Chapter 40

William ate the last of his French fries, wiped his ketchup-stained fingers on the pale blue napkin, and then poured himself another glass of wine.

Red wine with fish! My God, what had she done? Should she have waited longer, thought harder before marrying William? Dora glanced over at the brook and wanted to travel with it, over the slippery, moss-covered rocks winding its way down the mountains to an aquamarine sea.

“You okay, honey?” William asked.

“I’m fine,” Dora said, but she didn’t mean it.

Later, William paid for the meal while Dora went in search of the ladies’ room, or so she said.

Dora’s mind turned the phrase over and over. The blue door inn, the blue door inn. Like a cobalt blue mantra, the beginning notes to a sky blue symphony. Could there be such a thing as blue magic? Black magic was wicked, satanic. Maybe blue magic was the other kind. Benevolent, merciful, and compassionate.