"I hope we can keep it that way."
"How's your father?"
"He can't get out of bed any more. He can't sit up, even in bed. He'll die soon, Lucienne."
"I hope I'll be missed when I'm gone," she said. "Me and my trees and my flowers. Do you think I'll ever be able to send my lovely jacaranda seedlings to Guadalajara? The governor wanted them. Ah, these are hard times, for even such simple things as trees."
Raul thought: How fine she is, how much a woman! And he put his mouth on hers; they were friends and lovers; in the warmth and strength of their embrace they found hope.
He decided to remain at Palma Sola a while, maybe no more than three days. He wanted to forget. Together they would see pelicans lurch into the sea, frigate birds ride the wind, herons take the sun. Together they would walk on the beach or go out to sea, in a dugout, trolling.
In the morning, lying close to her open window facing the ocean, he traced the copper coloring of her throat, his fingers moving lightly. Her long hair tangled his arms. His mouth sought her breast.
The ocean breeze tossed the curtains and moved her hair. He drew her, half asleep, underneath him. It had been a long time since they had loved each other in the early morning; laughter bubbled out of her, slowly, slowly. Palma Sola, single tree, phallic, alive. She groaned and laughed against his neck. His body grew tense with joy.
There was nothing to get them up till late. In the afternoon, Federicka and her family went to Colima. The weather was perfect, a little of spring, a little of summer.
The next day, Lucienne said, "Tomorrow we'll go to Colima," and then postponed then: departure. So, for several days they rode horseback, fished, lolled on the beach, and took walks together. The newspapers carried distressing news and when they read them together they were perplexed and saddened. They knew time was ebbing away.