The Bridge to Her Heart Chapter 1

 In the first chapter, I introduce Annie, the main character and her story goal. What do you think? If you have any comments, please leave them below. Thanks!

           

            Annie Dingle stood in the dimly-lit hall wearing a white bathrobe over her bathing suit and a towel wrapped around her head. After swimming laps in the hotel pool, she couldn’t wait to shower off the chlorine. Her eyes stung, her head ached, and to top it off, her new shoes were too tight.

            She swiped the key card, but the door didn’t open. She swiped it again. Nothing.

            If she had to go down to the lobby to ask for a new card, her thousands of followers on Youtube would soon learn she’d been locked out of her room in the prestigious Alfonso Rey Hotel.

            “Do you need help?”

            Annie looked up to see Marta, the uniformed housekeeper who had serviced her room earlier. The gray-haired woman spoke English well enough to help Annie figure out the plug adapter to charge her phone. She’d even provided extra towels.

            Annie smiled, relieved to see a friendly face. “My key card doesn’t work.”

            Marta took a master card from her pocket and swiped the lock. “So sorry. I will let the desk know you’re having a problem. They will fix it.”               

            “Gracias.” It was one of the few Spanish words Annie knew.

            Marta still stood in the doorway. “Pretty shoes. Zaffas, heh?”

            Annie glanced down at her fur-lined, neon pink slip-ons. Shiny silver “Z’s” marked the heels. She’d worn them less than half a day, but they pinched her toes.

            She pried off the shoes and held them out to Marta. “They don’t fit. Would you like them?”

            Smiling, the housekeeper thanked Annie and tucked them under her arm. “For my daughter. She loves Zaffa.”

            Annie went to the window and pulled open the drapes. Her room was furnished with elegant antiques. Paintings hung in gilded frames on the brocade wallpapered walls. She felt like a princess sleeping on the four-poster bed. Quite a change from the bunk in the RV she’d been living in for the past two years.

            The bed had been made while she was out and wrapped candies had been left on the pillow. She dropped them in the top bureau drawer. Chocolate was taboo on her paleo diet.

            After disconnecting her phone from the single-pronged charger, she thumbed a tweet: Swam 100 laps in the hotel pool. Way too much chlorine. Nasty headache. Jet lag sucks. #Madrid#ToledoBridge#GetUpGetOutGetMoving#SwimtheStrait.

            The weather app displayed conditions in Tarifa, the town at the southern tip of Spain where she would start her swim across the Strait of Gibraltar. It was windy there today, as usual. Tarifa was the windsurfing capital of the world. Strong winds were ideal for kite-sailors and wind-surfers, but not swimmers. She doubted any of the men and women scheduled to swim the strait today would be given permission. Her swim was scheduled for the last week in October. Fingers crossed, she’d be able to do it.

            She swallowed two ibuprofen pills and headed for the shower. There was a sunken tub in the bathroom as well as a separate glass-enclosed shower, a toilet, a bidet, and a complimentary assortment of fragrant lotions, soaps and shampoos—but no weight scale.

            She showered in her swim suit, an old habit, and was standing at the sink in a sports bra and yoga pants, wringing out her suit, when the Downton Abbey theme played on her phone—her sister’s ringtone.

            Annie hurried back to the bedroom to answer it. “Where are you?”

            “Sorry,” Kate said. “I’m still in Morocco.”

            “Oh, great. My first bridge in Spain, and you’re not here.”

            “I wish I could, but we’re stuck. The part for the engine didn’t arrive.”

            Annie tightened her jaw. It seemed as though everything was going wrong. “I’ve had a few hang-ups, too. I got locked out of my room.”

            Her sister chuckled. “You would.”

            “There was enough chlorine in the pool to kill a whale, and there’s no scale in the bathroom. I couldn’t tweet my weight this morning.”

            “Just guess at it, sweetie. You’ve become obsessed with your weight.”

            “I’m so close to my goal.” A hundred pounds before her thirtieth birthday was definitely something to obsess over.

            A male voice sounded in the background, and Annie’s brow lifted. “Who’s that?”

            “Giovanni. He wants to take me shopping in Tangier today.” Kate giggled. “His yacht is amazing.”

            Annie frowned. Her sister was too giggly. “Have you been drinking?”

            “No.” Kate’s protest was too loud. “Well, I had wine with lunch. Don’t worry.  He’s taking good care of me.”

            Exactly why Annie did worry. “I thought we were doing this together.”                            

            “A bridge is a bridge. What’s the difference between Madrid and Manhattan?”

            “I don’t speak Spanish, for one.”

            “That’s no excuse. There are plenty of people who speak English. The Zaffas will be there. Sophia wants to walk with you, and Marco has arranged news coverage. You’ll be on TV tonight.”

            Annie glanced at her reflection in the mirror. Her bloodshot eyes. Her frizzy pink hair. “Oh, joy.”

            “You need Zaffa’s support. We can get around the world with his shoes.”

            “I just want to swim the strait.”

            “In a Zaffa swimsuit, remember. Hold on. Giovanni’s so impatient.”

            Annie set the phone on speaker and brushed the knots out of her hair. In the two years she’d been rallying women to walk across bridges to raise awareness for women’s health, she’d remained independent. Now she was sponsored by Marco Zaffa, the former Italian soccer star who owned an athletic clothing company. His shoes and sportswear were popular in Europe, and he wanted to expand to the American market.

