Time of Departure
“I was sitting on the veranda rocker, idly twirling a strand of my hair and watching a great blue heron stalking minnows in the shallows of the cove. I had showered late and slipped into one of the summer dresses Marc had bought for me. After seeing my hand-washed bra and panties dripping in the bathroom, he’d shown up the following evening with three shopping bags filled with new clothes.
I was frankly astonished. I started checking labels. “How did you get my size?”
“Looked for a salesgirl with your figure.” He smiled and added, “Took a while.”
I wasn’t thrilled with some of the color choices, but everything fit perfectly.
Even the underwear.
Marc’s Dodge pickup rumbled into view and parked in the usual spot. The first time I saw the truck, I’d been ready to laugh. I didn’t have to. True to the understated personality I would come to know thirty years hence, Young Marc had spurned the usual Southern cracker yee-haw kit—oversized winch, vinyl seats, and obligatory gun rack.
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