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Authors: Jessica Fletcher
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are chronically late are simply attention seekers; others are always waiting anxiously for the “arrival,” or hovering around a tardy person whose slowness keeps a group from leaving.
That’s why I was upset with myself when I arrived late for my dinner reservation at Diamond Reef. Just ten minutes late, but late is late. My excuse was that the navy blue blazer I’d chosen to wear with an aquamarine-and-white sheath was lacking a button, which I discovered on my way out the door. Ordinarily, I would have checked the evening’s wardrobe well in advance. But as had become a pattern since arriving on St. Thomas, I’d fallen asleep on the terrace while reading and awoke with a start. I obviously needed an alarm clock on the terrace more than in the bedroom.
“Good evening,” a petite young black woman with a cameo face asked as I stepped up to the restaurant’s podium.
“I’m Mrs. Fletcher. I’m a few minutes late. My reservation was for eight.”
She anxiously glanced down at the reservation book, looked at me and smiled, then scanned the book more hurriedly.
“Is there a problem?” I asked.
“Yes, there appears to be.” Her voice said she was nervous. First day on a new job? “Mrs. Fletcher has already arrived,” she said.
“Really?” I couldn’t help but smile.
“What I mean is that Mrs. Fletcher has already—” She pointed to a table set for two in a far corner of the large, nautically appointed room, where a young woman perused a menu.
“Well,” I said, “there obviously are two Mrs. Fletchers dining here this evening.”
“I’m afraid we don’t have—” She was interrupted by a man with skin the color of ink. He carried his white tuxedo with an air of royalty, his handsomely sculpted head held at a slight angle that gave the impression he questioned everything, and everyone. “Is there a problem?” he asked in a deep voice that did not clash with his physical bearing.
The young woman, whose nerves were now very much on edge, explained the situation.
“I see,” the man said. He surveyed the dining room. Every table was taken, with the exception of a few large ones set for six and eight persons. “Unfortunately, we have only tables reserved for large parties,” he said. “Would you be averse to sharing the table with your namesake?”
It wasn’t what I had in mind, and I thought about returning to the inn for a solitary dinner. “I think you’d better ask the other Fletcher how she would feel about that,” I said.
The maitre d’ strode across the room, conferred with the woman, looked back at me, and motioned. The hostess escorted me to the table. “Mrs. Fletcher, meet Mrs. Fletcher,” the maitre d’ said. We smiled at each other and shook hands. There was a look of recognition on her face. “The Jessica Fletcher?” she said.
“C’est moi,” I said, out of character. I wasn’t very good in situations in which I was recognized and usually said something silly when confronted with them. Like using a foreign phrase. I never end a conversation with “Ciao.”
“I thought it was you standing there,” the younger woman said. The maître d’ held out my chair.
“I hope you don’t mind my joining you,” I said. “There was a mix-up. Having the same name and all.”
She introduced herself as Jennifer Fletcher. Even the same first initial, I thought. “There is a difference between us,” she said. “You’re Mrs. Fletcher. Afraid I’m a Ms.”
I smiled. “Actually, I am, too. My husband is deceased, but I carry my Mrs. designation. You’re allowed to do that, I’m told.”
“I would hope so,” she said.
Jennifer Fletcher had sun-washed shoulder-length blond hair, a tan that was copper in tone, and a dusting of freckles on her cheeks. A pretty young woman, wholesome and nicely chiseled. At first glance I’d pegged her to be in her late twenties. But closer up I reevaluated. Thirty-five, I guessed. A girlish thirty-five. I assumed she was tall,
That’s why I was upset with myself when I arrived late for my dinner reservation at Diamond Reef. Just ten minutes late, but late is late. My excuse was that the navy blue blazer I’d chosen to wear with an aquamarine-and-white sheath was lacking a button, which I discovered on my way out the door. Ordinarily, I would have checked the evening’s wardrobe well in advance. But as had become a pattern since arriving on St. Thomas, I’d fallen asleep on the terrace while reading and awoke with a start. I obviously needed an alarm clock on the terrace more than in the bedroom.
“Good evening,” a petite young black woman with a cameo face asked as I stepped up to the restaurant’s podium.
“I’m Mrs. Fletcher. I’m a few minutes late. My reservation was for eight.”
She anxiously glanced down at the reservation book, looked at me and smiled, then scanned the book more hurriedly.
“Is there a problem?” I asked.
“Yes, there appears to be.” Her voice said she was nervous. First day on a new job? “Mrs. Fletcher has already arrived,” she said.
“Really?” I couldn’t help but smile.
“What I mean is that Mrs. Fletcher has already—” She pointed to a table set for two in a far corner of the large, nautically appointed room, where a young woman perused a menu.
“Well,” I said, “there obviously are two Mrs. Fletchers dining here this evening.”
“I’m afraid we don’t have—” She was interrupted by a man with skin the color of ink. He carried his white tuxedo with an air of royalty, his handsomely sculpted head held at a slight angle that gave the impression he questioned everything, and everyone. “Is there a problem?” he asked in a deep voice that did not clash with his physical bearing.
The young woman, whose nerves were now very much on edge, explained the situation.
“I see,” the man said. He surveyed the dining room. Every table was taken, with the exception of a few large ones set for six and eight persons. “Unfortunately, we have only tables reserved for large parties,” he said. “Would you be averse to sharing the table with your namesake?”
It wasn’t what I had in mind, and I thought about returning to the inn for a solitary dinner. “I think you’d better ask the other Fletcher how she would feel about that,” I said.
The maitre d’ strode across the room, conferred with the woman, looked back at me, and motioned. The hostess escorted me to the table. “Mrs. Fletcher, meet Mrs. Fletcher,” the maitre d’ said. We smiled at each other and shook hands. There was a look of recognition on her face. “The Jessica Fletcher?” she said.
“C’est moi,” I said, out of character. I wasn’t very good in situations in which I was recognized and usually said something silly when confronted with them. Like using a foreign phrase. I never end a conversation with “Ciao.”
“I thought it was you standing there,” the younger woman said. The maître d’ held out my chair.
“I hope you don’t mind my joining you,” I said. “There was a mix-up. Having the same name and all.”
She introduced herself as Jennifer Fletcher. Even the same first initial, I thought. “There is a difference between us,” she said. “You’re Mrs. Fletcher. Afraid I’m a Ms.”
I smiled. “Actually, I am, too. My husband is deceased, but I carry my Mrs. designation. You’re allowed to do that, I’m told.”
“I would hope so,” she said.
Jennifer Fletcher had sun-washed shoulder-length blond hair, a tan that was copper in tone, and a dusting of freckles on her cheeks. A pretty young woman, wholesome and nicely chiseled. At first glance I’d pegged her to be in her late twenties. But closer up I reevaluated. Thirty-five, I guessed. A girlish thirty-five. I assumed she was tall,
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