37While my garage door rose in front of me, I tried and failed to visualize myself cat-burgling the Truman house.
I parked the Volvo beside Vicky’s Jeep. Headed upstairs.
When I reached the main level, Marina intercepted me.
She looked like she’d been giftwrapped.
The waistband on her neon-orange cotton pants was tied in a big loopy orange bow.
The pants ended at midcalf. Her coral sandals sported a thin strap around each slender ankle. The heels were three-inch platforms.
Her snug shirt was white with pale orange sprinkles. Like frosting on a carrot cake.
She smoothed her blonde bob and moved her pointer finger in front of coral-glossed lips.
“You wake Vicky, clomping like that,” she scolded. “Step quiet.”
Marina thought my Birkenstocks were a poor fashion choice.
“Those aren’t
