34A waist-high counter ran along the solid interior wall. The fragrant softball-sized oranges pyramided at the center provided the ideal backdrop for Neal’s near-black hair.
It was nine-fifteen on Tuesday morning and he and I were the only guests in the hotel’s ground floor breakfast bar.
The long narrow room was on the east side of the building. Tall, wide windows looked out on blacktop striped for parking and backed by a six-foot wood-plank fence. Sun shone over the top.
Daylight filtered through sheer white curtains into the pleasant space. The silver threading Neal’s hair glinted in the soft glow.
He’d gotten a trim since I’d seen him on Sunday. I wanted to pat his head and feel the crisp inch-long strands delicately prick my palm.
But May Lee had received the package half an hour
