CHAPTER FOURTY-FOUR ~ OPERATION: COOKIE CUTTER ~ by B.A. Linhares

The next morning, I get up about seven, shower and dress for the day. I slip outside the sliding glass doors, and prop my feet up on the railing. A brilliant sun is rising over Cinderella’s Castle. There are already lots of guest and cast members moving around. I figure I’ll write in my journal until Pop gets up. I turn to a fresh page and write. After the “Spirit of Aloha Polynesian Luau” featuring hunky Samoan dancers that throw flaming sticks at each other—it freaked the guests out when one guy caught his grass skirt on fire on purpose. I enjoyed my favorite dessert, chocolate mousse. Then Pop and I traversed the grounds and on a whip, hop on a Monorail. As we spin around the manmade waterway and the Disney World fireworks light up the sky. We decide to check out the other stops, and Pop wanted to see like, the hundred or so restaurants and spoke to as many chefs and cook he could find. About midnight, we fell into bed both exhausted from so much excitement.

I hear the shower on and when Pop comes out we both say, “I’m famished.” During the unbelievably decadent buffet breakfast at the Poly, I take out the brochures and we attempt to plan our day. After several minuets of studying our options, I chew on fresh pineapple chunks and shake my head. “No can do. It’s overwhelming. There are too many places to choose from.” I slide the colorful map and leaflets at Pop. “You pick.”

He looks thumbs through a few and then at me over his coffee cup. “Well, I can’t decide. They all look like fun.”

By the time valet guy brings the SUV around, Pop is sweating. “What say we go forgo the theme parks until sundown? May I suggest we go sightseeing in Orlando area?”

“Okay by me.” I go along thinking about my future move to Florida. I need to see what this town has to offer. And so, for about two hours we drive up and down I-4 jumping on and off here and there, shopping the different name brand outlets. “I can’t believe it. You can buy any thing here and it’s half of what we’d pay in DC.” I could cry, I never enjoyed shopping so much.” I feel like Eva Gabor and sing to the tune of Green Acres as we store designer bags in the back of the SUV. “Forget Manhattan, International Drive is the place to be!” I climb into the passenger seat and Pop fires up the engine. The AC blows full blast as we buckle up. Of which he is thankful for. I snap my fingers. “To the Millenia Mall…drive James!”

Before backing out, Pop lowers his new Oakley shades—the price tag is still attached to the arm—and consults the time on the dash. “Yes, my lady however it is noontime, shall we dine with the peasants before we depart for yon mall? And if so, would it please your highness to feast someplace wickedly fattening?”

I pat his hand. “Oh, yes, my dear chauffer that sounds like a divine idea.”

“Oh, goodie,” —he claps his hand and wiggles in the driver’s seat making the SUV rock— “there are more restaurants around here than you can shake a stick at them…all.”

I look over at him.

“What?”

“You butchered that saying big time.”

Pop takes off and I lay my head back and listen to the Rage music on the radio. I daydream about life in general when I should be paying attention to the signs. I am the co-pilot here. After about fifteen minuets, Pop mumbles, “I think I messed up.”

I sit forward and look around as we pass a sign that says to Daytona Beach. I quickly consult the map. “Uh, Pop, you went east instead of west.”

“No worries,” he says, taking the next exit. “We’re on an adventure. Let’s see where fate takes us.”

“I’m game.” I put the map away and sit back crossing my arm, and prop my feet on the dash. I admire my nicely manicure toes and my tan legs. The special suntan oil has turned my skin a golden brown. Wait until the swim team gets a load of me. I wish I’d been paying attention. I would’ve see Valentine lurking in the shadows of the at the Gucci outlet.

The next two days fly by at Disney and before you know it we’re on our way to Cocoa Beach. We travel the long, straight Beach Highway that cuts across Florida on the way to the east coast. Pop seems to be in the mood to just drive. So, I open my journal and sit back—time to catch up on my writing.

