6 Martini Regrets Read Online Free Page A

that paddle. I lunged into water up to my knees and grabbed the smooth planed wood. I threw it into the bottom of the canoe and then I followed. Too frightened to be careful, there was no three-point entry, no bracing myself on the gunwales to distribute my weight and stepping in gently. It was more like a belly flop into the unknown. The canoe tipped wildly, threatening to roll. I braced myself, praying to stay upright, and watched one of my pink flip-flops bobbing on the small waves.
    The canoe settled. I had to get out of here, but which way should I go? There were only two choices, right or left. Left went deeper into the Glades. Right went back towards civilization. Right was the direction for me.
    I dug in with the paddle, following the silver path of the moon. I took six strokes and then looked back over my shoulder. Drainage ditches are as straight as a surveyor’s pole and you can see down them for a long way. Anyone coming for lightning-bolt guy could look down the ditch and mistake me for him.
    Heavy brush grew along the sides of the water, offering concealment. As I moved closer to them, dripping fronds swept down to touch me, marking me with their dampness. I used the paddle to push the canoe deep into the overhanging tangle of vegetation, hoping the red canoe couldn’t be seen through the underbrush.
    Surrounded and hidden, I still didn’t feel safe. My billowy white top caught the moonlight and stood out like a beacon. I slid down below the gunwales. The ribs along the bottom cut into my shoulders and hips, and water soaked into my clothes. I stayed perfectly still and tried not to imagine the spiders and snakes and other vicious things in the branches above me, more things to kill me than I could actually name. But there was more than imagination to fight against. I heard rustling in the overhang. I stared up into the tangle. Was it some small creature repositioning itself or something moving towards me? God, don’t let it be a snake. My heart pounded against my rib cage, a wild animal attempting to break free, and my breath came in short, sharp pants.
    A park warden had once told me there are over fifty species of snakes in Florida but only six of those are venomous. Making me able to name six ways I didn’t want to die was the wrong way to try to cure me of my fear of snakes. I whimpered involuntarily. I quickly cut off the sound by slapping a hand over my mouth. I lay there stiff with fear, positive that living creatures were crawling over me. The steamy night closed in around me. Mosquitoes gorged themselves on my blood. I waited. Eventually, my heart began to beat more evenly and my eyes adjusted to the darkness. Second guesses had time to mature. Was I making a mistake by hiding? Did I really have anything to fear from these unknown people? Maybe I’d misheard. These might be the good guys. Could even be cops. I thought I heard footsteps and rose halfway to a sitting position. The canoe rocked and ground against the brush.
    The crunch of feet on shells was quite clear now. And then a light passed by me on the water.
    A man’s voice said, “We know you’re here, Tito. Angie told us where to find you. We only want to talk.”
    Half raised from the bed of the craft, I tried to decide whether to speak, but then another voice, this one less reasonable and conciliatory than the first, yelled, “You son of a bitch, we’re going to get you, and then we’re going to kill you for this, you little dickhead.”
    I eased down. The canoe wobbled, rubbing against a branch and squealing in protest. I didn’t breathe again until the rocking stilled.
    The light swept by. Would the metal along the topside of the canoe catch the light?
    “He’s gone in the canoe.” One of them was talking on a cell. “Angie was right. I can see where he came in the canoe and then pushed it back out. He may be coming your way, going back to the nursery.” The man went silent, listening, and then said, “All right. We’ll