Page 3 of Key West Promises

The interior of Margarita Max's was exactly what Tess had imagined. The wooden beams were draped with string lights, their dim glow mingling with the neon signs advertising every tropical drink known to man. The bar itself stretched across one side of the room, covered in scuffs and dents that told stories of decades of spilled cocktails and overenthusiastic patrons.

Leah's first thought, however, wasn't about the charm of the place but about how sticky the floors were. Her sandals clung to the surface with each step, and she couldn't decide if the sensation was more unsettling or just depressing. The air inside was thick with the competing scents of lime, stale beer, and whatever tropical-scented cleaner they used to mop the floors, presumably between spring break seasons.

"This place has character," Tess said, beaming as she spun slowly to take it all in. Her enthusiasm seemed to brighten even the darkest corners of the bar, where ancient fishing nets and plastic lobsters created shadows on the walls.

"It has something," Leah muttered, glancing toward the bar where a middle-aged woman with a no-nonsense ponytail was wiping down glasses with the efficiency of someone who'd done it a million times. Her nametag read "Connie," though the letters were faded as if they'd been through as many Key West summers as the bar itself.

The walls were a testament to decades of island life, covered in photos of fishing tournaments, hurricane parties, and tourists who'd probably long since forgotten their nights at Margarita Max's. A dusty paddleboard hung from the ceiling, its surface decorated with the bar's logo, a cartoon parrot wearing sunglasses and holding a cocktail glass in its wing.

"Excuse me," Tess said, her tone chipper as she approached the bar. "We heard you're hiring?"

Connie looked up, her sharp blue eyes scanning the sisters with the precision of a drill sergeant sizing up new recruits. The towel in her hands never stopped moving, as if cleaning glasses was as natural as breathing. "You ever worked in a bar before?"

"Well, no," Leah started, but Tess cut her off with a confident laugh. The kind of laugh that had preceded many of their more questionable business ventures.

"Not professionally," Tess said. "But we've spent plenty of time on the other side of the bar, and I'd say that makes us pretty qualified. Plus, we're quick learners." She gestured to the row of bottles behind the counter. "I bet I could name every type of rum you've got back there."

Leah resisted the urge to groan. Tess's charm had gotten them into plenty of situations, but she wasn't convinced it would get them out of this one. Still, she had to admit her sister's ability to turn every situation into an opportunity was almost impressive. Even if that opportunity involved sticky floors and drunk tourists.

Connie arched an eyebrow, setting down the glass she'd been polishing with a soft clink. "You good with drunk tourists? Broken glasses? Karaoke?" Her voice suggested these were merely the tip of a very large, very sticky iceberg.

"Absolutely," Tess said without missing a beat. She leaned against the bar with the confidence of someone who'd never had to clean one. "And Leah here is great with numbers. She'd make an excellent cashier. She used to manage million-dollar accounts in Boston."

Leah gave a tight smile, wondering how her MBA had led her to this moment. "I'm also good at cleaning sticky floors." She demonstrated by lifting her sandal with an audible peeling sound.

Connie's lips twitched, almost a smile. A Jimmy Buffett song played softly in the background, as if providing the soundtrack to their descent into island unemployment.

"Fair enough. You're hired. Part-time for now. Show up tomorrow night at six, dressed in black. Comfortable shoes. And don't show up hungover."

"That's it?" Leah asked, blinking in surprise. In Boston, hiring processes had involved multiple interviews, background checks, and at least one personality assessment.

"This is Margarita Max's," Connie said, returning to her glass polishing. "The bar's low. No pun intended." She handed each of them a napkin with scrawled instructions, her handwriting as efficient as her movements. "Be on time. And remember, tomorrow is Trivia Tuesday. It’ll be crazy in here."

As they stepped back into the blinding Key West sunshine, Tess clapped her hands together, the napkin fluttering in her grip. "See? That was easy. And we didn't even have to beg. Although I was prepared to if necessary. I had a whole speech planned about our extensive experience in customer service."

Leah shielded her eyes with one hand, staring at the napkin in the other. The instructions were simple: wear black, bring a positive attitude, don't be late. Nothing about the complex drink recipes she'd need to learn or how to handle rowdy bachelor parties. "I can't decide if this is a good thing or a sign that we've hit rock bottom. Did you happen to notice that we have no idea how much we’re going to get paid for this adventure?"

"It's not rock bottom," Tess said, looping her arm through Leah's as they navigated the crowded sidewalk. A group of tourists on rented bikes swerved around them, their helmet straps flapping in the breeze. "And I assume it’s more about the tips than anything else. Look at it as a stepping stone. We'll be slinging margaritas and charming tourists in no time. Think of the interesting people we’ll meet."

Leah raised an eyebrow. "Interesting how? Like someone who owns a yacht and needs a crew? Or someone who leaves a $500 tip because they accidentally paid with the wrong card?"

"Either works," Tess said with a grin. "Though I was thinking more along the lines of a mysterious stranger with a business proposition. Or maybe a wealthy widow looking to invest in local talent."

"Your definition of 'local talent' concerns me," Leah said, but she was smiling. Something about Tess's relentless optimism was infectious, even in the face of their current situation.

They walked in silence for a moment, the heat of the sidewalk radiating through their sandals. Just around the corner, a group of cruise ship passengers shuffled past from Mallory Square, their lanyards swinging in perfect synchronization.

Tess and Leah walked several blocks before Leah pointed toward a large house on the corner. A simple sign out front read "Paradise Harbor House," offering no explanation of its purpose. A woman sat on the porch, radiating a quiet authority that lingered in Leah’s mind. There was something about her.

"What do you think that place is?" Leah asked, breaking the silence. A pelican swooped overhead.

Tess glanced at her, adjusting her sunglasses. "What place?"

"The house with the blue sign, Paradise Harbor House."

Tess shrugged, her attention caught by a window display of handmade jewelry. "Probably a bed and breakfast or something. Everything here is either a bed and breakfast or a bar.”

Leah frowned, her curiosity piqued. "I don't think it's a bed and breakfast." She remembered the neat rows of chairs on the porch, the professional signage, the way the woman had studied her clipboard with such focus.

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