They ambled along the sand at the water’s edge, which was just a short stroll down the side road from Kokko’s. They walked in their bare feet, carrying their sandals, as the warm water lapped their toes. They were headed south. Harry wouldn’t be upset if they ended up at Nomad’s and he’d be starting cocktail hour before noon.
She’d taken her mask off. Harry hadn’t been wearing one. He’d dined open-air and he hadn’t expected company.
No sooner had they stepped out on the beach than she jumped right in, “I think love is transactional, don’t you?”
“I’ve heard that term,” he said. “These days it’s all about politicians and quid pro quo. You don’t ask if you don’t expect to get. It gets nasty, that’s clear.”
“Just so,” she said. “Have you noticed how transactional Kenyans are?”
“They seem
