Against her better judgment, Heather crossed the International Border heading south in the passenger seat of Matt Nickerson’s car. Mary would be delighted to hear it was a Mercedes convertible, with the top fashionably down.
Ensenada was about an hour and a half south of Tijuana. The toll road traveled some of the most beautiful coastal scenes anywhere. Similar real estate in California would cost a fortune to own and have a house. In Mexico, it was profoundly affordable if you had a stash of dollars.
“How did you end up with a name like Heather?” asked Matt.
“Why do you ask?” she responded.
“Well, Heather’s a blonde name, if you know what I mean,” said Matt. “I guess I never thought of it as being Portuguese.”
“You really like to stereo-type, don’t you,” said Heather, not asking
