Els placed the lamp next to Jack’s big chair. It looked perfect there, its bead fringe a jaunty counterpoint to the scuffed leather. “The first home that’s all mine,” she said, “is a gourmet meal after living on junk food.”
“That sequined gown and the Dr. Zhivago coat aren’t exactly Fritos.”
“Should have donated all that to a London charity,” Els said. “I’ve no closets for it. And a snowball’s chance of wearing any of it here.”
“You could add feathers to that underwear and parade through town during Culturama,” Lauretta said, and returned to unpacking the lamps.
Els watched her buzz about the lounge, examining each item and placing it with conviction, though seldom to Els’s taste. Finally, she said, “You just unpack the boxes. I’ll figure out where to put everything.”
“As you wish,” Lauretta said. “As usual.”
Els arranged her mother’s twenty-three drawings and paintings in date order on the refectory table.
Lauretta examined the collection. “You’d never guess those were by the same person.”
“In a way, perhaps they weren’t,” Els said. The emotional impact of the pieces varied—comforting, agitated, and furious—and their colors were alternately tranquil, festive, or gloomy. Her favorites were the earliest drawing of the animals, which made her feel as if her mother were reading her a bedtime story, and the self-portrait, which captured her own anger, all the more volcanic and disorienting since Mallo’s death.
Lauretta ran her fingertip over the gardenia signature on a harbor scene with orange sails against a cobalt sea, but since Els had no answer to the unasked question, she said nothing. She put the animal drawing on her bedside table and hung the self-portrait in the study, where its unframed raw power felt right.
They worked all afternoon, and when they were finished, Els’s belongings were melded with Jack’s in a quirky mélange that made her smile.
The empty shipping container crowded the court, and, in the light of the full moon, its serial numbers and letters glowed against its rusty sides. Els sank into a chair and watched the clouds darken to smoke, imagining the container’s travels. For the first time in at least five years, she hadn’t been on a plane in over a month. A night heron squawked and lifted off, threading through the palms and over the ribbon of drive.
When her gaze returned to the container, Jack was leaning against it, his shirt silvery in the moonlight. She jumped up and grabbed the broom she’d been using to sweep the steps. As a weapon it was ludicrous, but she planted her feet and held the handle across her chest like a fighting stick.
“Good evening, sweet,” he said. His voice was seductive. He walked soundlessly across the gravel to about ten feet from the bottom step.
She looked at her broom. Sparrow had warned her never to sweep at night.
“Did I . . . summon you?”
“Don’t believe all that mumbo jumbo,” he said. “It’s hard work getting here. I waited until your gear arrived. You’re less likely to flee now.” He stuck his hands into his pockets. “We should try to get along, seeing as we have so much in common.”
“I’ve nothing in common with a fancier of frisky young things, a drunken brawler.”
“How about an unabashed romantic, inveterate questioner, recovering pugilist?” He took a step forward.
“That’s close enough.”
The breeze played with his shirttails. “This house,” he said. “It called to you as strongly as it did me, once. We share more than you want to admit.” He raised his hands in surrender, turned a full circle, and smiled rakishly. “You can put down your weapon.”
She lowered the broom and hugged the handle to her chest. “I can’t blame you on nightmares or booze this time.”
He looked up at her. “Glad to see that getting some use.”
She looked down. After her shower, she’d pulled on his pale blue linen shirt.
“I always loved the look of a woman in a man’s shirt,” he said. “Bare legs hinting at what might be just above the hem. This moonlight on your alabaster skin turns you positively celestial.”
“Just how much of this alabaster skin have you seen?” she asked. The thought struck her that he might have been watching her naked in the rain during the hurricane, or on the shower platform—that he was always about, as if the wind had eyes.
“I don’t spy,” he said. “And I wouldn’t join a lady in her bath unless invited. If you’re so worried, put up a curtain.”