Last night after dinner at Hadicurari’s, Matt slipped away to head to the casino as Kathy joined Peter and me. Her blue eyes contrasted nicely with her dark tan, and she had brown hair pulled back in a faux pony tail – more of a wash and wear do than her permanent style. She carried a beer in an insulated holder and her voice was cigarette deep.

“You two are brothers, aren’t you?”

“We are, how did you know?” I asked.

“You have the same hair. I watched you from my room on the eighth floor.”

“You know, I meant to get mine cut so I’d look less like him, but I never got around to it.”

“I saw you and your wife too.”

“From the eighth floor? Up there?” I pointed.

Before she could say yes, Peter asked her her name and where she was from.

“Wisconsin. I own a bar. Thirty years, but I’m ready to retire.”

That led to why she was in Aruba – friends with a timeshare; her only trip to Indiana – the nose bleed seats at the Indy 500; and then back to her curious perch.

“Yeah, I saw you two from the eighth floor. I could tell you were brothers.

She knew we had the same parents, and I knew something too.

I put my arm around her shoulder and pulled her ear close to my mouth. “Kathy,” I said, “That kinda creeps me out.”