Free The Land of Mango Sunsets by Dorothea Benton Frank

catalogs from Victoria’s Secret, the Walker’s Warehouse, and a number of other places.”
    “That’s a little strange.” Kevin picked up a red wool turtleneck sweater and stuffed it inside a weathered denim barn coat that was lined in red plaid. “What do you think?”
    “Let’s pack it. So, I marched myself upstairs, and what do you think she answered the door wearing?”
    “Her altogether?”
    “Just about…I said, ‘Listen, Liz? Do you know that tampering with the mail is a federal offense? And, why don’t I wait right here while you go put on some pants?’”
    Kevin laughed. “So what did our little pole dancer say?”
    “She did not know it was a federal offense and she did not put on her pants.”
    “Well, JMJ, with a little crucifix over the M!”
    “You can say that again. But here’s the bad part. She said, ‘But I didn’t think you would be interested in lingerie or exercise clothes.’ She was right, of course, and I thought, Well, that’s another cause of my trouble, isn’t it? It made me plenty mad with her and with myself.”
    “Well, honey, you and I have talked about this. Realizing these things is good. It’s healthy. The question is: What-do-you-plan-to-do-about-it?”
    “Oh, Lordy. Well, I think I’m going to lose a little weight. Or attempt to anyway. I have actually been thinking about belly dancing or kickboxing and I can’t decide. Either one might put me in the hospital.”
    Kevin sat down on my bed, grinning and shaking his head. “Petal? Petal? Why don’t we start with something kinder and gentler, like walking?”
    “It’s terrible outside. Ice everywhere? I could break my leg! Or something else!”
    “Like a nail! I’m going to buy you a treadmill…”
    “Be serious. I don’t have room in here for another toothpick.”
    “They make one that folds down and slides under your bed.”
    “I despise treadmills!”
    “Well, Miriam? Precious? Mother used to always say, pride knoweth no pain.”
    “Oh, hell’s bells.” I let a tiny expletive slip. “Buy the treadmill and I’ll pay you back.”
    A few days later I was at thirty thousand feet, en route to Sullivans Island. Although I was landing in Charleston, I never thought of it that way. The island was my destination, as was my mother’s side.
    All it took was a trip to the island to remind me that my boys were not close to me, but I still had blessings. Kevin was so dear and generous to offer to take care of Harry. And to help me pack. And to buy me an instrument of torture that, when used properly—the exercise guru Tony Little himself guaranteed it—would tighten up my, excuse me, buns and lower my cholesterol at the same time. Well, we would see about that part. And I had not heard from Agnes Willis nor had I breathed a word to anyone about her husband, Truman, banging the brains out of Liz Harper, pardon me again, Resident Ho. He had been there the night before I left—at least I assumed it was him as the bouncing and thumping had a familiar ring. I had turned up a CD of Pavarotti singing Tosca, filled the tub with bubbles and my ears with cotton. It was only partially successful.
    The plane began its descent. We circled to land as though the pilot couldn’t spot the airport’s landing strip. Why they always did that I could not conceive, but I can tell you this—the circling reminded me to have my anxiety attack. I white-knuckled the ends of the armrests, squeezed my eyes closed, and begged God to let me live. Once we landed and the door opened, I regained normal breathing and my composure. I picked up my bag on the Jetway and went in search of a taxi.
    And though it was the dead of winter, it was probably fifty degrees outside and the sky was as blue and clear as it could be. It felt like a July heat wave compared to the gray-skied and bitter New York I had left behind.
    The polite but thankfully not chatty driver of the clanking taxi van played gospel music and sang along in low tones, tapping