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Agatha’s Point of View
It was Saturday when the smell of jet fuel and roasting asphalt greeted me as the aircraft doors opened.
There was a ten-degree difference between Sicily and Chicago. I was ready for it with a light cashmere cardigan before disembarking. At the luggage carousel, Henry, Rosa, and Concetta paused to open cases and find warmer clothes.
I laughed.
“Eighty-four degrees is considered civilized. People will be crowding North Avenue and Montrose beaches.”
Henry nodded while pulling on a light windproof jacket. The others looked at me as though I were mad.
“I’ll swim in ninety-four after a month. The top layer has to feel warm.”
I nodded to the doors.