The Accidental Tourist [antikvár]

They were supposed to stay at the beach a week, but neither of them had the heart for it and they de-cided to come back early. Macon drove. Sarah sat next to him, leaning her head against the side window. Chips of cloudy sky showed through her tangled brown curls. Macon wore a formal summer suit, his traveling suit— much more logical for traveling than jeans, he always said. Jeans had those stiff, hard seams and those rivets. Sarah wore a strapless terry beach dress. They might have been returning from two entirely different trips. Sarah had a tan but Macon didn't. He was a tall, pale, gray-eyed man, with straight fair hair cut close to his head, and his skin was that thin kind that easily bums. He'd kept away from the sun during the middle part of every day. Just past the start of the divided highway, the sky grew almost black and several enormous drops spattered the wind-shield. Sarah sat up straight. "Let's hope it doesn't rain," she said. "I don't mind a little rain," Macon said. Sarah sat back again, but she kept her eyes on the road.