Women, the Audubon Society, the Cultural League, the Triathlon Boosters, the League of Women Voters, the Women’s Association of Broward’s Rock, the Library Society the Broward’s Rock Municipal Hospital Volunteers, St. Francis of Assisi Altar Society, and half a dozen other organizations.
By the time the first mauve of sunrise streaked the eastern horizon, volunteers were arriving. In cars. On bicycles. Afoot. Many carried backpacks with survival gear, field binoculars, and compasses, wore no-nonsense swamp boots and could have passed for members of a Latin militia in their khakis and fatigue caps. Annie had blinked wearily in the daylight and stumbled past the arrivees toward a cot (Women’s Side) in the tent city. As she fell into a deep sleep, she heard searchers receive their instructions as the search got under way.
Now, as she struggled to disengage from the mosquito netting (yes, Virginia, mosquitoes still thrive and multiply and attack in the Lowlands of the Carolinas, and no, they do not carry malaria, according to the Health Department), she realized she was ravenously hungry—and where was her husband of one night?
She looked down at her crumpled cream silk blouse and blue linen skirt and thought ruefully of the elegant grey dress she’d intended to wear today when they traveled. But despite the fact she looked about as attractive as the mangled hairpiece Edmund had carried to his mistress in Charlotte MacLeod’s
Something the Cat Dragged In
, it was time to locate her new husband (on the Men’s Side, of course) and see how he’d survived what little had remained of their wedding night.
The mosquito netting proved wilier than she. Finally, she dropped to the ground and rolled beneath it, thereby putting the finishing dusty touches to her costume.
She shaded her eyes against the brilliant morning sun. Ingrid would never have recognized Nightingale Courts. Yellow tape marked Cabin 3 as a Crime Scene ( DO NOT ENTER ). A television crew with minicams clustered around Madeleine, who stood statuesquely on an upended wheel-barrowand gestured vigorously toward the tent city. A long line of search volunteers inched by a field kitchen. So that was the source of those appetizing aromas.
Only the sternest sense of marital duty sent Annie in search of Max rather than directly to the end of the food line.
Wondering what sort of alarm might be raised if she strode boldly into the Men’s Side, she temporized and sidled along the outside, squinting to see through the mosquito netting.
He was in the third cot from the end, sleeping on his back with his arms and legs outflung. Estimating his size, Annie wondered if a queen would be large enough and perhaps she should change the order to a king for their new house. She’d never before thought in terms of
permanently
sharing a bed.
Max’s cot was the only one still occupied. With a wary look about, she dropped again to the ground, lifted the netting, and rolled under.
Using her hipbone to nudge him over, she perched on the edge of the cot and whispered, “Max. Hey, Max, wake up!”
One dark blue eye reluctantly opened and slowly focused on her. A flash of enthusiasm. An indistinguishable noise deep in his throat and two eager hands.
“Max! This is in public,” she hissed, fending him off.
An expletive, beginning with a letter early in the alphabet, was
clearly
distinguishable.
“Max!”
They made a disreputable pair as they sat at the end of the pier, throwaway mess plates balanced on their laps. Her blue linen traveling suit was crumpled and dusty, and Max’s trousers were snagged and stained. But their appearance was no more bizarre than that of Nightingale Courts.
From their vantage point, they could see the whole expanse of the inlet, the two cottages on the arm of land opposite, the glittering tin roof of Jerry’s Gas ’N Go, the assorted boats docked at the long piers that thrust through the marshland toward deeper water, the semicircle
By the time the first mauve of sunrise streaked the eastern horizon, volunteers were arriving. In cars. On bicycles. Afoot. Many carried backpacks with survival gear, field binoculars, and compasses, wore no-nonsense swamp boots and could have passed for members of a Latin militia in their khakis and fatigue caps. Annie had blinked wearily in the daylight and stumbled past the arrivees toward a cot (Women’s Side) in the tent city. As she fell into a deep sleep, she heard searchers receive their instructions as the search got under way.
Now, as she struggled to disengage from the mosquito netting (yes, Virginia, mosquitoes still thrive and multiply and attack in the Lowlands of the Carolinas, and no, they do not carry malaria, according to the Health Department), she realized she was ravenously hungry—and where was her husband of one night?
She looked down at her crumpled cream silk blouse and blue linen skirt and thought ruefully of the elegant grey dress she’d intended to wear today when they traveled. But despite the fact she looked about as attractive as the mangled hairpiece Edmund had carried to his mistress in Charlotte MacLeod’s
Something the Cat Dragged In
, it was time to locate her new husband (on the Men’s Side, of course) and see how he’d survived what little had remained of their wedding night.
The mosquito netting proved wilier than she. Finally, she dropped to the ground and rolled beneath it, thereby putting the finishing dusty touches to her costume.
She shaded her eyes against the brilliant morning sun. Ingrid would never have recognized Nightingale Courts. Yellow tape marked Cabin 3 as a Crime Scene ( DO NOT ENTER ). A television crew with minicams clustered around Madeleine, who stood statuesquely on an upended wheel-barrowand gestured vigorously toward the tent city. A long line of search volunteers inched by a field kitchen. So that was the source of those appetizing aromas.
Only the sternest sense of marital duty sent Annie in search of Max rather than directly to the end of the food line.
Wondering what sort of alarm might be raised if she strode boldly into the Men’s Side, she temporized and sidled along the outside, squinting to see through the mosquito netting.
He was in the third cot from the end, sleeping on his back with his arms and legs outflung. Estimating his size, Annie wondered if a queen would be large enough and perhaps she should change the order to a king for their new house. She’d never before thought in terms of
permanently
sharing a bed.
Max’s cot was the only one still occupied. With a wary look about, she dropped again to the ground, lifted the netting, and rolled under.
Using her hipbone to nudge him over, she perched on the edge of the cot and whispered, “Max. Hey, Max, wake up!”
One dark blue eye reluctantly opened and slowly focused on her. A flash of enthusiasm. An indistinguishable noise deep in his throat and two eager hands.
“Max! This is in public,” she hissed, fending him off.
An expletive, beginning with a letter early in the alphabet, was
clearly
distinguishable.
“Max!”
They made a disreputable pair as they sat at the end of the pier, throwaway mess plates balanced on their laps. Her blue linen traveling suit was crumpled and dusty, and Max’s trousers were snagged and stained. But their appearance was no more bizarre than that of Nightingale Courts.
From their vantage point, they could see the whole expanse of the inlet, the two cottages on the arm of land opposite, the glittering tin roof of Jerry’s Gas ’N Go, the assorted boats docked at the long piers that thrust through the marshland toward deeper water, the semicircle
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