It was only then that Bettina noticed three tans, well-built men in fitted white T-shirts and black Kevlar pants sitting at the adjacent table.



Feeling that she had been patient long enough, Bettina stormed intothe kitchen, the fringe on her crocheted Pucci caftan top shaking furiously as she made a beeline for the woman with a shock of pixie-cut blond hair manning the main stove.

Bettina squinted through her Dior Extase sunglasses at the portly, balding, seventy-something Asian man dressed in a nondescript white short sleeved golf shirt and gray trousers.

THE END



Today she wanted the corner table on the terrace at Sip Sip, her favorite lunch spot on Harbor Island.She wanted to sit on one of the comfy orange canvas director’s chairs and stare out at the gently lapping turquoise waters while eating her Kale Caesar salad, but there was a large noisy group taking up the entire terrace and they didn’t seem in much hurry to leave.



From the kitchen window, she surveyed the party assembled on the terrace with new eyes. These aristo British types were such a strange breed. Sure, they had their Savile Row suits and their heirloom tiaras, but when they traveled, they looked so painfully frumpy.