Trial by Fury

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Helen Wilkins, wearing nothing but the cork-soled beach shoes stood back in the room where she could not be observed and, by standing on tiptoe, managed to see over the concrete railing around the small private sundeck, down onto the Florida beach where minute shoulders and backs and trim thighs were deep brown against the glaring white of the sand.

She did a small dance step, stumbled and blushed as she caught sight of herself in the full length mirror. She stood in front of the mirror and took inventory. The third careful inventory in so many days. Her throat was good, she knew. None of the horizontal creases that so many women of thirty-five acquire. The throat swelled into a firm body that looked tight and young.

She frowned. It was the face that was wrong. A thirty-five-year-old face on a twenty-two-year-old body. That was Harry’s fault. Harry with his constant whining and fussing had put those deep lines from the nostrils down around the corners of the full lips. He had made the flesh sag along the jawbone.

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