Cuba Straits
“Ford, wearing shorts and jungle boots, jogged the tide line where Sanibel Island crescents north, and finally said, “Screw it,” tired of wind and pelting sand. To his right were colorful cottages—red, yellow, green—The Castaways, a popular resort during season, but this was Tuesday and a slow time of year. He went to the outdoor shower, thinking he’d hide his boots and swim through the breakers. He was ten pounds overweight and sick of his own excuses.
A porch door opened: a woman backlit b...y clouds of cinnamon, the sun up but not hot enough to burn through. “Want some coffee?” She cupped her hands to be heard. “Your dog’s welcome, if he’s sociable.”
No idea who the woman was. Wearing a sweatshirt, with an articulate, strong voice that suggested Midwestern genetics: a descendant of dairymaids good at sports and baking pies. Late thirties, a rental compact in the drive, only one pair of sandals outside the door: a woman on a budget vacationing alone.MoreLess
A porch door opened: a woman backlit b...y clouds of cinnamon, the sun up but not hot enough to burn through. “Want some coffee?” She cupped her hands to be heard. “Your dog’s welcome, if he’s sociable.”
No idea who the woman was. Wearing a sweatshirt, with an articulate, strong voice that suggested Midwestern genetics: a descendant of dairymaids good at sports and baking pies. Late thirties, a rental compact in the drive, only one pair of sandals outside the door: a woman on a budget vacationing alone.MoreLess
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