|
|
|
|
|
|
|
''I thought you were going to call me," Charlie protested. |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
"Why, you're a big boy. You know the schedule." |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
"Eastern terminal, six-forty-two. Think about it," the woman teased. "We have dinner reservations at Mama JoJo's at nine. You, me, and the moon-bathed gulf. I even checked the weather. Nothing but stars and seventy-six beautiful degrees. Think you can handle all that plus one slightly love-starved and you-know-what deprived female in the same evening?" |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Charles Frazier felt that old familiar sensation. Kristen Masters was setting the stage. And classy Kristen Masters was a long way up the ladder from the Ruthies, the Cappy Salems and the Peggy Bowles of the world. |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
"Do I need to bring anything?" |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
"You know what you're going to need," she continued. "I've got all the tickets. All you have to do is show up and brace yourself for a fun-packed, sun-filled four days and three action-packed nights in glorious Florida." She paused and then giggled. "How am I doing? Like the commercial?" |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
This time Charlie nestled the receiver back in the cradle and hit the button on the intercom. "Hazel," he barked, "call off the dogs. I'm outta here." |
|
|
|
|
|