Saturday, September 2: After shopping along Orlando’s International Drive, we got lost and stumbled on the coolest little town called Celebration. After a yummy lunch, at the Town Tavern—to get out of the heat—we take a tour through a model town-home. Our tour-guide tells us, “Celebration is a master-planned community created by the Disney Corporation on Disney-owned real estate”. The little community seems to have everything you need, even a state-of-the-art-theater (whatever that means). Celebration reminds me of a scaled down Georgetown, sans the cemeteries, crime, and traffic jams. I think Celebration is perfectly perfect, it’s like standing in the middle of a movie set. And we killed the rest of today running from one theme park to the next on a Disney Marathon. We ate so much junk food I thought I was going to hurl on the Tea Cup ride. Late in the afternoon, a huge thunderstorm passed over while we were inside the Tree of Life in Disney's Animal Kingdom. The sound of thunder booms and the vibrating the floor enhanced the special effects. I kept wanting to call Josh. We were having so much fun I never got a free moment. Frequently something would remind me of Josh and I’d picture O'Dell in my head, wishing he were here to experience the magic with me. Such as…when I saw the adorable little boy with big brown eyes in the Main Street souvenir store. He was wearing a Mickey Mouse ears cap with the ‘Josh’ embroidered across the back (synchronicity at play). Of course I couldn’t resist buying my Josh some ears too. I can’t wait to see his face when I hand them to him...he’s gonna freak!

I pause. Did I say, my Josh? I glance out the windshield to see where we are. Pine, palm trees, palmetto brush. “The landscape looks almost prehistoric.” I look at Pop. “How much longer?”

“We should be at the hotel in about…” he takes his hand off the steering wheel and consults his wristwatch. “Forty-five minuets.”

I go back to my writing while the info is fresh in my head and there is really nothing to see here. Sunday, September 3: On our way to Cocoa Beach, we stopped for breakfast at a mom and pop on the outskirts of Orlando. The food actually tasted better there than anything we ate at Disney. There were was a flock of seagulls swooping down in the parking lot eating whatever, sixty miles inland from the ocean. I am such a tourist. Anyway, the weather couldn’t be more perfect, in my opinion. Pop is struggling with the humidity I actually like it. I can’t put my finger on it yet, but there’s something about Florida that is calling my name. It might be that it’s time for a fresh start. I wonder if I have the guts to move here by myself. It’s only a two hour flight to D.C.—I could fly back home any time I want. Realistically…it would be years before I could afford to move out of D.C. Or would it? I do have a job now helping Pop with his catering business...I could save for the rest of the year... I could live here, no problem!

I lower my window and breathe in the balmy air. “Hmmm... I’m getting used to the “gaud awful humidity” everyone grumbles about.”

“Central Florida is too touristy!” Pop says, pushing the button on his armrest that rolls up my window.

I frown. “I think Florida rocks.”

“Living in Orlando might be fun for someone your age...personally...I think it would feel like being at the circus twenty-four-seven.”

“Okay, not necessarily Orlando. Gainesville has a great college.”

He gives me a quizzical look.

There’s no reason to discuss my moving here, just yet. I change the subject. “Pop, we never discussed the going rate for catering assistants.”

“Are you asking how much I plan to pay you?”

I chew on the end of my pen and nod my head.

“Fifteen bucks an hour…sound fair?”

“Yes sir, that sounds completely fair!”

“I pay overtime pay if you work over eight hours.”

Yes!

We turn right on A1A and enter the lively city of Cocoa Beach. The two gaudy mammoth Ron Jon's Surf Shop buildings come into view on the left side of the street—a sight to behold! The two-story high buildings were made to look like turquoise and orange sandcastles. Bigger than life sand statues of waves with surfers, skaters, and volleyball players line the front along Atlantic Avenue, and glitters in the sunlight. As we roll by, I squeal with delight. “Pull in!” I shout and almost jump out of the SUV.

