Nuclear Winter First Strike by Bobby Akart (best fiction books of all time .txt) 📗

for the evening meal, the four sisters had arrived, so he’d missed his usual opportunity to greet them. Over dinner and drinks, he was the center of attention as he relayed the history of Driftwood Key and the rest of the archipelago, the only one connected to the continental U.S.

As they waited for dessert, he got to know the sisters at the insistence of Phoebe and pretty much everyone else on the staff. Unsurprisingly, the oldest sister, who was married, took control of the conversation.

“Of course, the baby in the family happens to be the most famous of us all,” she began with a nod and a smile toward her youngest sister at the end of the table. The woman, who was in her late forties, was not familiar to Hank, so he was intrigued.

“Hush, Maggie,” the woman protested. “I’m not famous. Besides, I bet Mr. Albright meets lots of famous people based upon the photographs on the wall.”

Hank shrugged. “We’ve had a few.” He was being modest. Over the nearly hundred years of its existence, the Driftwood Key Inn had hosted notables from Hollywood to Washington.

The youngest sister continued. “I’d be willing to bet Hank doesn’t even know who I am unless he was busy on Google before we arrived.”

Hank laughed at the reference to Google. It seemed to be common practice for people to dig around online to learn all they could about the people they came into contact with, completely incognizant of the fact that others were doing the same to them.

He raised his hand and smiled. “Sorry, I’m not a fan of googling people. In the Keys, we have too many pirates, if you know what I mean.”

Everyone, including an elderly couple who’d arrived that day, laughed. It was Friday night and the first night of Fantasy Fest in Key West, the annual two-week-long celebration of Halloween. Most of the guests had made the forty-five-mile drive to the southernmost point in the U.S. to join in the festivities that evening.

“See, Maggie,” she said with a sneer at her meddling oldest sister. The woman nervously fiddled with her ring finger that no longer held a ring. She made eye contact with Hank. “I’m Erin Bergman.”

Hank nodded and feigned recognition although he had no idea who she was. “Nice to meet you, Erin.”

“She’s the secretary of agriculture,” pointed out her proud sister.

“Oh, of course. Um, I saw you folks listed a Tallahassee address on—”

The overbearing sister interrupted Hank. “No. That was before. Erin is the new United States secretary of agriculture.”

“Okay, sis,” Erin interjected. She appeared embarrassed by her sister’s actions. “We don’t need to bother Mr. Albright with my résumé.”

“Hank, please.”

“Yes, of course.”

Hank studied Erin. She was markedly different from her sisters, especially her oldest one. She had softer features and was more reserved. The conversations at dinner had been dominated by the others. He wasn’t sure if she was shy, unusual for a politician, or perhaps she was dealing with things in her personal life. Hank, despite his continuous protestations to anyone who suggested he find a female companion, suddenly found himself checking for a wedding ring on his new acquaintance.

“Erin, accept my apologies. I don’t really follow politics. I mean, I do when they raise my taxes but otherwise, um, not really. Well, I do vote. Most of the time, anyway.” Hank found himself suddenly nervous. He was usually a very confident host around strangers. This was different.

“I totally understand,” Erin said. “Face it, most Americans have no idea who their secretary of agriculture is unless they’re mad at me or want something.”

The elderly couple roared in laughter at her statement. Somehow, it must’ve struck a nerve with them on a personal level. Hank allowed them to enjoy their laugh, which also managed to force a smile on Erin.

Her oldest sister continued with Erin’s résumé. “After serving as Florida’s Ag secretary and transportation secretary before that, she was only the second woman to be confirmed to the U.S. post. And, I might add, the first from Florida.”

Erin locked eyes with Hank and grimaced. She was embarrassed by the attention. Fortunately for her, she was rescued by Phoebe, who was presenting her signature dessert.

“Honored guests,” she began, causing Hank to cringe. She’d never started like that, making him wonder if she was in cahoots with big sister. “May I present the house specialty dessert—the 1920s Albright key lime pie.”

Two members of the inn’s waitstaff hustled around the table, setting out dessert plates and forks. A third wheeled in a cart holding two delectable key lime pies topped with meringue. She carefully made the first cut with an olivewood-handled pie knife that had been a staple of the inn’s kitchen for nearly forty years. It, like the inn, had withstood the test of time.

Hank explained the name. “Years ago, my grandmother presented my mom with her cookbook. It was a rite of passage that many families experience in the Keys, not unlike the presentation of the family Bible from father to son.

“Her recipe for key lime pie had always been a family favorite, and therefore it was passed down from generation to generation. I must say, Phoebe has perfected it.”

“It’s because of one special secret ingredient,” she interjected.

Hank’s eyes grew wide. He’d never heard of a secret ingredient, and he immediately assumed she was referring to conch. My god, he thought to himself, Phoebe has gone off the rails and is putting conch in every damn thing.

Phoebe began to laugh and patted her boss on the shoulder. She lowered her voice as if she could read his mind. “Relax, Mr. Hank. It’s not what you think.” She made eye contact with the dinner guests before explaining the family recipe. “The recipe is not unlike many others. You know, eggs, condensed milk, sugar, and, naturally, key limes. But here’s the difference. We grow them right here on Driftwood Key, so they have that Florida sun-kissed taste.”

The elderly man asked, “Well, you folks are known for key lime this