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It was not a day for shopping. It was Sunday, the traditional day of rest. Moreover, during the night, the wind had swung out of the West. Already this morning, the horizon hung heavy with roiling thunderheads. At the darkled junction where the Western sky rested upon the earth, flashes of lightning were slicing into a frightened land.
Before the storm could break upon us, we grabbed a quick communal shower.
In robes, we ordered breakfast in the room. As we waited for its delivery, I busied myself in the kitchen, making coffee. The suite was filled with the seductive aroma of Colombian beans being ground and drip processed in a Melita filter. Coffee, pastries, and fresh Florida fruit for breakfast. We discussed our plans for the day. By now, the storm's leading edge, a jagged line stretched from side to side of the sky, was hard upon us. The wind of the squall broke over us, gusting to and fro, dangerously close to the whirling precursor of a tornado. Rain was beginning to pelt our balcony, soon slanting in near horizontal sheets, driven by the whipping wind. The thunder was a continuous roar. An electrical storm as only South Florida, pinned between ocean and gulf, can brew them. Several times as we ate, the lights flickered. Once, they went out for the better part of a minute.
But, as is usually the case with such intense tempests, the violent part of the assault soon passed. Still, the sky stayed dark and brooding. Rain, gentler now but still insistent, continued to pour down. Occasionally, the caliginous sky outside grew suddenly, brilliantly blue-white, and the air was split by the crashing roar of another nearby lightning strike. The line squall had been but a brutal messenger. It had issued an imperious announcement of the stormy day to come.
Today would be a day to stay in--a perfect day for Jazmand to share with us Rashad's Record. I announced my intention to have her do so.
"It's not very good writing," she protested. "I'm not like you. I never wrote anything. I probably wouldn't have passed Senior English at FSU if I hadn't flirted with the professor."
I smiled at her self depreciation. I knew Jazmand to be very bright, and a gifted communicator. I was certain her diary would give us valuable insight into the character of our adversary.
"It's hard to just read it aloud," she went on when I didn't reply. "I really didn't write it to share. It's got a lot of personal stuff in it."
"Jazmand," I reprimanded, "All good writing is personal. Mary and I love you. We want to know what's in your heart. And after all the stuff you've seen us do, what could possibly be in here," I continued, waving the diary, "that would embarrass you in front of us?"
"Umm. We have done some stuff, haven't we," Jaz admitted, a soft smile brightening her face. "Still, I'd feel better if you read it...
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