[h2][b][center][color=ed145b]Taryn Rogers[/color][/center][/b][/h2]

She overheard it a few times. the old-timers, Americans of course, remarked amidst chuckles that the image of Taryn being chauffeured around Isla Zafrio whether on the water by dinghy or on land by cart, sitting with her usual proper posture was reminiscent of some boomer flick, [i]Driving Miss Daisy[/i]. She had never seen the movie and was only vaguely familiar. It was true, she did prefer not to drive around the islands, however that was simply being practical, particularly when she had no other crew onboard. Apparently though, something to do with her favorite straw hat and her rich accent really set it off and this was a regular point of comedy at her expense. In response, she bought an even [i]bigger[/i] hat, bordering on ridiculous, though still not anything she didn’t believe she could pull off and today her genteel countenance was even more upright; more striking than usual. Today she had a plan. Some might even call it a [i]scheme[/i]. She smirked a little bit at the thought and held the brim of the hat over the angle of the evening sun as the dinghy angled happily over the calm waters of the lagoon. They might think her Miss Daisy, but she could give them Scarlett O’Hara. The small craft slid up easily on the soft beach and she daintily hopped over the side, thanking her driver in English. [i]Fiddly-dee[/i]. She thought to herself and strode up the beach.  

The sand was still hot underfoot, but it was a short walk into the canopy of palm trees that shaded [i]Pat’s[/i] Bar. She stepped past a few sparse remnants from another lazy day: blankets, coolers and a couple deck chairs, most occupied by Pat’s regulars that were easily twice her age, minimum. The urge to scoff was right beneath the unamused glance she wore behind large-framed sunglasses and was her usual expression whenever she had anything to do with the bar. Still being an American citizen, [i]Pat’s[/i] made her presence something of an enigma. On paper, she was more American than anyone in there and it was a matter of fact that she liked to remind them; making her feel superior to mock those that had, as she called it, “[i]pulled the ripcord[/i]” on America. She had about a dozen or so pointed jabs that they found about as amusing as she did being called, “[i]Miss Daisy[/i]”. As she stepped through the corridor, [url=https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ob4cgakHwsQ]music[/url] played softly from weathered speakers and the scent of American-styled grilled food truly did smell fantastic. They could at least cook, though her lip curled a bit at the sound of Stevie Nicks' raspy voice. These people would listen to the same fifty songs until they croaked. She found the bar unattended, which wasn’t unusual. No one really “worked” at Pat’s.    

“Oh, hi Taryn…” A voice welcomed, stepping from behind a bamboo partition. 

“[color=ed145b]Hello,[/color]” Taryn replied, cordially enough and somewhat disarmed. She recognized the calm and cheerful voice of Dana MacDonald as she slid her sunglasses away. Like Taryn, she was only wearing a tank top and shorts. Everyone’s clothing was in some way beaten or faded by the ever-present blast of the sun.  

“Nice hat.” Dana said with a smile somewhere between knowing the joke on both sides and being welcoming all at once. The woman was genuinely too nice and Taryn felt herself having to relax. She wished she had a mother with as much simple class.  

“[color=ed145b]Thank you… is Cori here?[/color]” Taryn asked, getting to the point. She could see the slight look of surprise come across the other woman. Cordelia “Cori” Flores was one of the few dual citizens, but a Flores first and not exactly a regular patron for any reason.

“Haven’t seen her,” Dana replied with a shrug. “Can I get you something?”

 “[color=ed145b]Just cerveza,[/color]” Taryn said, looking around. “[color=ed145b]I’ll sit out back and wait for her.[/color]”

Dana pulled a bottle of Sol from an icebox behind the counter. “Are you gonna come sing with the band this weekend?” She asked casually. The bottle top came away with a quick hiss and she slid it across the worn hardwood. 

“[color=ed145b]I don’t think so.[/color]” Taryn snorted, taking a sip and pretending to be unfazed by the question. It was often asked. 

“It would be more fun if you’re there,” Dana added with a hopeful smile. “The men will appreciate it a lot.” She pulled a bottle out for herself, shaking her head at the thought of the yet unnamed assemblage they called a [i]band[/i].“God knows, they [i]really[/i] need a good alto…”

“[color=ed145b]I’m not singin’ in your hootenanny, Dana.[/color]” It was the nicest tone she could manage, like someone turning down a religious tract.

“It makes them feel young again…” The older woman added gently. 

“[color=ed145b]I bet it does.[/color]”  

“You’ll understand one day…” Dana said with an easy confidence, but let the words trail off, sensing there was no more ground to be gained this time. She did seem to truly care and wanted everyone to get along. Taryn thought she had designs for her son, the pilot, but the chances of that happening were about the same as pigs flying alongside their precious airplane. Taryn gave a polite smile with a shrug and moved back outside to a table in the shade.

[@Almalthia]