FORSAKEN WIFE, NOW A BILLIONAIRE'S GREATEST REGRET
The title, in my careful twelve-year-old printing, read: "The Adventures of the Pebble Beach Gang."
I sat back on my heels, a lump in my throat. It was a thinly-veiled chronicle of my summers here, of scrappy kids building forts and imagining pirates. The "gang" were my childhood friends, their names changed. The central conflict was a grumpy old man who wanted to fence off "their" beach.
Arthur gently took it from my hands, flipping through the clumsy, heartfelt pages. "You were a keeper even then," he said softly.
That evening, we brought the booklet to the Salty Dog. The sight of it, this artifact from a life before the fight, before any of us knew each other, cast a spell over the table.
Bab Populer