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Denise let Vern drive them back down from Vashon Island to Mount Hood. He was doggedly slow, barely cracking the speed limit, but she wasn’t up to the challenge. She simply lay back and watched the cities give way to the lazy hills of southern Washington. Vern took Route 14 down along the shores of the Columbia River.
They climbed Beacon Rock to look down at the river, though her legs still throbbed from last night. On a dance area sufficient for maybe three couples, she must have bumped into every resident of the whole island. Twice. Matriarchs had danced with two-foot-tall great-granddaughters. Teens used it as an excuse to slow dance in a tight clench no matter how upbeat the tempo. One couple had somehow managed to find room to waltz, slicing neat lines back and forth through the
