The Eight Sentences:


Biloxi Beach, Mississipi, circa 1947 This man is my mental image of Mr. Debert.

“Yes and it’s nice to meet someone who knows French, you never know these days.”
“I spent several years in the Deep South — Louisiana, they speak a little French down there.”
“I know,” his voice was a rich baritone, almost bass, soft yet confident — and so masculine — he could have been the man of her dreams.
“How would you know that?”, she asked.
“I’ve followed you for several years now,” Debert said, “It isn’t easy to keep track of your movements, but then you try so hard.” He could see that she was becoming uneasy with that revelation, “Don’t worry, I won’t tell.”
“I like your voice,” she commented, “You seem mysterious and, at the same time, charming.”
There was a twinkle in his eye, and he smiled again.

The Back Story:

There were two men in the life of Claudia Barry that had earned her respect and trust. The older of the two had been around for years, although they had not had the opportunity for much conversation since a lunch meeting in New Jersey in the fall of 1976. It had always been an occasional fleeting glance. Then one icy day in January of 1999, Claudia was dining alone at her favorite Irish pub, the Tir na nOg in downtown Manhattan, across from Penn Station when he walked up to her table. The snippet above comes from their conversation.

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