Pop grabs my arm, laughing. I guess he thought I was going to actually jump out of the window.

“Hold your horses love. Let’s go to the Hotel first.”

“Okay.” I crane my neck to see my Mecca and flash back to the Washington Zoo. I missed seeing the monkeys because of bad planning. I segue to Mom and the cage dream. A funky mood is ruining my good mood. I block the image. I can’t think about that right now. I say, “But what if they close early?”

Pop looks surprised. “Of all people I thought you’d know that Ron Jon's Surf Shop is open twenty-four-seven.”

 “Oh yeah. I forgot.” I smile wide.

Right after checking in to the Comfort Inn, a very modest hotel compared to the Poly, we drop our bags on the twin beds and quickly change into our swimsuits, taking turns in the small bathroom. Pop knows I can’t wait to hit the beach and visit Ron Jon’s. I tie a white sarong around my hips and pack my beach bag and a small drink cooler decorated with pink Palm trees. I bought it along with several sweatshirts at the many gift shops in Disney’s Floridian Hotel. I dawn my big floppy straw hat, grab a couple of bath towels out of the bathroom, and carry my beach bag over my shoulder. We lock up, and stop at an ice machine to buy cold drinks and snacks out of the vending machines. Pop carries the cooler on his shoulder and we take the hotel’s back stairs to cement sideway that skirts by a small rectangular hotel pool full of screaming kids. We cut across a wide patch of grass serving as a putt-putt golf course and in need of water and repair. It’s hidden behind a wall made of cement block. I assume to prevent a stray golf ball from landing in the pool or whacking a guest on the head. Surprise, nobody is playing. A sandy path lined with whimsical sea oats takes us down to the beautiful white beach. The wind is wicked. Our hats fly off as we set up our things out on the Adirondack-type beach chairs ‘provided for paying guest only’ as stamped on each seat. Pop runs after our hats and I practically sprint to the famous Ron Jon's Surf Shop located just up from the beach and two blocks from our spot behind our hotel. I pause to take in the Atlantic Ocean that stretches as far as the eye can see. Sea birds swoop through the air overhead, landing on the wet sand until a wave nips as their delicate stick-like legs. Then they take off like tiny planes only to repeat the maneuver over and over again. Pop catches up with me just inside the door and hands me my straw hat. I stop on a wide staircase, trying to take in everything.

“What’s wrong?”

“I can’t decide where I want to look first.”

“Take your time love.” He passes me his credit card. “I know you’ve been waiting all of your life to come here.”

“Thanks Pop!”

For a good hour, I wander through endless rows of display shelves and turning racks filled with cool Ron Jon paraphernalia. I’m in my element. I try on numerous bikinis and decide the red one I bought at Disney will do. I pick out colorful tee shirts for me and friends back home and some postcards with surfers and sunsets. After I pay for my armload, I search for Pop. He’s nowhere to be found. He probably figured I’d be shopping for hours and headed back down to the beach for a snooze. I hoof it over to our spot with my purchases and let out a shrill scream that is probably heard back in D.C.

Pop is standing in the sand smiling like a Cheshire cat and holding a brand new surfboard under his arm.

“Oh my Gosh! Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!” I jump around doing the happy dance as I rip off my cover-up and throw my visor and beach bag on the towel. People are staring at us as if we’re crazy.

He passes it to me and says, “Let’s see what you are made of girlie.”

