An iStory
by Lois P. JonesIt always begins with the same scene—his long white fingers wrapped around my short black hand. It’s February in Geneva and we’re walking on Cour St-Pierre toward his Great-Aunt Beatrice’s home. Snowflakes fall unhurriedly. They remind me of our long nights in Paris. She is very rich. She will leave me everything when she dies, he says.
