Page 5 of Beaches, Bagels & Babes
“I’m traditional,”he told her with his trademark joking-not-joking tone.“If you want something, you ask in person. But don't worry. You know I’ve always got sugar for you, Candy.”
Another cringe rippled down her spine.
Peter Perry was a button-pusher. He enjoyed making other people squirm, saying whatever he wanted, being intentionally insensitive, even with his own flesh and blood. However, all of it was under the guise of “fun.” He would not even let him call her by his first name like a normal uncle; he was ‘Uncle Perry,’ Wonderwood’s favorite wild, wacky public figure. It was his brand, and he was very protective of it because of the goodwill it bought him.
Candace knew that all her uncle really cared about was being the top asshole at the local marina. Everything he did was for power and prestige. He had both in droves, but it was never enough.
He liked to be petty with it. He told Candace to be at the fun pier’s office building under the Manta Coaster at 8 AM sharp. Even though there was no way he would show up anytime close to then, he would check the security tapes to make sure she did.
So, Candace waited.
And waited.
8:30flashed on her phone screen as she checked it.
Candace stifled a yawn. She hadn’t had time to make coffee this morning in her motel room’s little single-serve maker. There was a perpetually brewed pot in the front office reception room, but that would’ve been a dangerous gamble; she was sure it hadn’t been emptied, let alone cleaned, in decades.
Best to avoid negotiating with a time bomb in her stomach.
Candace shifted in the sunken, mildewy seat. Her nose crinkled. Most of the place had a musty smell. It was not a surprising problem for a business built over the ocean. Even so, with regular maintenance, cleaning, and upgrades, it was somewhat mitigable.
Regularbeing the important word.
Candace’s uncle had better things to spend his money on, like impressing his rich friends or expanding his empire. Knowing him, he was probably out to breakfast at one of the local big-wig haunts, rubbing elbows with the police chief and mayor. Her suspicion was confirmed when her uncle’s long-time secretary poked her head into the office.
“Miss Candy,” the older woman, Janice, chirped, using Candace’s hated nickname. “Mr. Perry called to say he’s at an urgent meeting, so he won’t be able to make it. He had me wire money to your account and said that he’d talk over the details with you later.”
Candace resisted kicking the rusted desk in front of her only because it would have scuffed her white wedge sandals. Instead, she flashed a smile that bared teeth.
“Oh, ofcourse.I know my uncle is busy. No worries.”
Fresh-caught farm-to-table scallops over Eggs Benedict at Ferdinand’s?Candace wondered.Or maybe a showy platter at the Seashore Diner, a king among the commoners?
Whatever the answer, Candace played her uncle’s game and got what she wanted. Almost. She checked her banking app, and the balance was just enough to get her out of imminent financial ruin. She might even be able to treat herself to something other than a microwave dinner. Still, the idea thather end of the bargain remained undisclosed sat as poorly as that coffee would have.
Candace fled from the office feeling uneasy. She exited the building out to the damp sub-level and was immediately assaulted by sensation. The blast of humid heat as she left the air-conditioned space; the Manta Coaster overhead, shaking the whole place; the salty smell that clung to everything.
It brought a rush of memories, too. Some good, some bad. All of it made the pressure in her chest worsen.
Candace kept it together while she was in view of her uncle’s security cameras. With practiced poise, she wove through the surprising amount of people already queuing for the first rides of the day and made her way to the main boardwalk. There, she braced herself against the railing with her eyes trained on the glimmering ocean horizon.
Candace hated this place. She managed to avoid it for so long; it was fitting that she had to come here when she was at her lowest. Everything about it brought her back to that first awful summer she spent with her uncle after he took her in. At twelve years old, someone had to, and he was the best option. Her only option. She felt like that powerless, scared girl again becauseshe was. Wonderwood had not changed in all this time, and neither had she.
She would, though. Candace would get back on her feet and go where she wanted to be. Once she figured out where that was, since her bridge in the financial sector had apparently been burned. For now, she was stuck.
In and out, Candace breathed. She drew deep, full breaths into her belly—held at the top—then, released great, throat-cleansing exhales. Slowly, her breaths synced to the rise and fall of the waves spilling out over the beach sand. Her mind calmed.
After a time, with a little sigh of relief, Candace’s breathing returned to normal. Her best friend and yoga teacher, Demi, taught ‘pranayama breathing,’ centering the body and mind by breathing along with an internal wave. The more metaphysicalsides of yoga, limbs of practice beyond the physical workout, were a bit beyond Candace. But techniques like this helped to quell her occasional bursts of uncontrolled emotion.
Most of the time.
Candace’s stomach, though, was another story. It grumbled so loudly that a group of passersby on a four-seater surrey bike turned their heads to look at her. She waved with a forced smile as they continued on their way, laughing amongst themselves.
Could this day get any more humiliating?
Candace should have known better than to ask.
Turning, she leaned back against the hot metallic rail that separated the boardwalk from the beach dunes below. At least her card would not be declined if she bought a coffee. But where?
