CHAPTER 44
Less than twenty-four hours after the painting fiasco, an ice-cold gin and tonic is slipping down Lary’s throat like silk as she stares out the small rectangular Air Canada window at the eiderdown of cloud below. How long has it been? Over six whole weeks since he’d come up for Civic Holiday. Lary squirms in her seat, feeling tingles of promised pleasure to come.
She adjusts the green flowered, calf-length skirt she’d chosen to wear with a taupe blouse, a wide belt, and open-toed wedgies to show off her Pumpkin-primped tootsies.
Maybe she shouldn’t have worn a skirt. Too formal. Too old-fashioned. Too trying-too-hard-to-impress? Who wears a skirt on a plane these days? Should have been slacks and a jacket. Or Capris at least. Or ….
After what seems like a whole day, but is r
