The reef, and the white sand, and the sparkling water, and the Caribbean trees were almost enough to forget death. Horse racing and polo punctured the air. It was a big island. Gregson knew he wouldn’t be murdered in the sunshine.
“Care for a picnic?” He asked Tiffany.
“Yes,” she smiled.
They walked down the dock to the arena.
“Horses,” Gregson said. “Two.”
“Dos Caballos,” a boy yelled.
“Your fittest, if you have ’em.”
Gregson looked half cowboy, maybe Hawaiian cowboy. His hula shirt and tan shorts didn’t go well with his sombrero, but the benefits of being a life-time bachelor were that he could be whomever he wanted to be.
“You don’t wear clothes well,” Tiffany said.
“Uh, hu,” Gregson grunted.
“A hallmark of a man’s style is his watch and his shirt. You can tell a lot by how a man dresses.”
Gregson looked at her.
She was a young woman and he was much older. He admired her hooks and screws. Younger men were probably tortured by her advice and they changed. She turned them into ideal men.
Gregson smiled a deep smile that penetrated his insides. He had style; a different kind of style.
“I know you,” Tiffany said, “but what are you smiling about?”
“The trail is long and the adventure is near,” Gregson said. He kneed his horse and the galloping began. His shirt blew in the breeze and Tiffany spotted a silver six-shooter fastened to his hip. Their horses followed island trails, churning up dust, and breathing volcanic fire.