Page 2 of Enemies in Earnest

He raised his eyebrow at me over his drink. A Negroni. Because it wasn’t pretentious enough to live out one’s days as Hemingway would have. But also only drink Hemingway’s drinks: a Negroni, a dry martini, or a Highball, depending on the mood.

“Oh yes,” he held his hand to his forehead and melted dramatically into the back of his chair. “Theincident. So cloak and dagger. Veiled in secrecy and otherwise unexcogitable. Cue theDeus Ex Machina.”

Whatever word there wasabovepretentious, I think Dr. Asher Krane fit the bill. Half the things he said I had to surreptitiously google on my phone.

“No need for a Shakespearean save, Dr. Krane. That neanderthal with his two buck chuck and hisMardi Gras-esque attitude toward business, simply needs to relocate to a section of the harbor that welcomes his sort.”

I busied myself with wiping down the bar and handling the orders for the handful of patrons. Despite July being the most active of the tourist months, withChristmas in JulyandHemingway Daysdrawing various crowds, midafternoon wasn’t ever hopping.

“Acacia, you and I have been acquainted for three years now. I’ve even earned the trust of your ratty old cat. Surely, the fact that I darken the doorstep of this fine establishment nearly every day has earned me a peek into the greatest rivalry on Candy Cane Key. Obviously, I’m aCapuletin this case.”

Six- toed Joe sat on his perch next to the television, staring impassively at the two of us. He couldn’t help his matted looking fur. More than likely, he had some Maine Coone or Persian in him. Neither long haired breeds were ideal for the heat and humidity of the Keys. Upon hearing his name, Six- toed Joe hopped from his perch and slunk toward Dr. Krane’s feet, winding himself around the bar stool.

“See.” He picked up the cat, welcoming the head bump. “I don’t see him doing this with any of your other patrons.”

Dr. Krane, the professor who refused to be addressed by anything other than his formal name, bathed the cat in a lovefest of praise. The man who wore a short-sleeved button-down shirt, tan pants, and bow tie every single day. Who carried beneath his arm, a copy of the local paper and a battered and worn copy ofThe Old Man and the Sea. That man. Mister distinguished professor talked baby talk to my six- toed stray.

“I thought you were a Hemingway expert. What’s with all the Shakespearean references today?” I teased.

I took a look around the bar, and seeing everyone was happily engaged in conversations or enthralled with the Marlins game, grabbed a glass of water and leaned against the counter.

“Actually my dear, Hemingway is a passion. Shakespeare paid the bills. And every year around this time, the ennui creeps into the cracks of my soul, and I find myself restless. Desperate. In search of something that will fulfill me in the same way my beloved Shakespeare Festival did. We’d be holding faculty meetings right about now to discuss what the fall production would be. The discourse. Oh, thediscourse!It’s what I miss most. So many like-minded people in one room debating the subtleties of Shakespeare and weighing the positives and negatives of each of his tomes. One of my professors– his name is Dr. Sebastian Doyle. He took over for me, actually, when I left. But he was such a pistol.”

It wasn’t the first time he’d told me about Dr. Doyle, or his love of Macbeth. It was obvious he loved his job as a professor and literary festival director. “You have so much experience with festivals.” I tapped my finger to my lip. “Maybe you can help a damsel in distress with the Hemingway Days celebration? You clearly are an avid fan. I can’t think of anyone better suited to be my right-hand man. That is, of course, if you have the time?”

Asher’s bushy gray eyebrows shot up so high, the wrinkles on his face flattened. I think it may have been the first time I noticed or was able to see the tawny color of his eyes. I saw the wheels turning. Could practically hear the engine in his brain revving and turning over as he thought about it.

“Hemingway Days are two weeks away. What could you possibly have left to plan?”

Caught me there.

“Well, it’s his one hundred and twenty-fifth birthday. That’s kind of a big number. It calls for an even bigger celebration, don’t you think?”

“A hundred and twenty-five? You don’t say. An important milestone, indeed. We’ll definitely need to up the ante over your normal reading of his prose and releasing of the wreath into the sea at sunset.”

I loved my sunset tribute. Despitethe incident,that tribute was what I looked forward to every year. There was no more perfect symbolic elegy. Reading about the closing of a chapter, the sunset of one’s life, as a symbol of life is released into the sea. It’s beautiful and moving.

“I won’t give up my sunset tribute.”

We’d make that perfectly clear from the onset.

“Come on, Acacia!” One of the other regulars, Julian, called from his table. “The only time that sunset tribute was interesting was the year Edwin’s group of cougars flashed their tits at everyone and projectile vomited for the world to witness. Even that hottie novelist, Felix Mercer, readingPapa’stomes couldn’t up the interest factor.”

Asher booped his nose like a 1950s circus clown before shaking his finger at me. It took everything in me not to roll my eyes at him. Gold star to Dr. Krane. Someone told him aboutthe incident.

Though it was much worse than that. It wasn’tjustsome middle-aged women who couldn’t control their drink. No. It was Edwin himself, sucking on a pipe, yucking it up with his clients, telling them to “Come to Papa!” and that he’d take care of them. That happened on the wayoutto sea. Which I’d written off because the celebration hadn’t started yet, and it had only been me and a handful of my waitstaff at the time. But then, that asshole had theaudacityto bring those ladies back to shore right in the middle of my sunset tribute. As if he didn’t know we did the exact same thing at seven thirty every year since I’d own the bar. Every year! Like he couldn’t have waited ten damn minutes for the wreath to be released.

Those ladies were so hammered they could barely keep themselves standing along the balcony. They’d been so out of their gourd they mistook my twinkle lights for beads. One of them pointed at said twinkle lights screaming, “I’ll show you, my tits!” and flashed every somber faced literary great in the area who had come for Hemingway’s one hundred and twentieth birthday celebration. Including Hemingway’s granddaughter! The woman was so mortified she’s never returned a single call or email since.

We used to be her favorite Hemingway bar. She said we were elegant and classy.“A sophisticated tribute worthy of the esteem of Ernest Hemingway.”Now from what I saw on the internet she visited theotherHemingway bar. The one Hemingwayactuallyfrequented.

“I believe your fans are calling for a recast!” Asher waved his hand in theatrical fashion toward the eleven people seated in the bar.

He pushed out of his chair, gathering his things in the process.

“We start tomorrow!” he shouted and thrust his hand into the air triumphantly. “This will be your comeback year, m’dear.”

My comeback? Interesting. If Edwin was the reason for my demise in the first place, why didIneed a comeback?

---