“'Picturesque’—
isn’t that what you called this place?” Robert Freckleton said,
glaring at his wife of twenty-four years. “Well, I’d call it primitive.”
The couple sat on plastic chairs on the dusty, concrete patio at Café
Felipe, a modest snack bar overlooking the harbor at Boqueron, on Cabo Rojo,
at the southwestern tip of Puerto Rico. Robert, whose pale complexion disclosed
an aversion to outdoor activities, had recently turned fifty. He wore white
tennis shoes with dark socks, Bermuda shorts, and a flowery shirt. His eyeglasses
had little flip-up, green lenses. continue
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