Third Friday in July One day on the island was pretty much like any other. I’d retreated into a timeless world, like summer vacations when I was a kid. The only marker of time’s passing was the Fourth of July fireworks in Eastsound put on by the Orcas Island Chamber of Commerce. That was a week ago. Or maybe two. Off shore an occasional speed boat buzzed through the sound of seagulls and surf. Scarlett had gone down to feed the dogs, and Mom was working in her garden. I was set up on the lanai with a guitar in my lap and a pad of paper on the table in front of me. I spent most days out here, pretending to keep busy. Surfing the internet. Writing a song. My thoughts of Nora had diminished to every hour instead of every minute. Most of the time it was nothing specific. I didn’t picture her dark eyes, beautiful and sad with the occasional flicker of humor that made me want to throw her down and climb all over her and taste every inch of her skin. I didn’t play her sobbing screams at the cabin in my head repeatedly and want to kill the tattooed murderer with my own bare hands.
