Real estate photographs have the same relationship to reality that family Christmas letters do.
Everything appears brighter, wider, happier.
Still, the place had large windows, a small balcony, and a view of palm trees across the courtyard.
Luis and his crew carried in my furniture while I directed traffic.
The blue armchair went near the window.
Arthur’s mother’s sideboard fit against the dining wall.
My desk went into the second bedroom.
The coffee maker occupied the most important position in the kitchen.
Linda arrived at noon carrying sandwiches, two iced teas, and an orchid.
“What is that for?” I asked.
“People bring plants when someone starts a new chapter.”
“I’m renting for thirty days.”
“Then it’s a short chapter.”
She walked into the living room and surveyed the boxes.
“So.”
“So.”
“Are you terrified?”
“Yes.”
“Regret it?”
I considered the question.
“No.”
Linda nodded.
“Good. Then eat your sandwich.”
That afternoon we unpacked dishes while I told her the full story.
I told her about Hawaii.
I told her about the note.
And finally, I told her what I had heard Rebecca say six months earlier.
It’s not really her we need. It’s her money.
