"We're roughing it," Joe said, pouring more into his paper cup. "I wrote the cat burglar story," he remembered.
"Oh, good!"
"Yeah, I took it to the house in Kahala. An old guy answered the door and told me that the family had sold him the house and moved to California. He was nice. He gave me their address, so I sent the story. You were right; it was my responsibility. It felt good to drop the letter in the mail. Hope it gets to her." Alison clapped her hands. The horses ears picked up. "I used to work with someone who lived around here," Joe said. "The horses reminded me. Her name was Lovena. Her family took care of horses."
"Where did you work?"
"In a warehouse. She was slim, like a boy, with short black hair and brown skin. She was strong—beautiful, really. I was falling in love with her, but I was married." Alison sighed.
"Lovena was great, very shy and quiet, hard working. Sometimes she talked to me when the orders were packed and shipped. She talked about horses and barracuda and manta rays. I guess there's one time of year when mantas come into shallow water to mate or lay eggs or something. People can step on them by accident and get hurt." Joe paused, remembering. "When Lovena said 'manta' or 'barracuda,' the words weren't just names; they were respectful. A 'bar-ra-cu-da' was important, important as any life."
"What happened to her?"
"Don't know. I quit. I hated to say goodbye. In fact, the last day there, I asked if I could come see her. She was feeling bad, too. She looked me in the eye and said, 'Yeah—and you bring your wife and that pretty little girl with you."'
"Good for her," Alison said.
"Mmm."