6
“Two weeks’ convalescence.” Marta balanced on her crutches and blinked at the brilliant Aruban sunshine from beneath the shaded entrance of the hospital. The sun that had come in through their room’s window had seemed so inviting. Out here, it was a blinding affront.
“Did you opt for home or the hotel?”
They had offered them the option. No more willing to explain herself to Mother than to anyone else, she’d opted to stay in Aruba. She held up the room key they’d issued her.
The Brit held up a room key as well. Thankfully with a different number.
But later that evening, as she sat alone and wondered what to do with herself—Aruba television broadcast mostly in Dutch—a knock sounded on her door.
“I’m not much of a cook one-handed,” he had greeted her.
“I’m not much of a cook at all.”
