Savannah Breeze (25 page)

Maria's Cafe
was in a grubby little strip shopping center, situated between a check-cashing storefront and a coin laundry.

“This is the place you had in mind?” I asked, looking dubious.

“Yeah,” Harry said. He grabbed my hand and dragged me in the door. “Come on, open your mind. You'll love this food. It's very homey, not fancy, just plain good cooking. It's my favorite kind of Latin food.”

Not fancy was an understatement. Maria's Cafe consisted of a single long linoleum counter and a few tiny tables topped with flowery vinyl tablecloths. The menu was written on a huge blackboard hanging in back of the counter. None of the dishes was recognizable to me, but the whole place was enveloped in the delicious aroma of roasting meats. My stomach growled in approval.

A young Latina girl, with streaky hair worn in a lopsided topknot, and a too-tight white nylon nurse's uniform, stood behind the counter. She was the only one in the place. The restaurant owner in me calculated how much it was costing to keep the place open. She also wondered why there was so little business on a beautiful Friday night.

“This looks great!” Harry said, standing back to study the menu.

“You eating here or you wanna take out?” the girl asked.

“Your choice,” I told Harry. “I'm completely in your hands tonight.”

He waggled an eyebrow. It was the single sexiest thing I'd ever seen him do, and I was completely taken aback.

“We'll eat here,” he told the girl. “Can we get a cocktail?”

In answer, she pushed a laminated menu card across the counter at him. “You can seat yourself,” she said. “Just let me know when you're ready to order.”

Harry pulled out a chair for me, and we sat at the window.

“Can I get a glass of wine?” I asked. “I mean, I know Granddad only gave us twenty bucks, but…”

“Don't worry about it. This dinner's on me,” Harry said, not looking up from the menu. “Are you up for the whole authentic Brazilian experience?”

“Yeah, sure. Why not?”

“Okay,” he said. He called to the girl. “We're ready to order now.”

She sauntered over and stood expectantly at his elbow.

He rattled off an order in what sounded to me like competent Portugese, although I recognized none of the words. She scribbled it down on a steno pad, and then disappeared behind a set of swinging doors into what I assumed was the kitchen.

A moment later, she appeared with two glasses of a milky liquid and a small plate of fried objects, which she set down in front of Harry.

He picked up his glass, sipped, and nodded approval. I picked up mine, and he gently clicked his glass against it.

“Cheers,” he said.

I took a hesitant taste.

“Mmm,” I said. “Sort of a turbocharged coconut milk shake?”

“You could say that. The English translation for it is virgin sweat.”

We both had a good chuckle over that one. The virgin sweat was sweet and cold and potent, and I finished it off quickly.

He pushed the plate of fried things in my direction. “These are
salgadinhos.
Appetizers. This one here is little bits of fried linguica sausage.”

The sausages were on the spicy side, but tasty.

“And this,” he said, placing a fritter-looking object on my plate,
“is a fried cod ball. It's originally a Portugese dish, but these cuisines have a lot in common.”

Before we'd finished the appetizers, the girl brought out a couple of plates of what looked like American salads.

“It's just tomatoes and hearts of palm,” I said, feeling relieved. I ventured a taste. “With a really yummy vinaigrette dressing.”

“Brazilians love their hearts of palm,” Harry said, digging into his own plate. “They sell huge jars of them in every Latin groceria I've ever seen.”

He made a quick, barely discernable gesture, and the waitress reappeared at the table. He murmured something to her, and she came back again, with another weird-looking cocktail. It was like the first, but slightly different.

“Jaguar piss,” Harry said, laughing “You said you were up for the whole authentic experience. Anyway, it's another variation on the coconut scheme. You like?”

“Sure.” The jaguar piss was giving me a healthy buzz. What was not to like?

After the salad, we were presented with bowls of soupy, mashed-up black beans.

“Caldinho de feijao,”
Harry announced.

The beans were delicious, fragrant with some kind of pork. I scraped the bowl to get every last bite of the broth.

