Charon's Crossing

"The shower!" Jason burst out laughing. "I'm kissing you, and you're thinking of the shower?"

"I dare you to say something like that next summer, when the city's in the middle of a drought," she said, smiling as she stepped out of his embrace. "Look, why don't you heat up our gourmet bre

akfast while I shower and dress?"

Jason touched his finger to the tip of her nose. "I could do that. Or I could help you scrub your back."

Kathryn grinned. "Not in that shower, you couldn't." She kissed him lightly on the mouth. "I'll only be a minute."

Jason watched as she hurried down the hall. Then he sighed, picked up the paper sack and headed for the kitchen. He took the two coffee containers from the bag, popped off the lids and put the containers into the microwave. Then he dumped the bagels and donuts on a plate, put that into the oven, too, and punched in the right settings.

The oven began to hum and he leaned back against the counter.

Kathryn was right. She'd be back from the Caribbean before he knew it and they could begin planning their future.

Then, why did he have this feeling of unease?

Chapter 2

Amos Carter was not a vain man but he was definitely an honest one.

That was why he couldn't pretend that talent and ability were the reasons he was Elizabeth Island's busiest attorney.

The facts were simple. Amos had the island's most active law practice because he had its only law practice.

If a storm wrecked your fishing boat and the insurance company gave you a hard time collecting your money, if you quarreled with your neighbor over whose land his pigs were destroying, you either went to Amos or you went to another island. And that wasn't easy, considering that Elizabeth Island was tucked away from the tourist track, many miles to the west of Martinique, St. Lucia, and the other Windward Islands of the Caribbean.

Amos had come here a dozen years ago, ready for peaceful retirement after forty years of practicing law in the Caymans. He bought a house in the dunes above a beach, and a thirty foot gaff-rigged catboat to play around in, and he spurned all efforts at hospitality.

When the first neighbor had appeared at his door in search of legal advice, Amos had not been subtle.

"I am no longer prostituting myself in the name of justice," he'd said, his voice plummy with the upper-class elegance of his British public school training.

But the man persisted. The case had a flavor and nuance that piqued Amos's curiosity. He became interested. A few days later, he'd found himself once again practicing law.

Now, as he paced impatiently alongside the narrow strip of crushed pink shell that was Elizabeth Island's pitiful excuse for an airport, he berated himself for having let that neighbor in the door ten years before.

If he hadn't, he'd be out in his sailboat right now, sipping a cold lager, his well-thumbed copy of Cicero in his lap, the prospect of a dinner of freshly caught flying fish looming pleasantly ahead.

Instead, he was sweating out here in the hot sun, impatiently awaiting the arrival of the twice-weekly plane from Grenada which was already almost an hour late.

Amos scowled, slipped off his wide-brimmed Panama hat and used it to fan his glistening black face. Not that that was unusual. The plane was always late. In truth, it was the fact that he was here at all that had him so irritated.

He was waiting for a woman named Kathryn Russell. He'd never set eyes on her, never had more than a few telephone conversations with her, but he knew, without question, that she was going to be one monumental pain in the ass for the next seven days.

Amos's scowl deepened as he snapped a spotless white linen handkerchief from the breast pocket of his white linen suit and mopped it across his bald head.

It was bad enough he'd gone back to the profession that had sent him scurrying from the distasteful company of humans in the first place. That he'd taken on a client as eccentric as Trevor Russell was even worse, but Russell had come to him with what had seemed the simplest of requests.

"I'm at that age where I suppose I should have a will, Mr. Carter," he'd said.

Amos, taking a look at the face made ruddy by too much sun, whiskey and women, had silently agreed.

He hadn't liked Russell very much. The man's cavalier, devil-may-care attitude had been almost personally offensive to someone who believed in responsibility, hard work and commitment.

A month after Amos had drawn up the will, Russell had died in a spectacular car crash in Lisbon. Amos figured it had probably been more in keeping with the sort of life the man had led than beachcombing on an all but forgotten Caribbean island.

It had fallen to Amos, as executor, to convey the news of Trevor Russell's bequest to his sole heir, his daughter, Kathryn.