rapidly on her paper.
I sat enjoying the sun on my face and tried to ignore the stored winter’s chill creeping up through my bottom. That was the afternoon I formulated the MacLaren Theory of Foreign Travel: There is no law that says you have to learn something every single minute of your vacation.
Watching how absorbed Dorothy was in drawing, I asked drowsily, “Were you off drawing in Glasgow when you disappeared?”
“No, I went to the St. Mungo Museum of Religious Life and Art. I’ve had a print of Salvador Dali’s Christ of St. John of the Cross over my desk for years, and on our flight, I read in the airline magazine that the original was there. I couldn’t come all this way and not see it, eh? It was simply magnificent!” Dorothy was never so animated as when she talked about art. She continued drawing and I basked in the sun. I don’t know how long we sat there, but I was getting ready to abandon fresh air in favor of getting warm when we were startled by a shout. I sat up. Down the beach, Sherry and Kenny faced off near the water’s edge.
Kenny waved his arms in the air while Sherry stood with hands on her hips. Both were yelling. The wind carried some of their words. “. . . crazy!” Kenny shouted.
Whatever Sherry replied ended, “. . . so help me . . . again . . . kill you!” She shook one long forefinger in his face.
He grabbed it and jerked upward.
She yelled with pain and yanked free. Then she whirled and stalked away.
He bent and picked up a stone.
“Hey!”
I don’t think Kenny knew Dorothy and I were there until I yelled. Either the yell deflected his aim or he was a poor pitcher, because the stone hit the water to Sherry’s right. She whirled at the splash. What happened next was too fast for me to be certain about, but I think her foot slipped and she fell in. I do know that Kenny threw back his head and laughed.
She screamed in shock and anger. No wonder. That sea must be full of melted snow. As she struggled to get up, Kenny ran toward her with one hand outstretched, as if to push her back.
“Hey!” I yelled again, scrabbling to my feet as fast as I could.
He looked around, then caught her hand and jerked her up, as if that had been his intent all along. When I got there, Sherry stood on the shore streaming water. Her hair was plastered to her back and she trembled like a paint-mixing machine.
“She slipped,” Kenny told me.
She yanked her hand free of his. Her lips were blue. Her teeth chattered. Her hair hung in wet strings down her back, and the warm tartan cape she always wore clung to her in soaked, icy folds.
“We saw the whole thing,” I warned. Since Kenny made no move to offer her his coat, I whipped off mine. “Here, let’s get you back to the bus, and if we can find Watty, you can get some dry clothes.”
She tugged off her cape and wrung it until water streamed between her fingers. Without a word she handed it to me and squeezed water from her hair. Finally she reached for my coat and wrapped it around her without an ounce of gratitude or grace. Hearing her teeth continue to chatter, I wished again I had brought that dratted liner.
“So help me, one day I’ll kill you!” she hissed at Kenny before she turned and trudged toward the bus, leaving me to carry her sodden, briny cape.
Kenny set off along the water’s edge, making himself scarce.
Dorothy watched him go with a troubled face. “Do you think he really meant to hit her with that rock?”
“Looked that way to me.” I held the cape out so it wouldn’t soak me too badly. “I’d better get back to the bus, too, or you’ll have to carry me in one frozen cube.”
I went so fast that I overtook Sherry halfway. When I came abreast, she flung short, angry sentences at me, willing to confide in anybody to get her grievance off her chest. “That fool maxed out a credit card. Embarrassed me to death when I tried to use it. Who knows what’ll happen now? I warned him to
I sat enjoying the sun on my face and tried to ignore the stored winter’s chill creeping up through my bottom. That was the afternoon I formulated the MacLaren Theory of Foreign Travel: There is no law that says you have to learn something every single minute of your vacation.
Watching how absorbed Dorothy was in drawing, I asked drowsily, “Were you off drawing in Glasgow when you disappeared?”
“No, I went to the St. Mungo Museum of Religious Life and Art. I’ve had a print of Salvador Dali’s Christ of St. John of the Cross over my desk for years, and on our flight, I read in the airline magazine that the original was there. I couldn’t come all this way and not see it, eh? It was simply magnificent!” Dorothy was never so animated as when she talked about art. She continued drawing and I basked in the sun. I don’t know how long we sat there, but I was getting ready to abandon fresh air in favor of getting warm when we were startled by a shout. I sat up. Down the beach, Sherry and Kenny faced off near the water’s edge.
Kenny waved his arms in the air while Sherry stood with hands on her hips. Both were yelling. The wind carried some of their words. “. . . crazy!” Kenny shouted.
Whatever Sherry replied ended, “. . . so help me . . . again . . . kill you!” She shook one long forefinger in his face.
He grabbed it and jerked upward.
She yelled with pain and yanked free. Then she whirled and stalked away.
He bent and picked up a stone.
“Hey!”
I don’t think Kenny knew Dorothy and I were there until I yelled. Either the yell deflected his aim or he was a poor pitcher, because the stone hit the water to Sherry’s right. She whirled at the splash. What happened next was too fast for me to be certain about, but I think her foot slipped and she fell in. I do know that Kenny threw back his head and laughed.
She screamed in shock and anger. No wonder. That sea must be full of melted snow. As she struggled to get up, Kenny ran toward her with one hand outstretched, as if to push her back.
“Hey!” I yelled again, scrabbling to my feet as fast as I could.
He looked around, then caught her hand and jerked her up, as if that had been his intent all along. When I got there, Sherry stood on the shore streaming water. Her hair was plastered to her back and she trembled like a paint-mixing machine.
“She slipped,” Kenny told me.
She yanked her hand free of his. Her lips were blue. Her teeth chattered. Her hair hung in wet strings down her back, and the warm tartan cape she always wore clung to her in soaked, icy folds.
“We saw the whole thing,” I warned. Since Kenny made no move to offer her his coat, I whipped off mine. “Here, let’s get you back to the bus, and if we can find Watty, you can get some dry clothes.”
She tugged off her cape and wrung it until water streamed between her fingers. Without a word she handed it to me and squeezed water from her hair. Finally she reached for my coat and wrapped it around her without an ounce of gratitude or grace. Hearing her teeth continue to chatter, I wished again I had brought that dratted liner.
“So help me, one day I’ll kill you!” she hissed at Kenny before she turned and trudged toward the bus, leaving me to carry her sodden, briny cape.
Kenny set off along the water’s edge, making himself scarce.
Dorothy watched him go with a troubled face. “Do you think he really meant to hit her with that rock?”
“Looked that way to me.” I held the cape out so it wouldn’t soak me too badly. “I’d better get back to the bus, too, or you’ll have to carry me in one frozen cube.”
I went so fast that I overtook Sherry halfway. When I came abreast, she flung short, angry sentences at me, willing to confide in anybody to get her grievance off her chest. “That fool maxed out a credit card. Embarrassed me to death when I tried to use it. Who knows what’ll happen now? I warned him to
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