“Each day, and the living of it, has to be a conscious creation in which discipline and order are relieved with some play and pure foolishness.”
Roger Milford took a deep breath and caught the salty scent of the nearby sea mingled with chlorine and coconut suntan lotion as he headed around the oversized, liver-shaped pool. The fronds of palm trees swayed in the breeze, and high above a gull dipped and turned in the cloudless blue of the sky. His eyes flicked around, summing up the people: sunburned vacationers, honeymooners, and a handful of wild middle-aged crazies reliving spring break madnesses of days gone by.
He stopped abruptly when he saw Kathy Pillshard taking the tiny umbrella ...