I carry my new surfboard tucked under my arm like a pro and dash across the hot sand toward the water. I feel like singing the hills are alive. as warm wind whips my hair wildly across my back and brown shoulders. I recall when I washed and blew-dry my auburn hair this morning, I noticed it was sun-bleached with gold and copper streaks. I enter the ocean, lift my long tawny legs, gracefully hurtling the white caps. Every few feet, I step on a sharp little sea shell and wince. The Jaws movie comes to mind as a big wave crests and breaks in front of me. There aren’t any sharks. I drape my arm over my board, bend my knees, and tuck my head down, letting the waves crash above me. When the water reaches my chest, I dive deep. Surfacing, I feel the strong undertow that they warn you about, drag on my legs, trying to pull me out to sea. I respect it and remember that you don’t fight it, swim horizontally to the shore. I hoist my body out of the water and stretch out on my new surfboard feeling as if I died and went to heaven. I glance over my shoulder and see Pop sitting on beach chair under a big umbrella, watching me proudly from his safe comfortable roost. He gestures with his hand at the male surfers checking me out. One with long blonde hair paddles close by, smiling at me. He nods hello and says, “Majorly valid waves braking. Catch some rides.”

“Yeah.” I nod, trying to relax. This is a rush.

He paddles out to catch a wave just about to break. I feel a little bit intimidated watching him and the other surfers. They live here and do this everyday.

“Nice foamies break-en eh...” surfer dude calls as he flies by squatting one hand up and the other gripping the nose of his board. He whips around doing a 360 then totally wipes-out. I shouldn’t, but I turn my head and laugh. At least I’m learning the lingo. I study the next few breakers carefully then imitate the other surfers moves. I can do this!

I lay flat and paddle hard to catch the next wave. “Here goes nothing,” I say to my surfboard. Just as it breaks, I hop up and steady my legs. I get a decent ride. The wave wasn’t very big. When it flattens out, I hop off, place my flat hand on the surfboard, adjust my bikini and glance over my shoulder. Pop holds up a thumb and smiles. I smile broadly. When I win at competition or ski down a difficult slope, he always says you are just like your mum—a true athlete. Or so I thought. I catch the next few sets. ride them to the shore. I’m loving life until I get cocky.

I paddle a little further out with the boys and straddle my board waiting for the next set. One of them yells, “Looks like a doozie. Three waves building. Dude! Probably become the biggest set of the day.”

I swallow hard. I’m committed. I follow suit, but stand up too soon and wobble side to side. I steady my legs and raise my arm to wave at Pop as the second wave breaks. In the corner of my eye I see several surfers rushing to catch the curl. Without warning, I’m knocked clean off the surfboard. Just as I find my footing on the ocean floor, an enormous wave slams me in the gut, lifts up my bikini top and flips me backwards. Underwater, I struggle to get my bearings, afraid my bare chest is exposed. I’m a strong swimmer, but the pull of the undertow is new to me. I dig my toes in the sand and stick my head out of the water as one of the surfers glides nearby yelling, “Whoa Gidget...you got drilled...you okay?”

I wave and turn my back to him and the other surfers. Squatting below the surface, I tug at my bikini top, sharp shells digging into my knees as yet another wave rolls over me. Luckily it’s smaller. I tie the stings in a double knot then to prove I'm no rookie pop out of the water like a dolphin and swim about twenty feet to retrieve my floating surfboard. Nevertheless, to avoid further disgrace and embarrassment, I decide to take a break. Besides the gashes in my knees could attract sharks.

“Nice,” Pop says, throwing me a towel. “You look like a pro.”

“Yeah,” I say patting my skin dry, “a vision of grace and elegance. Did you witness my wipeout?”

“Pisha, that’s expected. It’s your first try at riding the wild surf. In my opinion you were riding as well as those other lads.”

“So I looked pretty good out there?” I ask, wrapping a hotel towel around my shoulders.

“Yes... Lassie, I’d say in just under an hour, you mastered the art of surfboarding.” His gaze drops to my knees. “You did wipe out pretty bad though and that cut on your knee looks painful.”

I look down. “Oh my gosh.” I plop down on the other beach chair and blow on my poor knees. Both have strawberries and my left knee is bleeding, a little. Any sport has its injuries. “At least in the water I didn’t smack my noggin like I did snow skiing.”

