isn’t it?”
She glanced sidelong at him. But her irritation at his having seen her eat with such abandon, at his knowing smile, was short-lived. “Yes,” she said. “Aren’t you going to have some?”
He showed her his own banana leaf plate, which she had not noticed in her frenzy. Her old anger at him was like internal fireworks—it soared, exploded with light, fizzled into nothing at all. She was left with only a glowing trace. Meanwhile he took bits of fish in his fingers, chewed thoughtfully, then wiped his fingers on the banana leaf, and tossed it off. He sighed and leaned back, his elbows propping him above the sand.
“What do you think they’re eating now in the Palace Hotel?” he asked.
She didn’t have to think about the answer. “Oysters,” she said reflexively.
“And after that?”
“Lobster bisque.”
“And after that?”
“Duck confit, followed by a walnut and celery salad, followed by squabs and madeira, followed by berries and cream, followed by baba au rhum.”
“And then?”
“And then everyone will moan about how uncomfortably full they are. And then they will all have to retire to their little salons—the men for cigars, the women to loosen their corset strings—and then when everyone is refreshed, they will return to dance.”
“Do you think they’re dancing now?”
“Oh no. Not yet. It feels late because it’s dark. But in San Francisco it’s early, they are only just beginning their evening.” She held his gaze, her lips parted, and she knew they were both thinking of that moment when they first saw each other across such a room, and forgot to talk to anybody else for the rest of the evening. “And in New York?”
“In New York perhaps the dancing is just beginning. They are all catching their second wind, and saying a little tipsily that the night is full of possibility.”
“And here we are.”
“Yes.” He sighed again, not in the satisfied way of before. Now he sounded weary. “Here we are. It is good to hear your voice, Miss Hazzard, thank you. I always liked listening to your voice, to you saying anything. It makes me think we might be all right.”
“I am surprised to hear you talk this way. You never seem to think that everything won’t be all right.”
“Good. That’s how I should seem. But you must know how precarious our situation was, especially in those first days. Is. Everything is still precarious. We should enjoy these moments. These precious moments.”
Her lips parted. She wanted to look at him, but was afraid her eyes would betray some yearning. She wanted to ask him exactly what he meant. But she only nodded and whispered that she understood. “We’ll be all right,” she added, not knowing quite where this conviction came from.
The women were sitting together and talking by the fire that was sparking off into the night. The children were laughing and racing back and forth, everyone happy and relaxed. She didn’t see Camilla anywhere, but there was Dame Edna a little apart from the rest, outside the bright reach of the fire’s light. It was difficult to see in the dimness, but Vida thought the dame was scribbling on a piece of bark with that little pen that dangled from her wrist.
Suddenly aware that they were even more observable here than in a grand room, Vida said, “We should go back.”
“Vida?”
She was so startled by the seriousness with which he held her gaze that she almost laughed. It took some effort, but she managed not to by pressing her lips together. “Yes?”
“I want to tell you something about myself. The person I am in newspapers and things—I made all that up.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean . . . I wasn’t born the dashing adventurer type.” He met her gaze again, and gave a little roll of his eyes, and she couldn’t help it, she liked him for this show of self-deprecation. “I was actually quite a sickly child. Had to wear leg braces until I was ten, and the doctors said they didn’t think I’d live to adulthood. I wasn’t supposed to know about that, but I did. You can learn almost anything when you spend most of your day in bed. It was awful, mostly, but I was educated by private tutors. At fourteen, I’d read more than most can read in a lifetime. Only my best friends know that about me. It is very important to my family that my . . . my weakness not become public. But I am grateful for that time, in