Closeted in the chilly first floor flat above the Charity shop, Sylvie wrapped the crocheted blanket tightly around her. Nestled in her trembling hands, the letter she had received that morning quivered in her lap. Cool Rivers had died. Cool Rivers, minstrel, laughing poet, love of her life.
After the Summer of ’69 she had chosen the security of the known, left him to tread the hippie trail to the Spanish mountains alone.
She should have gone too.
From the TV screen Barnaby was summoning Jones, as a single tear slid down onto the envelope smudging her name into a flower.