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Show bikini briefs and said in English, indicating Milan, "This is my C'ous in. " "Son-of-a-bitch," said the young man in Serbo-Croat. The road was the only recourse home. The Meteor carried Delilah's fins and he slapped them against his legs as his pace quickened and he soon left her behind. The final switchback was her aunt's driveway and she paused to catch her breath and look up at the mountains where the first trails of mist formed preparing to roll down and engulf Sveti Stefan. The island waited beautifully, unconcerned. She passed the sign advertising "room" in four languages, the cars with the foreign plates and the lodgers seated on the terrace of her aunt's flagstone triplex, and headed for the back yard. "I started without you," said Mrs. Jovanovic. She sat at a small table outside the kitchen door eating from an array of olives, bread and pickled vegetables. Her back patio was off-limits to tourists and for the long summers she had a second kitchen built there. She slept in the inside kitchen, while her other rooms were taken by Delilah and bed-and-breakfast customers, only for protection from the damp, night air and the occasional mosquito. A sturdy, dark-haired widow, she was susceptible to night chills and dampness settling in her lungs. "A good day today?" Mrs. Jovanovic asked and poured her niece a small glass of wine. "Yes, beautiful. Such luxury to be on the beach all day." "You are so brown. You will roast if you are not careful." "Yes," said Delilah raising her glass to the setting sun, "but what a way to go." |
