Sunday, February 24, 2008

Red Slave Hut

Another sunny day! Yippee! Even partly sunny is so much better than the endless gray days we had last week. I guess we're supposed to get slammed with more snow tomorrow night. Great. Just what we need now that I've almost got the driveway totally cleared. And the snow banks along the edges are getting so high it would be impossible to hand shovel just because a person couldn't throw the snow high enough. Bah. I'd rather think of Manning and Santiago, Jack and Mona, Sharon and Diego doing their waltz of intrigue in Bonaire.

Santiago moved with speed and grace from his boat, the Santa Marta, moored as close to shore as was safe. He slid over the gunwale into the water, his feet in their gray canvas shoes barely making a splash. He eased away from the boat sliding his feet along so he wouldn't churn up the water and leave a telltale line of white behind him. He carried an old burlap sack that had begun its life full of coffee beans destined for the lucrative American market had been reduced to carrying ganja for a while along the Jamaican coast. Now it held a few ballast stones and a clump of what might be Spanish silver pieces of eight welded together by a couple centuries immersion in the sea. He tucked the bag into a corner of the fourth slave hut from the south end of the row. It would look enough like run-of-the-mill trash that the casual observer wouldn't notice it and it should be safe until Manning retrieved it to prove to Mr. Moneybags, Jack Swallow, that he, Santiago, really had found something valuable. The sun was just tinting the eastern horizon with the thinnest pale gold line as Santiago re-boarded the Santa Marta and resumed his journey to the Town Pier with his official cargo of pineapples and potted palm plants for the weekly market.

Keep your fingers crossed that Ann gets the acquisitions editor job at Northern Illinois. She had an in-person interview Friday and said it went well. I'd love it if she lived closer.

--Barbara

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