Pop looks up at the cloudless blue sky and then at me. He looks thoughtful and a little sad. “Oh!” he says chuckling. “Now that was quite a wipeout!” Tears well up in his eyes and I feel my emotions letting go. “For a spell, you scared us all, especially your Mum. I told her not to worry, you’re a touch Cookie.” Pop forces a laugh then clears his throat. He closes the umbrella, and stretches out on his beach chair. “Excuse me while I catch some rays.”

I can see right though Pop’s jovial façade, he’s missing Mom big time. He’d give anything to have her here with him––so would I. I smile at him, and then sit back and stare off at nothing. The memories of that day in Austria play out in slow motion before my eyes. The vast Atlantic Ocean burrs and becomes a snowy scene, trees flash in my peripheral vision. I fall and hear a earsplitting whack. When I open my eyes, I’m lying in the snow. There’s a sharp pain on the side of my head and my face and neck are covered with cold, wet snow. I shiver and pull the beach towel tighter around my shoulders. Now Pop and I are in the Alpine Chalet Resort’s lobby walking to elevator. The old man gets in, he winks at me and the blood-red-heart-shaped birthmark bobs up and down above his eyebrow. I clench my jaws to stifle another shudder as a cold finger touches the base of my spine. I shake off the vivid vision and blink back to the beach. I refuse to think about him, I’m having too much fun. I turn my head and look at Pop all stretched out on the beach chair, wearing baggy blue swim trunks and a white loose fitting panama shirt. I’ll remember this vacation for my life! This place is incredible!

Pop shifts to his stomach and looks at me. “You are my amazing daughter … Are you okay love?”

“What, yes, sorry.” I shake my head and blink back to Cocoa Beach. “I was just spacing. Taking in the view.”

“It is delightful.” Pop tucks his hands behind his head and looks intently at a large yacht and Cruse liner are on the horizon. “Wonder what it’d be like to work on one of those big Ocean liners.”

“Don’t know. I think it’d be too touristy.”

After a moment Pop goes on, “I know I say this a lot, but I was just thinking that you remind me of the way your Mom was—especially now that you are older.” Pop closes his eyes.

“And.”

Pop drops his hands letting them fall on the sugary sand, digging into the warm grains. “Well,” he says opening his big green eyes. “when we first started dating, your mum always tried to take charge. It was like an animal instinct she had. In many ways you’ve taken charge of your life this year.”

“I have?”

“Ah, before I know it you will want to be on your own.”

“Don’t kick me out of the nest too fast…okay?”

“God in heaven...if only Eva could be here to see how our beautiful baby girl has grown up to be such a remarkable young woman.”

It’s as if he didn’t hear me. I feel my throat tighten as childish grudges boils up to the surface. While Mom was off gallivanting all over the world on one of her so called ‘assignments’, Pop and I would do fun things together—just the two of us. I’ll bet Mom was MIA for at least eighty percent of my childhood. I hate that she missed most of my childhood.

Are you saying that you don’t want her to be alive?

Seriously, how are things different now that…? I refuse to spoil a second of our best trip ever. I settle back in my beach chair and blow out a few cleansing breaths.

Pop swipes at his eyes with his hands. “Look at me getting all weepy like a willow tree.”

“It’s all good,” I squeak out, forcing a smile as I slide on my shades. We stare out at the ocean in silence. Up until now, Pop and I have avoided talking about Mom, or her case, during our Florida vaca. Pop laughs to himself. Afraid he read my thoughts I don’t turn my head and look at him. “What’s so funny?”

“You know what I think?”

“What?”

“That it feels like we’re on the lam, hiding out from Fredrik Koshechka.”

No, it feels almost like the way it was before it all happened. I take out my cell phone and check for messages. None. I haven’t even called Josh again. He could call me. I drop into my beach bag and close my eyes. The sound of the waves is like a mother’s lullaby and the warm sunrays feel wonderful on my sore muscles and the salt water is supposed to me a great for healing boo-boos.

