Out of the Picture
The tones were sepia, but Sylvia would have bet all of last year’s investment returns that the man’s eyes were a turquoise blue. Beneath the edges of his army side cap, she could see his coarse hair, cut short. Thin lips stretched around a toothy smile. He also bore the familiar sliver of a white scar across his chin.
Sitting on uncut grass with his hands resting on his knees, he didn't seem concerned about dirtying his olive-green service coat or matching slacks. Crow’s feet made the man look old, but something about that face reminded Sylvia the lines had more to do with the hard quality of his years than their number.
“Ms. Hawthorne, are you okay?”
“Oh,” Sylvia said, barely able to peel her eyes away from the photograph. “I’m fine, Clara.” She managed a gracious
