“Where have you been? In combat?”
She laughs and runs her fingers through what’s left of her hair. She’s grimy and her clothes are a wrinkled, pungent mess. “Camping. Have you seen Connie?”
“With Laurel,” he says. “Now they’ve got plans for my property. Grape arbors. Couple of years, those two will have us making wine.”
“Right.” Rita laughs, heading back up the lane to the house where she showers, then wraps herself in a towel and flip-flops, and throws her dirty clothes in the washer. Upstairs she finds her bed freshly made but covered with clothes. A long skirt of a pale blue gauzy material and a matching tunic top, a pair of brand-new sandals, the kind with straps that tie all the way to the knee, two pastel tee shirts with the tags still on, a pair of aqua slacks, and a beautiful ha