“Cookie,” Pop says my name and chuckles softly. “You asleep?”

I narrow my eyes at him and shake my head side to side. “No, just chilling. Surfing was awesome but tiring.” Pop picks up my big straw hat, lays it over his face, and locks his hands on top of his sizeable belly. “Talk to me.”

 “Well, I was just remembering the day you were born. How your nickname just popped into my head when I looked at you.”

“Yeah,” I snort. “It stuck like glue.” “You told me that on the day I was born you paced the floor until the nurse came out and handed me over to you,” I say, sleepily repeating the story I’ve heard my whole life. “Your heart leapt with love. I’ll never forgot that…leap with love part.”

“It really did leap. Right in my chest. Your mum wanted to name you after her grandmother Margaret.”

The mention of my grandmother brings to mind the article in the Georgetowner that Josh and I found while researching at the Library of Congress. Okay, now I’m wide-awake. I turn on my side. Pop looks relaxed and happy. Hum, this might be the right time to discuss a few facts with Pop regarding Mom’s relatives. We briefly talked about what we found out, but that was with Ivan and Josh in the room. I want to see if Pop is keeping anything from me.

“As you know, I chose Suzanne as you middle name. I liked the way Suzanne sounded with Margaret.” He flips over on his stomach, balling up a towel under his head. Raising up on his elbows, and using his strong Irish accent he says, “At your christening I held you up and said it gives me great pleasure to introduce, Margaret Suzanne of the Blakely clan.”

“Ha-ha. Margaret Suzanne almost sounds alien to me. I like just plain old Cookie Blakely. I use my real name so rarely, like, when I have to sign something important.”

My skin is tingling from the intense sun and salt water. Antsy, I sit up and glance around. The other surfers have left although the beach is still crowed with summer vacationers. Pop lifts my hat off his face, and sets it on my head. “So, we know that before the CIA changed her name to Marie Sheahan, are we certain Mom’s mother was Margaret Artamonov?”

Pop sits up too, adjusting the back of his chair to an upright position. “It’s possible. The roll-top desk is a major clue. Cold Drink?”

“Yes.”

He reaches into the cooler and grabs two Pepsis, passing me one then sits back, crossing his feet at the ankles. I take a sip and look down at my sandy feet, flexing my ankles. My pedicure is looking a little worse for the wear. I brush off sand particles on my poor knees. Ooh yeah, they’re trashed. I raise my arms. “I’m getting a little tad red. I’d better slather on some sun screen.”

 “Ah...my child is like my dear mother, blessed with a peaches-and-cream complexion and the perfect amount of angel kisses across your perky little nose.” Pop calls freckles ‘angel kisses’.

“Which I loathe!” I say, dabbing lotion on my ‘perky little nose’. I stretch out my tan legs, rubbing lotion on my thighs and tanned flat belly. I think I’ve acquired a nice healthy glow.” When I’m done I hold the bottle at Pop. “You want some on your back?”

Waving a clenched fist in the air, Pop’s head rises up as he proudly declares, “That stuff’s for sissies!” (in his strongest Irish accent) “Any one with a drop of the Blakely blood be strong of spirit and of might!”

“True enough.” I shrug a shoulder and drop the bottle in my bag. “At seventy, Great-Grandma Blakely can still swing an ax like a lumber jack.” I stretch out and evaluate the surfers and body surfers catching the waves breaking on the shore. “By way of a strong will and an optimistic outlook, one will always flourish! They sort of sound like something you’d get in a fortune cookie.”

Pop grunts a question mark.

“The words on the little needlepoint pillow Maimeó made when she was young and gave me when we went to Ireland for the Blakely reunion. I have it on my window seat so I read those words every day. I think they’re finally sinking in to my thick skull.” I consider my heritage and wipe the grit and lotion off my hands onto the edges of my towel, and then inspect my fingernails and the damage they experience from the rough surfs sandpaper effect. “Strange how different cults have so many peculiar sayings. Pop?” I say quietly, my hand caressing my new surfboard lying in sand next to me.”

