She looked up at me and raised an eyebrow."You're a rebel," she said. It was not a question, but I nodded."My husband was not. Didn't hold with war at...all, with killing."I told her my name and she said hers was Fran. "Francine actually," she said with a small laugh. "My mother rather favored the French. A Huguenot her father or grandfather was, I've forgotten which."We stood awkwardly in her back room. The house was quiet, and I assumed we were alone. She might have been twenty-five, perhaps. Ted was flipping meat on the grill. Mismatched chairs were set up in something of a circle on the dusty ground near the home’s back stairs. Their local bartender Marty was sitting in a folding camping chair next to the beer cooler with his back turned to him. John shouted to him for a brew but all he got was a grunt.As he walked towards the two men he noticed something a tanned flesh color on the ground between Marty’s knees. Another step and he knew it was a curvy rump, the side of a girl’s. More

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