The particulars of her engagement were very clear in her memory. Cathy, who still thought Lucy would be off to trade school or community college like her plans for her other two children and was putting money away “in secret” for their college funds. She had, by the magic of recollection, set the picture of the typhoon between herself and her table companions: the terrible rollers thundering on the white shore, the deafening bellow of the wind, the bending and snapping palms, the thatches of the native huts scattering inland, the blur of sand dust, and those two outcasts defying the elements. “I am very much obliged for the tea,” she said. Her stifled misery had betrayed her. “I’m not a good woman. So while he talked to this girl of work and freedom, his slightly protuberant eyes were noting the gracious balance of her limbs and body across the gate, the fine lines of her chin and neck.
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