Page 65 of Single Malt Drama
Nicolina
On my firstmorning as Marco’s wife, I woke to the smell of coffee and an empty left side of the bed. Outside the cabin, it sounded like every bird in the entire state of Louisiana had come to the bayou for choir practice.
I sat upright and pulled the blankets to my bare chest. “Marco?”
When he didn’t answer, I wrapped myself in the covers and wandered into the kitchen in search of caffeine.
A note hung from the refrigerator.
Nico,
I took the boat into town for those ‘essentials.’ Be back before dinner.
Love, M.
PS I made coffee.
PSS Don’t you dare get dressed.
Grinning, I rolled my eyes and filled the cup he’d left on the counter.
I took a shower, got dressed despite Marco’s wishes, and folded up the sleeper sofa. I sat and watched the birds flit around for five minutes before boredom set in. While rummaging through the food Hildie had sent, I found a large freezer bag with four brick-shaped objects covered in aluminum foil and a note card.
Lasagna. Heat covered for one hour in 400-degree oven. Uncover and cook ten additional minutes or until cheese is browned.
“I think I can handle that.” The thought of making Marco dinner made me smile. Sure, I was cheating a bit by using Hildie’s frozen leftovers, but at least we wouldn’t starve.
Rather than staring at the walls until Marco returned, I tucked my cell phone in my pocket, grabbed my sketch pad, and walked downstairs to the dock. I hadn’t drawn in months, let alone worked on any new designs.
I let my mind wander as I roughed out a sketch of the waterlilies floating near the shore. The memories of the previous evening brought a smile to my face. Marco promising me another wedding one day, him kissing me in the church, him telling me he loved me, and the fun we had exploring each other’s bodies until the early morning. I couldn’t remember a time in my adult life I’d ever felt so content, so free.
I spent the morning daydreaming and sketching ideas for a line of clothing. Unlike the couture dresses I normally designed, these pieces were practical. For starters, they weren’t dresses. The pants and shorts had pockets and easy-to-wear lines.
Around noon, I felt the need to stretch my legs and traded the pencil and paper for a walking stick. On the backside of the cabin, I discovered a path that led through a grassy area. I put my earbuds on, and ran through my playlist until I found Ed Sheeran. His sweet-gooey music fit my mood perfectly.
Singing as I walked, I followed the hard-packed trail. Now and then, I stopped to take pictures of large white and gray birds, wildflowers, and a random turtle. The beauty of the swamp surprised me. It seemed something new and unexpected waited for me around every corner, including a patch of bright purple irises. I’d squatted down to snap a few photos to sketch later when movement in the corner of my eye caught my attention.
An alligator as long as our john boat, and as wide as a cow, sat not ten meters from me. The enormous reptile dropped lower to the ground as if preparing to run a fifty-yard dash, or in this case, a ten-meter race to lunch.
I froze. While we didn’t have gators in Trapani, I’d encountered snakes and other wildlife while hiking. I knew better than to make any sudden movements, despite every cell in my body telling me to get out of there.
The gator hissed loud enough for me to hear it over the dulcet tones of my favorite singer.
I did what any woman cornered in the middle of the swamp by a man-eating beast would do. I screamed.
The gator swished its tail, and I knew I needed a better plan than to stand there wailing like a banshee. A quick glance around told me I was screwed. The nearby trees were tall and sturdy, but none had branches low enough to reach from the ground.
Heart pounding, I took a step back.
The gator remained in place, but its slit-pupiled eyes remained fixed on me.
Holding the walking stick in front of me, I slowly put one foot behind me, shifted my weight, and slid the other back in a slow but steady retreat.
The reptile charged forward several meters.
I screamed again and clenched the stick tighter. It stopped moving and stared as if to see what I’d do.
My breathes came in short bursts. If I didn’t get control of myself, I’d hyperventilate and pass out. Making myself an easy target—or easier target.