The small, frontal analogue took sensible direction.
Our house in Florida would go on building now—for us. The flower-filled patio and the white roof with bunting vines abloom—the cypress bedroom up among the branches of live oaks, melaleucas, orchid trees, and sweet frangipanis—the workroom with books all around, a raised fireplace and a rail to put my feet on while someday, perhaps, I marked the typed pages of the long-projected Explanation. I could write it. I could devote all my time to it: twenty-four thousand dollars were going—not into my estate—but my account.
I spun the Astolat's revolving door.
Ricky stood there—bright omen and good harbinger! Prayer answered and that best conduct I am capable of, rewarded. She wore a violet suit to match the strangest tint of her bejeweled gaze. She wore a hat with a violet feather to joust adversity and make the place for joy. Raindust glittered in her dark curls and the silver in her curls. She was smiling as she signed the register. How much she smiles!
She saw me.
"Darling!"
We kissed casually. We always do. Perhaps we are a little self-conscious in public and this may be because we are not, when we are alone with each other.
I thought she was there in response to the mute messages of the weekend. To go back with me if I wanted to go back—to stay if I wanted to stay. Possibly to shop for a day. But suddenly I could sense the wrongness of that.
"I decided I better fly down to see the doctor," Ricky said. "You won't mind waiting over another day?"
"What's the matter?"