“And now the entrée,” Harry said as the girl arrived back at our table with a huge tray of more food—more little fried things, this time pie-shaped objects, and a platter of skewered meat.

“I can't,” I said, groaning. “I'll absolutely bust.”

“You can and you will,” he said, forking pies and meat skewers onto my plate.

“These,” he said, pointing to the pies, “are
empadinhas
. Same thing as what the Mexicans call an
empanada.
These happen to be made with shrimp. And this,” he said, pointing to the skewers, “is
churrasco
. Brazilian barbecued beef.”

I nibbled at the food. It was all wonderful, but more than I could possibly eat. Harry, on the other hand, happily shoveled it all in. It was fun to watch him. He ate with undisguised gusto, licking his fingers, sopping up the meat juices with a piece of bread, smacking his lips in appreciation.

“Can I ask you something?” I asked, propping my elbows on the table.

“Sure,” he said, between chews.

“How does a fisherman from Savannah know so much about Brazilian food?”

“They have fish in Brazil,” he said simply. “It's a great place. Wonderful people.”

I took another sip of my jaguar piss. “I want to apologize for Sabrina,” I said, emboldened by the buzz.

“For what?”

“You know, what she said, back there at the Binnacle. She was pretty trashed, and it was a pretty rude suggestion.”

“Oh that,” he said, patting his mouth with his napkin. “I didn't think it was rude at all. Crudely phrased, yes, but not rude. Anyway, she did say I was cute. Nobody's called me that in a long time. Probably not since my mama died.”

“Weezie thinks you're cute.”

He put down the napkin. “Weezie is a woman of unusual tastes.”

“I think she has great taste. Look at what she did with the Breeze.”

Harry considered that. “But you don't share her taste.”

“I didn't say that.”

“
You
didn't say I'm cute.”

“Cute's not the word I'd use to describe you. You're…”

“Tacky?”

“No.”

“Cranky?”

“Yes, but we're talking about appearances.”

“Then?”

“Give me a minute,” I said. “I'm thinking about it.”

Finally, he pushed his empty plate away.

“Dessert,” he said happily.

“No!” I cried. “Not another bite. I'll explode.”

“You must,” he said. “I've already ordered it.”

As if on command, the girl materialized at our table with two small, shallow dishes of what looked like custard.

“Flan,” Harry said, sinking a spoon into the hard, caramelized sugar topping. “You haven't lived till you've had Brazilian flan.”

“No,” I protested, but I took a spoonful, and he was right. Rich, silky, creamy, flecked with bits of vanilla, it was divine.

“Coffee?” he asked, helping himself to the leftovers on my plate.

“No,” I said weakly. “You may have to carry me back to Mangoville as it is.”

The girl brought the check, and Harry laughed. “Thirty bucks, plus tip,” he said, taking the money out of his wallet. “Can you imagine a meal like this for that little bit of money?”

“No,” I said truthfully. “If I'd served this meal at my restaurant back in Savannah, we're talking $120, at the very minimum.”

It had gotten dark while we were in the restaurant. Harry casually took me by the arm and steered me toward the motel.

The little courtyard was deserted. The pool glowed an inviting azure in the moonlight, and pockets of pale green light spilled from behind the drawn curtains of the units surrounding it.

We drifted over toward a pair of lounge chairs facing the pool and sank down into them by mutual, unspoken agreement. Tree frogs croaked from the jungle of palms and orchids, ferns and other tropical-looking plants, and a sweet, flowery scent drifted with the faint breeze ruffling the palm fronds.

“What's that smell?” I asked, tilting my head up to get a look at the stars.

“Flowering ginger,” Harry said, without hesitation.

“How—”

“They have fish in Fort Lauderdale too,” Harry explained. “I like to know the names of things. You know, if you buy a really fresh piece of gingerroot, and plant it, usually you'll get it to grow. If you've got the right climate,” he added. “I've planted a piece behind the office, back at the Breeze. Be nice to have that smell to come home to.”

