At ten the next morning, Rey, Linda and I were at the agency, drinking caramel-maple (yuck) coffees and eating malasadas (numm). Linda was chatting with Mink in the reception area about an upcoming surfer party on the North Shore and Rey was talking with Nancy-Anne about a lizard-jerky commercial.
I was chewing the last of a delish lilikoi malasada and replying to a f*******: message from my nephew Quincy. The teen was thinking of asking a classmate, Lee, to a local baking competition. I smiled wistfully and jumped upon hearing a booming, “Hello, Ms. JJ!”
Across the room stood Harry, sporting a handsome pistachio-colored suit. His arms were raised and his hands gripped the doorframes. Even from ten yards, the grapefruit-pink nail polish was hard to miss. A bit bolder than usual.
With a
