Dark Passage by Marcia Talley Page B

reading Coben thoughtfully for a few seconds. ‘You think
he’s
hot, Hannah?’
    I tended to be attracted to tall men – my husband, Paul, towered over me – and although Red Bathing Suit was certainly tall, he was a little too, how shall I say,
fleshy
for my taste. ‘Not really. Besides, I think he’s married. See that skinny blonde standing in the buffet line? In the teeny-weeny black bikini? They came in together.’
    â€˜Where?’ Georgina asked.
    â€˜She’s fixing a hot dog,’ I said.
    Ruth sniffed. ‘Looks like a Stepford wife. Or married to a Republican candidate for President. I’m sure it’s a character flaw on my part, but I simply can’t tell those women apart.’
    As I watched Black Bikini cross the solarium to rejoin her husband, I had to agree with Ruth. The woman looked as if she’d been stamped out of a template: five foot five or six, fit and trim, aggressively-styled bottle-blonde hair, makeup applied with the skill of an artist. She handed the hot dog to her husband, but apparently she had failed the hot dog fixings test because he said something, then shoved the plate back into her hands so suddenly that the potato chips she’d heaped on the side of it went flying. She yelled something in response, spun around and stomped out of the solarium as elegantly as one can while wearing flip flops, dumping the hot dog, plate and all, into the trash can nearest the door.
    â€˜ “The course of true love never did run smooth,” ’ Ruth quoted, bard-like.
    â€˜If he wanted a damn hot dog, he should have gotten it his damn self,’ Georgina sputtered, staring after the woman. After she’d disappeared into the main pool area, Georgina flipped over on her stomach, stretched out full-length on the deck chair and returned to whatever she had been reading on her Kindle. The sun blazed through the glass canopy of the solarium, its rays catching the damp tendrils of her hair, turning it to burnished copper.
    The Belgian waffles with fresh fruit I’d had at breakfast were taking their toll. Bathed in the warmth of the sun, I slept easily, until a stranger’s voice suddenly roused me from my nap.
    â€˜Excuse me?’ The voice was deeply male and melodious, like a late-night host on the Oldies But Goodies station.
    My eyes snapped open. I blinked.
    A man carrying a big-ass camera stood like a pillar at the foot of Georgina’s lounger. Tall and sturdy, dark hair speckled his head like new growth on a Chia Pet. He wore a white polo shirt tucked into a pair of navy chinos, and deck shoes with no socks.
    â€˜Can I help you?’ I asked, thinking how extraordinary his eyes were. They had been bleached to a pale amber, like the 3.2 beer we used to drink in college.
    The question seemed to fluster him. ‘Sorry. I just wanted to ask your friend here …’ His hands full of camera, he nodded toward Georgina. ‘… if she’d mind if I took her picture.’
    My sister was clearly asleep, Kindle flung to one side, head turned, her cheek resting on her folded arms.
    â€˜She’s asleep,’ I said, stating the obvious. ‘What’s it for?’
    The man shifted his camera to one side and dug into his breast pocket with a thumb and index finger like fat sausages. ‘Buck Carney,’ he said, handing me his business card. ‘I’m a photographer.’
    â€˜I never would have guessed,’ I said, indicating the fancy camera with a corner of his card which read, when I glanced at it a few seconds later,
LeRoy ‘Buck’ Carney, Freelance Photographer
, with an address and telephone number in Atlanta, Georgia. ‘LeRoy,’ I said. ‘No wonder they call you “Buck.” ’
    â€˜Yeah, well …’ he began.
    I squinted up at him. ‘Didn’t I see you taking pictures last night in the disco?’
    â€˜Yeah, it’s a dirty job, but