|
|
|
|
|
|
|
bisque in an out-of-the-way seafood shanty called Musty's late in the afternoon and spent the evening on board Kristen's father's yacht at the Windmore Yacht Club watching the old man make a fool of himself over a hard-looking, too plump blonde who had only recently been endowed with the pompous title of Mrs. Geoffrey Hampton. Kristen had followed him into the galley and giggled that she couldn't remember whether the woman was wife number five or six in her father's arsenal of bimbos. Daddy Geoffrey, Kristen reflected, was likely to marry anyone who was willing to crawl between the sheets with him. It was his way of avoiding guilt feelings about his decidedly non-Catholic behavior. Besides, in Geoffrey's mind, it was, at best, a short-term arrangement. Life, he believed, was to be lived to the fullest, and no man could live to the fullest if he had to settle down with just one woman. Bottom line, Geoffrey Hampton was always looking for greener pastures. |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
They returned to the complex close to midnight and discovered that the doorman had tucked a hastily scribbled message in the slats of her mailbox. After the flowery salutation, the man had boiled it down to a terse one-liner. "Package from Florida Services placed just inside your door." |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Inside the confines of the condo, Kristen |
|
|
|
|
|