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CHAPTER ONE : Skidaway
The verdant sea of marsh grass stretched to the horizon on both sides of the causeway. A shrimp boat lumbered its way through the narrows returning from the Atlantic Ocean, the nets extending like huge wings over the water. Soaring above the wake, seagulls screamed in frenzied excitement as they followed hoping for a free meal. The mid-June sun was high overhead, its burning rays beginning to sting her bare shoulders as the last miles to her destination slipped by. Knowing she should stop and put up the top on her convertible, Liz Scott rejected the idea and continued to drive, singing along with The Platters as they crooned "Only You" on the radio.
Why have an expensive little 450 SL if you couldn't enjoy it? She'd certainly contributed her share to the firm's profitability and it was nobody's business if she blew her money on a gleaming silver little sweetheart of a car. At her stage in life, she might as well live with abandon. What did it matter anyway? No one depended on her now except maybe Thomas her cat.
She reached for the recorder she kept in her car to jog her memory. "Suntan lotion and aloe," she said, then turned the radio louder as the continual string of beach music blared from the dash. Mocking her grandmother's words, she called to a seagull overhead, "Can't have any of those lower class freckles marring my 'to the manor born' complexion."
Fumbling for the bag of corn chips next to the recorder, Liz thought, You really are letting yourself go, old girl! When was the last time you allowed yourself to consume a whole bag of these fat-laden things? Oh, well. You can do extra sets at the gym when you get backhome.