“We should plant some of this kind of stuff back there,” I said dreamily. “Do a little landscaping. Hibiscus will grow in Savannah. And some of these ferns and things, if we don't have a really cold winter. And you know what would be really nice?”

“What's that?”

“A pool,” I said. “Nothing big or elaborate. Just a little dip pool, maybe with a hot tub at one end, for guests who come in the winter. And a beautiful little courtyard. There's plenty of room, in the parking lot. I hate seeing all that paving when you first pull in.”

“A pool would be great,” Harry said. “Cost some money, though.”

“Yeah,” I said with a sigh. “A pool, landscaping, a courtyard, all of that takes up valuable real estate with no practical return on the dollar. I mean, let's face it. A motel can't make any real money these days. Look at this place. It's a dinosaur. I hate to say it, but those Sandcastle people, damn them, have the right idea. Condos are the way to go.”

Harry looked away, visibly annoyed.

“What?”

“Does it always have to be about money with you?”

“I'm a businesswoman,” I said. “I don't apologize for that. So yeah, I do want a business that turns a profit.”

Harry sat up and swung his legs around to face me. “Didn't you ever want to do anything just because you loved it?” he asked. “Because it felt good, pure and simple?”

Stung by his unspoken but understood criticism, I turned away.

“I loved the restaurant business,” I said quietly. “I loved meeting people, serving them good food in a beautiful setting. And yes, I loved making money at it. Guale's success meant
I
was a success.
Does that make me a money-grubbing greedhead? I mean, isn't that what most people want out of life?”

“Some people define success differently,” he said.

“How do you define success, Harry Sorrentino?”

“Doing what I want to do,” he said promptly. “Doing it the best way I know how, without hurting anybody. Living my life so I can be with people I care about. I'm just not a very complicated person, BeBe.”

Now I was sitting up too. “See, I think you
are
complicated. Very complicated.”

“How?” he challenged.

“You're a mess of contradictions,” I said. “You like to play the part of the salty old redneck. Yet, you're anything but. You know food. You've obviously traveled. And you read. A lot, and widely.”

“Lots of people read,” he said. “You think rednecks don't read?”

“What's with the law books?” I blurted out. I'd been curious about them ever since the first night I'd spent at the Breeze.

“I went to law school,” he said finally.

“Where?”

“Does it matter? I've never practiced law. I never even took the bar exam.”

“Why not?”

“I didn't want to
be
a lawyer. I just wanted to know how the law worked. So I went to law school.”

“Did you find out what you wanted to know?”

“I found some answers,” he said cautiously. “I didn't care much for the way the law works. So I found an honest way to make a living.”

“Fishing.”

“Fishing,” he repeated. “It makes me happy. When I've had a good day fishing, I'm a success.”

“What's so good about it?” I asked. “I mean it. And not in the snotty way you think I mean. Really, what is it about fishing that appeals to you?”

“Everything about it appeals to me,” he said simply. “I love the physical part, working on the boat, bringing in a trophy fish, being out in all kinds of weather. Mostly, I like the challenge. Figuring out the right combination of temperature, tide, time of day, the ocean topography, matching the bait and the tackle to the species of fish I'm after. Some of it's science, some of it's art.” He shrugged. “And a lot of it's dumb luck.”

He yawned widely then. “I don't know about you, but I'm whipped.”

“It's been a long day,” I said, struggling to get out of the low-slung chaise longue.

Harry pulled me up, and then pulled me into his arms, brushing his lips on my forehead, and then briefly on my lips.

“What's that for?” I asked, too shocked to hide my surprise.

“I've been wondering what it would be like,” he said.

“What did you decide?”

He kissed me again. Slowly, this time. He got his hands tangled in my curls, and then he lazily let his hands wander down my back, pressing my hips into his. I wrapped my arms around his neck and took my time getting to know the feel of him. His shoulders were knotty with muscles, and his cheeks were rough with a day's growth of beard.

Harry leaned back and considered me in the moonlight. “Pretty nice,” he said finally. “What did you think?”