lyz Kelley

Author:Helen Hardt & Leah Marie Brown & EmKay Connor & Lyz Kelley [Hardt, Helen]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Hardt & Sons

Martina marched into my office, her flip-flops smacking against the tile. “Dey boat is here to take Florencia and Juan home. Okay for dem to go?”

I looked up from the backpack I was stocking with supplies and read the text in my line of vision.

I’m a Virgin (But This is an Old Shirt)

Martina, a fifty-something widow with skin the color of cinnamon, collected slogan T-shirts, which she wore over long skirts banded with multicolored horizontal stripes. I hadn’t seen this one before.

“Nice shirt. Curious fact to advertise.” I tipped my head toward the bold lettering.

“No time for dah small talk. Edgar ready to go now.”

“Fine. Did you check Juan’s temperature one last time and prepare the medication I ordered?”

“Of course, Doctor Man,” she huffed.

“I have to ask, Martina. It’s just a way of making sure we don’t overlook something that could jeopardize our patients’ health and wellness.”

“I know dat, Doctor Man.” She grinned, wide enough to reveal the spaces where she was missing all four first molars, and then shuffled back down the hall. “I just give ya hard time.”

“I love you, Martina,” I shouted after her.

“I know dat, too, Doctor Man.” She cackled, the sound triggering my own laughter.

The recliner wasn’t the only thing I’d inherited from Doc Rodriguez. Martina was a second or third cousin on Doc’s mother’s side of the family tree, and she’d worked at the medical center since she was fifteen. With no children of her own, she poured her heart and soul into those served by the clinic, dispensing unsolicited wisdom and advice along with medicine and bandages. Most days, I operated under the delusion that I ran the clinic. When I got a bit too full of myself, she wasn’t afraid to remind me who the real boss was.

I added another bottle of ibuprofen to the pack and zippered it shut. Slipping on a grungy pair of Nikes and shoving my Oakleys atop my head, I slung the bag over my shoulder.

“I’m leaving, Martina,” I hollered into the clinic and headed out the back.

“Don’t run over dey turtles.”

I rolled my eyes, but warmth spread through my chest. I heard that corny line every time I headed out for my weekly round of house calls. Martina was a cross between a doting grandmother and sarcastic teenager. She and Doc were the closest thing I had to family and part of the reason I was happy to remain on the island.

I unlocked the small shed behind the clinic and wheeled out the all-terrain mountain bike I’d splurged on so I had reliable transportation. Most of the folks came into the clinic, but a few lived up on Corcova Mountain. Older islanders who weren’t always receptive to medical advice but who welcomed a visit from Doctor Man.

First stop was Alonso Rodriguez, Doc’s younger brother, who owned a small farm at the base of the mountain. I coasted down the dirt trail leading to his small tin-roofed house, squinting against the sun’s glare to locate Al. His favorite place to avoid the noonday sun was the shade of a huge tamarind tree in front of his house.

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