Nuclear Winter First Strike by Bobby Akart (top ten books of all time .TXT) 📕

of the Florida Keys. While in high school together, they were in an American literature class that taught Ernest Hemingway’s works, including The Old Man and The Sea. Sonny referred to Hank as the old man in the sea, and Sonny was playfully called the old man on the land. The nicknames had been used between the two men for thirty-five years.

Sonny noticed the empty cup in Hank’s hand. “I see you got a serving of my missus’s new concoction. Could you taste the secret ingredient?”

Hank was puzzled because he thought he could identify the fruit and even the hint of vanilla from the protein powder. “Which one?”

“Conch, naturally.”

“Really. I swear I couldn’t taste it.” Conch, which didn’t have a strong flavor, usually left a bit of a salty aftertaste. Its rubbery texture must’ve been obliterated in the blender. “Why would she add conch?”

Sonny laughed and adopted his best Jamaican-islander accent. “Because, mon, it makes you strong, if you know what I mean.” Sonny made a fist and rammed it into his hand several times.

Hank shook his head and rolled his eyes. His friends, family, and pretty much anybody who knew him personally had encouraged him to make lady friends. Perhaps, they suggested, find time to go on a date. Or, at worst, enter into one of those friends with benefits relationships.

He wasn’t interested. Nobody could ever replace his wife, and he was certain he’d constantly be comparing his new relationship to the one he’d had with her. Yet it was human nature to have companionship, and he supposed it was inevitable that the right person would come along at some point. In the meantime, he had Driftwood Key and all that came with it.

“Yeah, yeah. Whatever. Say, Sonny, you wanna install the thatch roof on the new massage gazebo today? We’re gonna have a full house this weekend, and I’d like to set up a second spa area for the guests.”

“Sounds like a plan. After lunch? It won’t take long.”

“I’ll find you,” replied Hank as he entered the open foyer.

Most times of the year, the windows and doors to the main house remained open. Some seasons were buggier than others, and of course, inclement weather caused the staff to batten down the hatches, as they say. Occasionally, a wild critter native to the Florida Keys would find itself inside. Many years ago, the Albrights had eliminated the Key Largo cotton mouse population. By taking away its preferred prey, the ringneck snakes that inhabited the other keys were no longer around either. Once in a while, a curious marsh rabbit would find its way inside the house or even a wayward sanderling. They were allowed to mill about inside until at some point they’d get hungry and move on. This was life for Hank and every living being that inhabited Driftwood Key. They were like family.

The main house, as Hank called it for lack of a better term, was more of a gathering place for guests as well as the center of the inn’s administration functions. His bedroom was upstairs, overlooking the gulf-side beach, while family guest rooms were located on the south side of the building, facing the Atlantic. Downstairs, Hank had an office, as did Laura, his reservationist who doubled as a front desk clerk. The formal dining room of the home had been expanded to accommodate up to forty guests. Coupled with a gathering room that included a bar and seating, the main floor was both functional for the business as well as an entertainment hub for guests.

There was one part of the main house off-limits to everyone except a select few. The kitchen. This was Phoebe Free’s domain. She was the ruler of the roost. Phoebe was the chef. Head of procurement. Matron of the housekeeping crew. In essence, she was the grande dame of Driftwood Key. And Hank liked it.

There were a lot of aspects of the inn’s operations that he enjoyed. He was always inserting himself in Sonny’s activities. He led more fishing charters than the boat captain he’d hired to perform the task. Evenings were a genuine pleasure, as he was able to get to know folks from all around the world. Conversations were lively. Drinks were enjoyed. Most nights, Hank went to bed with the pride of another successful day under his belt.

He entered the kitchen. “Phoebe! You’ve done it again. This smoothie was fabulous.”

“Well, I’m glad you approve, Mr. Hank. I thought this would be a better start to your day than eggs, sausage, bacon, biscuits, cholesterol, fat, and artery-clogging goodies.”

“You know I don’t eat that very often,” said Hank. Only a couple of times a week, anyway. His father had died of congestive heart failure, and everyone who loved Hank vowed to save him from the same fate. “By the way, the secret ingredient is really not necessary.”

Phoebe turned her body slightly to conceal the kitchen counter where she’d been working. She blushed as she sneakily slid an emptied conch shell and its contents behind her back.

“Whatsoever do you mean, Mr. Hank?” she tried to say with a straight face.

“Sonny ratted you out. I couldn’t taste it, but I know what you’re up to.”

Phoebe scowled and glanced toward the open window that overlooked the front porch. If she’d caught a glimpse of her husband, she might’ve slung a butcher knife at him. “My ingredients and recipes are none of your concern, Mr. Hank. It’s just, well, Laura said a nice group of ladies, sisters actually, are coming in for the week today, and I just thought …” Her voice trailed off before she revealed her true intentions.

Hank set the cup and straw in the sink and rinsed off his hands. He dried them on a dish towel and folded it as he addressed Phoebe. “I know about the reservation, and I know nothing about the guests except they are all female.”

“One is a VIP,” added Phoebe. “I’ve been planning several special meals for the week.”

“We get lots of VIPs. I