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Claudette

Claudette’s nine inch heels wobbled on the gravel as she carried the bag of wigs from the boat on the small private dock to the big beach house up the winding palm tree lined path. “Would have been nice to know we were going to a crawdad boil in a shrimp bucket.” She thought to herself. What she meant was that tonight was going to be a big show on a small stage. Claudette had arrived to do hair, makeup, and to get the can-can dancers ready for the charity balls’ big entertainment. Beatriz Sandoval was a local millionaire and philanthropist and somehow made her private island off the cost of Cuba look quaint.

The sun was out and the heat glimmered along the horizon. Claudette dreaded trying to get all the girls’ makeup to stay on. In a borrowed a pair of cheap foam flip flops Claudette walked back to the boat for a second trip. She looked out over the water, spoondrift sparkles wafting off the small gentle waves, and asked herself, “How did I get here?” She briefly recalled the classified ad she responded to a few weeks ago. “Who knew I was answering the call of adventure?” She smirked to herself. Claudette talked to herself a lot and was never really bored in her own company. Claudette’s full of life silky chocolate hair glistened in the bright orange light of the late afternoon tropical sun. She hoisted up two more bags, one filled with shoes and the other candystriped tafata tutus and bloomers. “It’s going to be a long, hot, and entertaining night!” She laughed and quietly started humming the classic can-can tune up the road smiling as a butterfly floated by.

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