To be confronted with the girl’s damned Frenchman of a husband was another matter altogether. He was more like a man who had left his bed in the middle of convalescence. To get behind that impenetrable curtain, to learn why she hated her island. “You’ll be there, right?” She asked, hearing his breathing audibly jump. She had never thought of him at all in that way before. Seven hundred forty-two dollars and eighty-one cents, the sum total of her money in the world that she hid in a filigreed cigar box shelved behind her schoolbooks. Old saltwater was right.
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