"Hello, you must be Shayne. I'm Mr. Caldwell's boy, Jerome. Come on in. I'll take your bag to your room. He's out beyond the great room, in the pool. Go on back."
With that welcome, I entered the world of Ted Caldwell, retired supposed master spy, the man I'd been sent to the New Jersey shore to interview over the weekend for Spy magazine.
"I think it's wreckage of a ship. From the storm last night. It's not strange to find ship wreckage on the Cefalu beach after a tempest like that."
Two scouts, on their regular patrol along the Adrano coastline while the forces of the Prince of Madness sought to invade the island nation, had stopped on the beach, their attention arrested by shattered ship planking and tangles of shredded sailcloth washing up in the surf.
"Oh yes, unh, yes, we can do that, uhh, sure, tomorrow, ahh, three thirty, uhh, okay, see you then, uhhh...Mariss' you lil' devil!"
Andrea Vaughn snapped the phone shut and slid forward in her high backed leather chair. It had become increasingly difficult to discuss terms with a potential advertiser while her lover/partner was between her legs licking her pussy.
"Are we sure we want to sell the house? It's in a great location and it should be scarfed right up. There won't be second thoughts to be had about it. Sales in Mystic are booming."
Daren Peters was standing at a window at the back of the house, taking a break with a cup of coffee, while his older sister, Peggy, chattered on as she continued packing boxes to send back to California.
The wind howled like a symphony of sick dogs trained to sing commercial jingles. Jason slumped into the ski lodge, cursing God, snow and his uncle Errol, for sending him to some god-forsaken corner of the world where they still had fresh-air and blindingly white snow, which usually came in the form of ass-freezing blizzards.