Page 22 of The Summer We Kept Secrets (The Destin Diaries #4)

“You can’t go in that tow-truck,” Brick said. “Mikey doesn’t have insurance for passengers.” He thumbed to his bike. “But I do.”

Maggie stared at him and then let out the most unladylike snort. “I don’t think so. We’ll walk.”

Brick rolled his eyes. “It’s seven miles up to Crawfordville,” he said. “Be sure to get off 98 and turn on 319.”

“Seven…” Maggie turned to Jo Ellen, who already had her phone out.

“My grandson put the Uber app on my phone, so…”

“There ain’t no Uber out here,” Randy said.

“We can get you there in ten minutes, ma’am,” Angel added. “You can borrow our helmets.”

He could not be serious.

“Gator Jack’s can put you up,” Randy added. At the women’s matching dubious looks, he laughed. “No real gators. It’s just a joint across the street from Mikey’s shop that’s got a couple rooms they rent to fishermen,” Randy added. “Ain’t the Ritz, but it’s clean.”

“Got a decent bar, too,” Mikey chimed in as he dragged a chain—an actual chain—from his truck to theirs. “Passable burgers, cold beer, and a jukebox. And every night is Ladies’ Night.”

Jo Ellen turned to Maggie, who was starting to feel like she might sway in the sun.

“We’ll change into sneakers and walk,” Maggie insisted under her breath.

“You can,” Jo Ellen said. “I’m taking the ride.”

Maggie felt her jaw loosen. “Jo Ellen Wylie! Are you out of your mind?”

She leaned in. “A seven-mile walk in this heat would be the crazy thing. It’ll kill us both. These men won’t. Right?” She gave them a sweet smile. “You won’t hurt a couple of grandmas in a bind.”

Brick winked at Maggie. “Grandmas are our specialty.”

Oof . Why did he make her laugh?

“Come on, Mags. You go with Brick.”

He reached out a hand. “Yeah, Mags . Come with me. You’ll have so much fun you’ll let me buy you dinner.”

She stood frozen in place as her entire life flashed before her—one that was always still and controlled and sharp-edged and fearful.

And then, shocking herself more than anyone, she nodded. “Okay. I guess I’m going to die on a motorcycle behind a man named Brick.”

He let out a belly laugh. “Oh, no, honey. You’re going to live a little.”

Ten minutes later, Maggie was on the back of Brick’s Harley, arms around a strange man while Florida pines blurred past them. The sun hit her face and for the first time in…too long, she laughed. Loud. Like she meant it.

Tomorrow, they’d deal with the truck.

Tonight? God help them—a jukebox .

Maggie climbed off the motorcycle with knees that had no interest in supporting her anymore. Brick caught her elbow before she could crumple to the gravel like a poorly pitched tent.

“You okay?” he asked.

She just gave him a warning look. “I left my dignity on the turn to 319,” she said, brushing dust from her slacks. “Along with my equilibrium.”

“Nothin’ a cold brew won’t fix.” He pointed across the street to…

a place. Yes, she could call that a place.

A two-story place with a torn green and white striped awning and a faded sign that said Gator Jack’s with an alligator as the apostrophe.

“You two go in and square things with Mikey, then get set up in your room.” His finger rose to the second-floor windows.

Then back down again. “The boys and I will be waiting for dinner.”

Her eyes widened. He was serious?

“I know it’s four o’clock, but dinner’s half price before five and we love us a good early bird special. Then, we’ll dance.”

They’d see about that.

She managed a tight smile and walked to Jo Ellen, who was positively as giddy as a girl getting off a roller coaster as she climbed off Randy’s bike.

“Settle down, will you?” Maggie muttered.

“Don’t make me quote your favorite character, Mags.”

Maggie lifted a brow in question.

“‘Fiddle dee dee!’” she exclaimed in a terrible Southern Scarlett O’Hara accent. “I had fun and I’m not done yet.”

Oh, heavens. There would be dancing.

They followed Brick’s instructions—as he took their suitcases and they just let him. Then they found Mikey in the “shop” that smelled like old shrimp. Was bait standard in every gas station in this part of Florida?

Jo Ellen walked around in a daze, talking about how much Artie would have loved this place. After Maggie signed her life away and watched Mikey spit enough sunflower seed husks to sprout a garden, they made their way across the street to Gator Jack’s.

