Chapter Forty-Five
Clouds moved across the island like sails of invisible ships pushed by a tropical breeze. The morning broke across Alfred’s windowsill in a shatter of golden light, and he found himself feeling the pang of the late night. The amaretto had been a sweet lullaby that had sent him drifting into a deep sleep a little after one o’clock, but the few hours in bed and full glass of liquor had taken their toll. He washed quickly over the sink and did his best to give himself a clean shave before hurrying down the stairs and into the dining room where Mrs. Poplar was settling into her seat at the head of the table.
“Good morning, dear,” she called, setting a bowl of melon beside his empty plate. “Running a little behind again?”
“That seems to be my luck lately.”
He took his sea
