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some forgotten Texas hellhole sounded good. He could handle that, something down by the gulf. He stood staring in the cloudy old mirror, assessing the damage. "You look like a piece of shit, Harry Driver," he mumbled, "and what's more, you feel and act like one." He filled the basin with steaming water, dropped in his razor and launched into the manly ritual of scraping his face. He had considered growing a beard, but this wasn't the morning to start. Removing the stubble actually accomplished little more than to put on review the pasty white, sallow complexion that resulted from the long, rainy and confining Saint John's winter. He smeared the Barbasol around and began tugging the sharp piece of steel over his face. The welcome smell of coffee greeted him and he looked up. Flora, bless her heart, was standing in the doorway with two steaming cups, one of which she handed to him. |
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Flora Saint Quentin was a Newfie. Driver had once referred to the woman as a light cruiser of uncertain vintage. She had confided once that she grew up in Doll Bay, a small fishing village south of Torbay, that her brother was a priest, her father was a fisherman and that she never recalled being hugged by her mother. For the most part, she was sober faced and, because of her appetite, possessed of portly dimensions. She smiled |
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