Inside, it was all dark wood, neon signs, and the faint but permanent scent of stale beer and fried things. A scarred old jukebox stood proudly in the corner like it had survived three hurricanes and a few fights. A couple of locals sat at the bar, wearing ball caps and sunburned noses.

The bartender, a tall woman with bright pink hair and a T-shirt that said, “Bite Me, I’m Local,” gave them a nod.

“Ladies? Brick got you settled. Room’s upstairs. Here’s the key and before you ask, it’s got one bed, a queen. Sorry, it’s the busy season.” She lifted her brow as she held out a key. “Go through that hall past the bathroom, up to the second floor, first door.”

Maggie opened her mouth.

“We’re happy to share,” Jo Ellen chirped, dragging her toward the hall.

“Is there a shower?” Maggie managed to ask as Jo pulled her away.

Pink Hair guffawed. “Of course! What kind of place do you think I run?”

Just then, Brick walked out of the men’s room, shaking off his wet hands. “Hurry back, ladies. We’ll order for you.”

“Thank you!” Jo Ellen called, ignoring Maggie’s glare.

“We are not?—”

“Yes, we are,” Jo said. “Let’s comb our hair and freshen up. This is fun!”

There was no arguing with her, so Maggie went along with it, not willing to admit that a beer sounded really good. Had she had one in…ever? Not in years, but, hey, when in Crawfordville…

Two hours, one beer and two and a half shots of bourbon—she tried to sip but Brick wouldn’t let her—later, Maggie gave up the battle.

She laughed at everything that blue-eyed, bearded redneck biker with rough hands and a sweet smile had to say. Brick Collins met her snark, sarcasm, and condescension with so much humor that she gave up the fight.

The Wild Turkey helped, too.

And then Jo Ellen came clip-clopping over in wedge heels—when did she put those on?—and said, “Randy showed me how to work the jukebox.”

“That’s good.”

“It’s great, because…listen.”

After a beat, Maggie heard the iconic opening high-pitched organ notes that sent chills up her spine and whipped her back to the Tri-Delt House on the Georgia campus—which might have been the last time she had shots of bourbon…and this much fun.

“It’s the Monkees!” Jo Ellen cried and started singing with Micky Dolenz. “‘I thought love was only true in fairy tales!’”

“Stop,” Maggie pleaded.

“When ‘I’m a Believer’ plays?” Jo Ellen scoffed, tugging Maggie from her chair. In her weakened one-beer-and-two-point-five-shots state, she let herself be pulled to a stand. “Come on, Mags! We always loved Micky the best!”

She snorted again and let Jo drag her toward the cleared space near the pool table, where two men were swaying off-beat with beers in hand.

Brick gave an appreciative whistle. Randy whooped and pointed at the jukebox like he’d just summoned the spirit of fun. Angel leaned against the bar and watched like he was their personal bodyguard.

Jo twirled and pointed at Maggie. “‘Then I saw her face!’”

And, Lord help her, Maggie sang right back. “‘Now I’m a believer!’”

They belted out every word that was burned into their memory and kept it going when “Build Me Up, Buttercup” echoed through the room. Then some Aretha, The Temptations, and the capper—The Archies singing “Sugar, Sugar.”

Maggie utterly surrendered to the night, the memories, the laughter, and even Brick’s arms when Percy Sledge belted out “When a Man Loves a Woman.” She danced with him, giving in to the bliss of being held, swayed, and serenaded with lyrics that melted the coldest of icy hearts.

Even hers.

When things speeded up again, Jo Ellen did something between the swim and the mashed potato, and Maggie nearly lost it laughing.

The bar, now full, clapped along. Someone—maybe the pink-haired bartender—shouted, “Go, Grandma!”

The whole time Maggie felt young, free, and ridiculously alive.

They didn’t make last call—not for lack of trying. By the time they headed upstairs, Maggie had a stitch in her side from laughing. The tiny room was cozy, clean, and cooled by a noisy fan that didn’t even bother her.

The sheets were crisp, their PJs comfy after showers, and Jo Ellen and Maggie shared a queen bed as they had for two solid years at the Tri-Delt House.

As they finally settled in, Jo sighed and proclaimed it, “The best night ever.”

Maggie closed her eyes and snuggled under the blankets, thinking about Brick’s funny lines and how good it was to…not care. Tomorrow, she would care again. She had to.

As Scarlett would say, tomorrow was another day. But this day? One of the most exhilarating experiences she’d had in seventy-eight years.