09-Twelve Mile Limit by Randy Wayne White Page B

the party to move with a complex intensity and at a much faster pace.
    A final contributing factor to the near riot that occurred may have been presaged earlier that day by Dieter Rasmussen, who’d told us that the fourth stage of mourning usually included anger with a potential for violence.
    What began as a celebration of a good woman’s life later turned very violent indeed.
    By the time the limbo contest started, I’d had four or five tumblers of fresh grapefruit juice and vodka and was enjoying myself very much. First time I got a chance, I went up to Amelia Gardner and apologized for apparently suggesting that she had some guilty secret to confess, explaining, “It’s not that I was suspicious of you, I just don’t know you well enough. When someone asks me to keep something confidential, I need to know who and what I’m dealing with for a very simple reason—if I give my word, I will keep the information confidential.”
    It seemed to mollify her, put us back on friendly footing again, which pleased me more than I expected. I liked her rangy looks, her private, businesswoman’s grin, the way she moved from group to group, socializing comfortably. Liked her plain, handsome face, her Irish hair. Liked the way she stood, hands on hips, one knee bent slightly—a cattle wrangler’s stance—and the way her expression narrowed, focusing, when people spoke to her, giving them her absolute attention. She was a person alone among strangers, but one who could take care of herself, no problem.
    One thing I was unable to do was get her by herself long enough to ask about the boat she said she’d seen. At one point, I tried, and she touched a finger to her lips very briefly, and said, “Later, okay? I’m going to spend the night with your sister. She said she has a house near here?”
    True. Along with her Hewes Bonefisher, Ransom had used the inheritance from her father, Tucker Gatrell, to buy a tiny little bungalow just down from Ralph Woodring’s place, off Woodring’s Point, near the mouth of Dinkin’s Bay. Ralph let her keep the skiff at his dock, so she could run back and forth to the marina anytime she wanted.
    “Okay,” I told Amelia, pleased that she was staying. “We’ll get together late tonight. Or tomorrow, maybe, for breakfast.”
    The big fight began at Sanibel Grill, moved to the Crow’s Nest at ’Tween Waters Inn on Captiva, then spilled out onto the deck of the pool bar, spreading to the little beach that angled into the bay.
    It started an hour or so after the limbo contest, which Tomlinson won, though I did not see the finish for the simple reason that I preferred not to watch. When Tomlinson limbos, he wears nothing but his sarong, which is why Mack, Jeth, and I, along with most of the other fishing guides, made it a point to stroll out on the docks and talk among ourselves—unless it was Ransom’s turn. Except for me, there wasn’t a man at the marina who didn’t want to watch her.
    Which is why I tend to be overly protective of her, and overly suspicious of any man who shows an interest in her.
    There is no denying that Ransom is a stunning-looking woman. I’m not certain of her age. She refuses to confide even in me. With her long, sprinter’s legs, dense muscularity, and skin the color and texture of chocolate toffee, she could be thirty-two—or forty-five. No telling. What I do know is that, a few years back, she got tired of being overweight and out of shape and, in her own words, decided to take back her “womanly life.” She started working out, watching her diet, and now she is mostly muscle and sinew, but with all the appropriate angles and curves, and she has become my devoted running and weightlifting partner.
    Tomlinson often refers to her as living proof of his own private theory: The world’s most beautiful women are always well into their thirties, forties, or fifties because only the experience of living and prevailing day after day can provide the necessary emotional texture and depth of