Pop snores softly.

Here I’m rattling on and he’s snoozing. I close my eyes and try to lay still. In my head I hear my voice as a little girl: Poppy please let me at least try an intermediate slope! The beginner slope is for babies, I’m eight! I feel my body tremble as if chilled, but it’s hot out, at least ninety degrees. Focus on the distant sounds of seagulls shrieking, children laughing, and waves crashing are like music to my ears. I hear Pop shifting to his back and look over. “Pop?”

“Yes?” he murmurs groggily.

“Thanks again for my new surfboard, I love it, and I love you.”

“Ah...you’re welcome sweetheart. I love you too.” Pop opens one eye and checks his wristwatch. “Ivan should be flying into Patrick Air Force Base about now.”

I picture Ivan. “Wonder if we’ll hear good news or bad news.”

“Either way, we’ll deal with what ever comes our way…as a family.”

“Right.” Fredrik Koshechka’s face flashes in front of my eyes. You don’t scare me! Steadying my voice I say, “I guess I have always been stubborn, right Pop?”

He chuckles. “Who you…obstinate? Never! You’re not a patsy, that’s for sure.”

I decide to change the subject. “Hey Pop…why don’t you try surfing?” I ask, knowing he would never take me up on it. “It’s easy!”

His laughter turns into a soft snore.

Too wound up to rest, I sit up and look down at my beautiful new surfboard lying in the white sand. Pop shifts his weight and I think he’s awake. He’s sound asleep. Laughing I look over at him stretched out like a beached whale and gasp. He’s starting to sunburn. I hover over him and whisper, “Um, Pop, you’re looking a little red you really should put on some sun screen.” Should I wake him, or is it too late? I press my finger gently on the skin on his shoulder. It turns white and then bright rid. I’d warned him about the Florida sun burning his lily-white Irish skin. I open the big beach umbrella and whisper, “I’m taking a stroll.”

He bought cheap sun block at the drug store, but thinking himself a macho-man, refused the protection. Now he looks like a huge lobster sprawled in the white chair. Oh well, the damage is done. Pop complained that I paid too much for the after sun lotion, but now I think he’ll be glad I bought it. I shade my eyes and gaze at the row of hotels behind us just as the setting sun drops behind a high-rise condominium, ultimately bathing our section of the beach in its cool shade. “There’s always something to be thankful for.” Another Blakely saying. I mosey down to the shore, collecting seashells along the way, loving life.

Fredrik Koshechka hides in the shadow of the wall next to the putt-putt golf and raises his high-powered binoculars to his eyes. He spots a beautiful girl in a red bikini strolling on the edge of the ocean. The wind whips her long red hair from her face and reveals to him that it is indeed Cookie Blakely. He takes out his camera, adjust the lens and fires off a dozen or so photographs. “These should convince Agent Eva that her daughter is happy and healthy and persuade her to return to Russia’s guard.” He travels past the pool and enters his hotel room, three doors down from the Blakely’s. He bolts the door and presses his home number on his cell phone. He is amazed by technology and how perfectly clear wife’s frantic voice sounds. She speaks in Russian. “Hello? Freddy? Where are you?”

“Cocoa Beach, Florida. You should see this place.”

Pop hobbles down to the shoreline and joins me. “Hey, you ready to call it a day?”

“Yeah, I’m starving!”

We gather out things and trot back across the soft warm sand. I have my board tucked under my arm. I pause and glace over my shoulder at the beautiful dangerous ocean. Blonde surfer dude waves at me and I raise my hand in a peace sign.

Pop follows my gaze. “I can’t believe he’s still out there.”

“Yeah. Man, he’s a total diehard!”

Pop cringes. “Oh! WIPE OUT!