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       "Gail, she's not a baby. You should take another look. A girl is better off with a mother, who can tell her about-" Anthony looked for the word-" feminine things. She can visit her father when she likes, but her home is with you. Be as subtle as you need to, but make your point. You have more power with Karen than he does."
        "Maybe you're right, but I really don't want to talk about it anymore."
        Gail grabbed a towel to take the lasagna out of the oven. Maneuvering it past the door, she grazed her knuckle on the hot metal. "Ouch. Dammit!" The door slammed shut with a clatter of oven racks. She dropped the aluminum pan on the table and waved her hand to shake off the burn.
        "Are you okay?"
        "It's nothing." She looked down at the pan. "I should have put the lasagna in a nicer dish. As if I could find one in that chaos in the garage." Gail let out a long breath, then noticed the folder Anthony had laid on the end of the table when he'd come in. "What's in there? The architect's drawings?"
        "I thought we could look at them over dinner," he said.
        Away from the tourist-clogged section, streets in Coconut Grove curved around overhanging trees and dense tropical foliage-small streets with odd names like Ye Little Wood, Battersea, and Kiaora. The land could rise and fall, as this part of Miami had some altitude-fifteen feet above sea level. One might see a starkly modern house of angled glass and concrete beside a rundown clapboard cottage. The next would be hidden behind a wood fence laden with hot pink bougainvillea. A rainbow flag might fly from one roof, Old Glory from another. At this time of year plants thrust upward and out, blocking the light, climbing over each other, bursting with buds, tendrils, fronds, and leaves the size of dinner plates.
        Clematis Street was a cul-de-sac running along a canal that led to Biscayne Bay. The dozen or so homes were generally of a Mediterranean design, with a few tropical moderns and one white-columned colonial out of its latitude. Gail and Anthony's house was constructed of block and stucco, with a circular drive and covered terraces front and back, tiled to feel cool in the summer. There were two coral rock fireplaces, downstairs and in the master bedroom, for those days in winter when one might want the glow of a fire. The real estate saleslady had used the words charming and cozy.
        As Anthony laid the drawings out on the table-pen and ink with washes of color-Gail wondered if the architect had looked at the right house. It was evident he had gone far beyond plans for a kitchen. The long, narrow living room had doubled in size. The side wall had been pushed out twenty feet, and a massive brass chandelier hung from the ceiling. The stairs, which had been torn out and moved across the room, curved to form a balcony that looked down from the second floor. Gail laid her fork carefully on her plate.
        Anthony showed her a drawing of the new master bedroom. "Here's a view of the upper-floor terrace from our room. It's completely private. Karen's room and the other two bedrooms would have balconies. The guest house would be next to the pool, separate or connected to the main house, whatever we prefer."
        "The pool?"
        As if finally aware of what he was showing her, Anthony shuffled through the sketches. "Well, the architect thought it would add value to the house. You don't want a pool?"
        "But we were only going to redo the kitchen and make some minor repairs, not redesign the entire house. We don't have time for major renovation right now."
        "That's what contractors are for."
        "But somebody has to be here to deal with these people. Not you. I get to do it because I live here."
        "I do not want to live in this house the way it is, and it is better-in my opinion-to do it now, to get it over with-"
        "Anthony, let's just get the kitchen done."
        "Why are you being so negative?"
        "I'm not negative, this is insane!" Gail sat back in her chair. "How much would it cost? Ballpark figure."
        He shrugged. "I don't know. Two-fifty. Three hundred."
        "At least." She propped her chin in her palm. "I hate to tell you, but I've got that old Hawaiian disease-lackamoola." When Anthony went blank, she repeated, "Lackamoola. Lack of-"
        "Okay, I get it."
        "Miriam's been asking for a raise, the computers are costing a fortune, and I'm afraid to spend the money right now."
        He scooted his chair out and reached for her hand. "Sweetheart, listen to me. It was my decision to hire the architect, and the changes-those over budget-I'll take care of them. You don't have to match every dollar I put into the house. I don't expect you to."
        "But I want to."
        "Why?"
        "Because . . . I just do."
        His laugh was an exhalation of disbelief. "What are you trying to prove?
        "I am not trying to prove anything. But when you blithely start talking about three hundred thousand dollars . . ."
        He spun a drawing to the table. "Maybe we shouldn't have bought this house. Maybe we should find something else."
        "Well, you know, I can't say it hasn't crossed my mind a few times as I waited around for someone to come and fix the roof."
        "Is that what you want? All right. Okay, vamos a venderla. I'll call a realtor tomorrow."
        "Another of your typically extreme responses-"
        Above the whir and hum of the air conditioner-always on this time of year-Gail heard a high-pitched noise. It took her a few seconds to realize it was a scream, and that it wasn't a sound effect on one of Karen's CDs. She leaped up.
        "What was that?" Anthony asked.
        "Karen!"
        He automatically glanced upward, then raced for the stairs. Gail heard it again-closer, and coming from the backyard. She ran through the kitchen and onto the terrace, seeing nothing but tangled trees and through them a glimmer of light on the water.
        Karen came hurtling out of the darkness, another girl closely behind, legs pounding. Gail ran across the terrace, nearly tripping on a broken tile.
        A third girl followed more closely. "Come on, guys. He was just kidding."
        Fists clenched, Karen whirled around. The friend with her giggled, breathless with excitement. Gail reached for Karen to make sure she was all right, then moved to stand in front of her, guarding her from whatever might be out there. The gazebo was a crisscross of pale lines, and a small orange dot-a cigarette-flew into the shadows. "Who's there?"
        The third girl slowed. "It's my brother. He didn't mean to do anything."
        A boy sauntered down the steps. Gail could see only a slender frame and blond curls. His voice carried easily on the heavy, humid air. "My mom sent me to find Lindsay."
        Gail glared at him, the same kid who had skidded over her freshly laid sod on his older brother's motorcycle. "Go home, Payton. Now. And stay off this property."
        He shouted back at her, "I wasn't doing anything. Don't get so hyper."
        "I said go home! Do you want me to call your parents?"
        "Go ahead."
        Karen screamed, "Payton, you asshole!"
        Gail grabbed her upper arm. "Don't talk like that!"
        "Owww!"
        "I'm not hurting you." She came closer and sniffed Karen's hair. "What were you doing out there? Smoking?" She shook her. "Answer me."
        The boy vanished into the bushes and his sister fled after him.
        "I wasn't!" Karen tried to twist out of Gail's grip, but slipped and fell on her backside. The girl beside her quickly moved away. This was a chubby little brunette whose tight shirt showed it was time for a bra. Karen started to wail.
        "Oh, stop being so dramatic!"
        The back door banged open, slamming against the wall. Anthony appeared. "¿Qué en el demonio--?"
        "Jennifer!"
        A woman stood at the edge of the house. Gail recognized her-Mrs. Cabrera, Jennifer's mother. They lived a few doors down. With some urgency she called out, "Jennifer, ven aca. Time to come home. Right now."
        Gripping Karen's arm, Gail pulled her to her feet. With Mrs. Cabrera's accusatory eyes on her, she hurried to explain. "They were in the gazebo with friends. I don't know what was going on."
        "Nothing!" yelled Karen. "Mom, let me go!"
        Jennifer made a guilty little wave at Karen. "See ya." Mrs. Cabrera shot another look at the three of them, then bustled her daughter away with a terse "Good night."

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