Okay. We were supposed to get maybe an inch. Someone needed to tell the storm. We've probably got 3 inches on the ground and more coming, snowflakes gleefully piling up to make a mess. On the one hand it's pissing me off because I'm dead tired of winter, but on the other hand I'm glad because I want to go snowshoeing with the Friday Night Knitters on March 7 and we need snow for that. I'm a constant trial, even to myself, not to mention my poor, long-suffering Durwood. But for the most part I say, bah snow.
February 23--Bora-Bora. Sylvie stood looking out across the empty lagoon. She hadn't been gone that long, maybe an hour and a half. Where would Andre have gone--and why? The breaking waves at the reef cut reminded her that they had waited for an incoming tide to sail into the lagoon. He shouldn't have been able to get back out so quickly. Had he dumped her here and waited just until she was out of sight to turn around and sail away? If he was so eager to be rid of her, he could have left her in Taveuni. She could have hooked up with another yacht or worked her way home on a tramp steamer. "Andre," she said, her voice brittle with disuse. She smiled a bit sadly at the memory of his face and the way they would sit on the deck of the Ariadne in the moonlight of the Caribbean night. But now she had the harsh Pacific sun to deal with, her water to transfer from the carry-cans yoked across her shoulders, and then she needed swim out to check her newest fish trap. She had to find a scrap of fabric to patch her tattered dress. It was her only protection from the sun and the sharp edges of the grasses she had to go through to get to the little spring in the center of the island. Maybe something that she could use had washed ashore overnight.
Does this make sense? Do I have to spell it out that there is no Andre, never was on this island?