She wanted to do something meaningful, but what, hold his hand?
Then her words jumped out and it was too late. "Let's go to Mexico and find a place on the beach for a couple of days. Pink walls, blue water, bougainvillea in clay pots. A good beach and a maid to clean up."
He looked at her. She saw the moonlight on his black hair, the glint in his eyes. Too soon, she thought. I just scared him off.
You 're a stupid, selfish, greedy, idiotic…
"Pack your things," he said. "I'll pick you up in one hour. Tim can sleep on the way down."
"Wait for me. I'll be ready in half of that."
"Even better. Would you make a pot of coffee? I'll sit here with Frank a minute. Tuck him in."
She got up and brushed the dirt off her knees, left the flashlight on the ground. She came around the grave and ran a hand through Zamorra's hair on her way past. An unexpected thrill, that. Always loved a man's hair.
Walking by the fragrant trees her thoughts split into familiar couples of hope and worry: Zamorra and stingrays, Tim and mosquitoes, love and the
Federates.
She came through the gate onto the grass. Turned and looked back at Zamorra still squatting behind the streak of the flashlight beam, contemplating Frank. Smelled her fingers. Moving toward the house she felt full. Lucky. She felt like dozing with her head against the cool window glass of a car while the radio played low and a capable man drove her someplace she'd always wanted to go.
Felt a little bit of everything.