Page 40 of Third Time's the Charm

“Two now!” I waved between us.

“Can you turn it down?”

“Yeah sure.” Poor Tom Petty. I guess this was our last dance for the night. “There. Better?”

“A little. I’ve got some more work to do, so I’ll take it into the study and close the door.”

I deflated a little. “Work? But it’s Friday night.”

“I’m sorry, but duty calls. Might be all weekend, actually.” He came closer and dropped a kiss on my cheek.

“Again? I thought you said you got caught up before Christmas.”

“I did. On the commercial properties. Now I need to tackle the housing developments.”

I wasn’t one to talk. I knew I was as much of a workaholic as Ryker. But I knew what came next. He’d eat dinner in the study while he worked until ten or eleven, then he’d pour a bourbon and sip it in the dark. This weekend he’d work and brush off my ideas for “next time.”

And yet I remained optimistic. “Well maybe I can bring some sunshine to your busy weekend. How about a lunch picnic in the yard? It will be beautiful weather tomorrow. Nary a mosquito in sight!”

“Pencil me in. We’ll see how much work I get done in the morning.”

I quietly danced with Skeeter and Doug—at least they liked to dinner dance—until the food was ready. Then I dished it out onto two separate trays. One I took to Ryker, the other I took to the coffee table. My Friday night involved dinner and a movie with a blanket of cats and a dog pillow.

Just like all my Friday nights since Jack became head coach.

* * *

We wokeup the next morning to screaming.

“Ahhh! He’s dead! Ahhhh!”

“What the hell is that?” Ryker sat up in bed.

I rubbed my eyes. “Did she say dead?”

“I think so.”

I grabbed my cell phone and ran downstairs, out the door to the street. Three other neighbors were outside too, all of us shivering. Conchita pointed at the house next to hers. “I think it’s the vacation rental.”

“Ahhhh! Another one fell out of the tree! It’s raining iguanas!”

Conchita rolled her eyes.

I groaned. “Who forgot to put out the iguana warnings?” I looked around at my sleepy neighbors like someone was actually going to point and blame. Normally, whenever there was a really cold front coming, the island warned the tourists to watch out for frozen iguanas.

Apparently the real Christmas threw off our routine.

I carefully opened the gate. “Hello? Do you need help?”

“He’s dead!” The woman shrieked again. She looked like she was about to pass out. At her feet was one frozen iguana, and ten feet away was another.

Poor guys.

“Don’t worry. They’re not dead. Probably. They’re just too frozen to move.”

Her expression morphed into horror. “They’re frozen?” She was still yelling. Like someone turned up her volume knob and now it was stuck at ten.

“It’s cold this morning. They’re cold blooded. They’re too cold to move and since they like to hide in trees...they fall out.” Maybe we should put up permanent signs in the winter. Last January a man got hit in the head when one fell out of a tree on the walking path near the mistletoe spotlight.

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