            “Without Zaffa, you’d still be swimming the Hudson.” Kate’s voice sounded from the phone propped against the mirror. “What do you think of his spring collection?”

            Annie switched the setting on the phone and placed it on her ear. “Most of it didn’t fit.”

            “You’re kidding.”

            “The tennis outfit will work. And the yoga pants. But everything else is size four, not fourteen.”

            “European sizes are different.”

            “Not even the shoes fit. I gave them away.”

            Kate swore. “They’re trimmed with real coyote fur.”

            Annie smirked, doubly glad she’d given them away. “I’ll wear my Toms.”

            “That’s blasphemy. Call Bianca de Luca. She’ll bring you a new pair.”

            Calling Marco Zaffa’s assistant was the last thing Annie wanted to do. “She took me to see the bridge last night, after she picked me up at the airport.”

            “Bianca’s a sweetheart, isn’t she?” There was sarcasm in Kate’s voice.

            Annie  nodded. “She doesn’t like Americans.”

            “Yeah, I got that vibe, too. The Zaffas are nice though. They’re looking forward to meeting you. And you’ll never guess who else will be at the bridge. Your old friend Jack Rodriguez.”

            Annie plopped down on the bed.  “He’s not my friend.”

            “Can you believe it? He makes shoe commercials for Zaffa now.”

            Stunned, Annie chuckled. “Karma caught up with him.”

            “From New York newsman to selling shoes. He’s fallen a long way. Be sure to say something snarky when you see him tonight.”

            “He won’t remember me.”

            “Sure he will, sweetie.” Kate giggled again. “You’re the woman who got him fired.”

            Annie winced. “That was the monkey.”

            They both laughed.

            “Have you filmed your vlog?” Kate asked. “It’s not on YouTube.”

            “My costume hasn’t arrived yet.”

            “What is it?”

            “A gypsy dress from the opera house. I’ll be Carmen.”

            “Ah, sexy.”

.           Annie was worried about that. “Carmen was a free spirit.” Like I used to be.

            “Be sure to mention the monkey when you see Rodriguez,” Kate said and ended the call.

            Annie lay on the bed, staring up at the crystal light fixture. Of all people—Jack Rodriguez. Two years ago, he was a TV personality, especially popular with female viewers. Even her mother thought he was handsome—a younger Antonio Banderas. He turned out to be an egotistical jerk who ridiculed plus-sized women and hated monkeys. Or was it the monkey who hated him?

            Annie smiled. Karma could be cruel, but in this case, it called for a celebration. She rescued the candy from the top drawer, savored each piece, and then thumbed a tweet: “Succumbed to Swiss chocolate. #Madrid #ToledoBridge #MeetMarcoZaffa #GetUpGetOutGetMoving.

            Still on twitter, she read the thread of responses to her earlier post. Her followers had tweeted helpful suggestions to cope with jetlag. Many of the women were personal friends. Ellie, Hannah, and Isabella in New York City. Bree in Louisiana. Lara in California.

            Annie had met amazing women all of the U.S. who had walked bridges with her. Would Spanish women support her campaign? Or would they laugh at a silly American in a gypsy costume?

            Scrolling through the comments, she found one from @sharkfin. “Good morning, gorgeous. You slept late. Did you leave your pink cap in NY?”

            Holy crap!

            Donovan Nash had just watched her swim. He was here. In Madrid. In the hotel.

            She hurried to the door and fastened the chain, then peered through the peephole. The hall appeared empty, but he could be out there. He could be in the room next door. Waiting. Watching.

            The man was a nuisance. Actually, more than a nuisance. He frightened her.

She’d met Donovan at her cousin’s wedding last month. He was the groom’s brother, a lonely, overweight man with a double chin and a boyish face. They’d danced and she’d laughed at his jokes. That was all. But he’d sent flowers, then jewelry, and professed his love in handwritten letters. Because she vlogged daily, he knew where to find her. Almost every time she glanced over her shoulder, he was there, lurking in the background. Now he’d followed her to Spain.

            There was a knock on the door.

            She felt a chill, as if a spider had crawled up her arm. “Who is it?”

            A man’s voice answered in a Spanish accent. “Package for Annabelle Dingle.”

            Breathing again, she opened the door.

            A uniformed delivery man stood in the hall holding out a clothing box and clipboard. “Sign, please.”

            She thanked him, scribbling her name, and glanced up and down the hall. No Donovan.

            She locked the door and brought the box to the bed. After struggling with the tape, she pried open the lid, and lifted out the dress. Layers of red ruffles formed the skirt, billowing out below a black corset-like midriff and a white, peasant bodice. To complete the costume, a black tasseled shawl lay folded in the bottom of the box.

            She stepped into the dress, pulling it over her shoulders, and twirled in front of the mirror. The skirt length came just below her knees. The actress who’d worn it must not have been tall. But someone in the wardrobe department at the Madrid Opera House smoked cigarettes. The dress stank.

            Reaching behind her back, she couldn’t close the zipper all the way.  “Fudge and more fudge.”

            The dress was too small for a full-busted woman.

            She draped the shawl over her shoulders and tied it in a knot. It hid the open zipper.

Kate was right. The costume was sexy.

            Annie smiled. She was sure Jack Rodriguez wouldn’t recognize her.