Chapter 11: A Londoner
May 30, 20—
12:08 P.M.
I was reading a queer mystery in the shade behind the salt box. The day was stunning and offered warm sunlight, no humidity, and a quaint breeze. A sugarless iced tea sat to my right on the ground. Ants thought it a glass skyscraper of sorts, circling the Mason jar. I was shirtless, enjoying the day, almost in the middle of the tome, and fully relaxed when my cellphone buzzed on my lap, next to my balls. I closed the paperback after dog-earing a page’s corner, picked up the cellphone, and studied Patrick Brogan’s cellular number.
Clicking the speak button, I said in a happy tone, “Hello, Patrick.”
“You sound cheerful today. Is it the weather?”
“A little bit of everything, I admit. Spring is being nice to us here by the lake.”
My comment
