Chapter 17: In Due Time, Mr. Yardling
At Capuche’s, a French restaurant in downtown Barefoot Beach, I spotted Marcos dining alone approximately three tables to my right. Perhaps he wanted me to see him, I wasn’t sure. He took in the ambiance of the restaurant: maroon-and-gold draperies hung against the walls between Rousseau paintings; crystal chandeliers dangled from the ceiling over square tables; a handsome wait staff sported black-and-white tails; Vivaldi played from overhead speakers.
Brazen, ballsy, and feeling quite bold, I found my way to his table with my whiskey sour, pulled out a high-backed chair, politely sat across from him, smiled, and chanted, “Marcos, welcome to Barefoot Beach.”
“It’s soothing and much different from Washington.” He paused, took a drink of his three-oli
