Serial Fiction: Mistake 20
As soon as the valet lifted me into the backseat of the Chrysler convertible, I smiled. I had two dollars ready and pressed them into his hand. “Gracias.”
“De nada,” he replied and slipped the bills in his pocket.
I just love the Latin accents down in south Florida. Northern Virginia is home to a huge population of them too. My high school Spanish gets me by.
As we waited at the stop light at the hotel exit, I turned, while petting Norma Jean. “Good-bye wheelchair.” At least that charade was over. I felt like such a fraud. Ashamed. So many wonderful people were imprisoned in wheelchairs for real. In my case, this sham was only necessary to keep Norma Jean safe with me. But still, I felt guilty. An ominous vibe shuddered down my spine. I hate premonitions.