It was the largest hotel in town where dignitaries and journalists stayed. She walked into the bar and smiled. The gang was all there. The world of th... foreign correspondents was small and getting smaller. Bob Lacosta was an award winning journalist with the New York Times and looked every inch the part. He was bald with a large paunch, glasses and suspenders. He was a hard nosed journalist but engaging and kind. She guesses he was in his late 50s. ‘There she is,’ Bob called out to her. ‘How. ‘So tell me something sweetheart. How long have you been left-handed?’ He wasn’t wearing a wedding band. ‘Oh…aha…years, I mean, my whole life!’ I faltered. Nodding to my empty glass, he asked, ‘Want that refilled?’ ‘Oh, um…sure.’ The bartender grinned. I wondered how many girls he’d seen bobble their way into this guy’s personal space. ‘Patrick Levin,’ he said, turning to shake my hand. He had big blue eyes and striking cheekbones. ‘Sheila O’Hara,’ I offered, sliding onto the next stool. A. More

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