So much for the bimbo alert; if she read books like that, then there was a light on upstairs, above the splendid front porch.

She came through the door the moment my beer arrived. Fortyish, salon-blonde, spray tan, fake boobs and real diamonds. Anywhere else it would be a bimbo alert, but in Florida it was just protective coloration.

I'd spent my whole career dealing with badasses taking care of my nine-month-old boy should be a lark.

If I was in deep shit with Lilian before, I was snorkeling at the waste treatment plant now.

No wonder Thanksgiving was my favorite—you can't buy it, wrap it, or put it under a tree, and even the greeting card companies can't seem to make a buck off of it. It's just a meal, with people who you love and who love you back, no matter what.