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percussive sound on the damp sand that drowned out any of last night’s doubts. I thought of all the women I’d slept with in college, and how none of them offered the allure, adventure, or adrenaline of Lizzy Barrows. She was the unknown, charged with fire, chaos, and bliss—a dangerous but enticing cocktail.
    When I returned to the hotel the morning clerk handed me an envelope from Mrs. Barrows. “Thanks. Do you think it might be a letter bomb?” I asked.
    She laughed. “I make no promises, but if so, rest assured I’ll let your parents know what happened to you and why you won’t be home for dinner.”
    “Much appreciated. Good to know.”
    The envelope contained a brief letter from the Barrows Foundation stating its willingness to lease the Priscilla Beach Theatre to me and to fund the theater program with fifty thousand dollars. It was signed by the president of the foundation, which according to the expensive letterhead, was Lizzy Barrows. I reread the letter to make sure I hadn’t misinterpreted it. I didn’t find any of the stipulations for the lease or the money objectionable. Just then the last clouds outside my motel window disappeared, and my room flooded with a bright, beckoning light. “Okay , I thought, if that’s not a sign . . .”
    I got in my Mustang at just after ten-thirty. I thought I’d grab a quick breakfast to steady my nerves and calm my stomach. I pulled into the Garden Diner up the road, taking a seat alone at a booth near the window. A friendly waitress took my order of orange juice, fried eggs, corned beef hash, and dry English muffin. The food arrived quickly, but my mind was elsewhere and I didn’t taste a thing. I perused the newspaper someone had left at an adjacent table. The Yankees had won yesterday with Munson hitting a grand slam, while Catfish had won his seventh.
    I paid the bill, left a reasonable tip, and returned to my car. I headed over to the Barrows’s mansion with time to spare. The sun had burned off the morning rain, leaving the grounds as green as a fairway. The air smelled of fresh-cut grass, rich topsoil, and honeysuckle. There was a wisp of a breeze that offered just a scent of the ocean down below. There was one car in the driveway, a bright-red two-seat Mercedes that must have just left the showroom. To my surprise the door was ajar, with a small note on scented paper taped prominently over the doorbell:
     
Auggie, I am on the back deck. Let yourself in and meet me there. Don’t worry, I won’t accuse you of breaking and entering it’s safe in that regard.
    L.
     
    I entered the quiet house and made my way to the back deck. I was amazed by the enormous size of the home. The vaulted ceilings made me appear small and insignificant. I found the deck and watched Lizzy quietly. She was wearing a two-piece bathing suit with a revealing halter top that dramatized the unforgettable line of cleavage that had fired up my imagination the previous afternoon. A thin sarong wrapped around her hips, gradually revealing the muscular outline of her long tanned legs. She let her hair cascade sensually over her smooth bronze shoulders, making her body even more desirable. I could barely keep a clear head. I tapped on the glass door and was enthusiastically received.
    “Prompt as usual,” she said as she greeted me with a smile and a chaste kiss.
    “I like being on time. It shows respect. In the theater it‘s often said that if you are five minutes late you must multiply the minutes by the number of people waiting for you. That adds up quickly. I’d rather be early, in fact. For all you know, I could have been loitering for some time on the grounds.”
    “Security would have picked you up, but I slept with the judge a few years back and you’d be out on bail in no time.”
    “Fortunate for me.”
    She offered me a seat on a redwood chaise with a blue canvas cushion. Then she pulled a bottle of chilled Krug from the ice bucket nearby, filled a glass for me and