“Well, get ready for an experience,” I said. “After this you’ll never eat another crab unless it comes from Miss Darcey.

We both took a bite at the same time. Patricia had her eyes cast to the side in contemplation as she chewed. Then, as she looked up again she had a smile of near ecstasy on her face.

“My God,” she murmured before quickly digging out another forkful and taking a second bite. “I’ve never tasted anything like this. It’s so delicate and yet so rich.”

“It’s Miss Darcey’s secret recipe, but as you saw in her kitchen, she makes hers of freshly caught crab and spices. The ones you buy in the restaurants and stores are by and large bread stuffing, with little more than a rumor of crab in them,” I said, before taking a second bite myself.

We then settled into the meal and held off with the conversation until we had finished. I poured Patricia another glass of wine and then topped off my own glass. We both sipped and then sat back in satisfaction.

I lifted my glass in salute. “Not too shabby, eh?”

Patricia lifted hers in acknowledgment and took a sip.

“What a fabulous day, Tanner. Do you always live like this?” she asked as she lowered the glass from her lips.

“Yeah,” I replied. “This is pretty much my normal routine, broken only by the demands imposed by a life of independent poverty.”

“Well, I’d like to be included in some of your other excursions now and then; that is, if you wouldn’t mind my company,” she said in a soft voice.

As we looked at one another I felt an old stirring inside me and realized that I’d like to get to know the tall woman sitting across the table from me.

“I’d like that, too, Patricia,” I replied at last. She gave me a warm smile at those words.

“Good,” was her reply.

We sat quietly for a few moments before Patricia stood up and announced, “Come on, let’s get this stuff cleaned up before I have to leave.”

We gathered up the used plates, silverware, and glasses and made our way to the galley. For once, it was a pleasure to do the dishes. With that chore finished we hiked up the ramp to the parking lot beneath the trees. The sun cast long shadows across the ground as we climbed into my old Bronco and I cranked the engine. We then wheeled out to the street and soon were on Highway 80 headed east toward Tybee Island.

We had just crossed the bridge over Bull River when Patricia put her back against the door and turned to look at me.

“Kennesaw, I want to be straight with you about something,” she said, in a serious voice.

I glanced over and saw a solemn look on her face.