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the middle of some very delicate action. They could easily have taken it to another Lodge—like the Warburtons in the Ozarks. This way they were going to have to level with her. And she was going to see it all.
    After a late lunch, she took the Canadians into the conference room in the tower. They logged in to Atlanta and picked up their last messages. They killed a couple of hours before departure, grinning into videophones and gossiping. One of the women had run out of video rouge and had to borrow Laura’s.
    At four, the fall Quarterly Report came on line, a little early. The printers chattered hard copy. The Kurosawas picked up their Portuguese translation and left.
    David showed up at five o’clock, and he’d brought his wrecking crew. They stomped into the bar, raided the beer, and rushed upstairs to see the baby. Laura’s mother arrived, sunburned from her boat trip to the OTEC. Galveston’s Ocean Thermal Energy Converter was a civic pride and joy, and one of David’s crew had been on the project. Everyone seemed delighted to trade notes.
    David was peppered head to foot with grime and sawdust. So were his four wrecking buddies. In their work shirts, denim overalls, and heavy boots, they looked like Depression hoboes. Actually David’s friends were a dentist, two marine engineers, and a biology professor, but appearances counted. She tugged his shoulder strap. “Did the European bankers see you, coming in?”
    David beamed paternally as his friends admired Loretta’s amazing new skill at clenching her sweaty little fists. “Yeah, so?”
    â€œDavid, you reek.”
    â€œA little honest sweat!” David said. “What are we, Marxists? Hell, they envy us! Those Luxembourg paper shufflers are dying for a day’s honest work.”
    Supper with David’s friends was a great success. David broke his principles and ate the shrimp, but refused to touch the vegetables. “Vegetables are full of poisons!” he insisted loudly. “They’re crammed with natural insecticides! Plants use chemical warfare. Ask any botanist!”
    Luckily no one pursued the subject. The wrecking crew called vans and left for home. Laura locked up for the night while the staff loaded the dishes. David took a shower.
    Laura limped up to the top floor to join him. It was sunset. Mr. Rodriguez lowered the flags on the roof and tottered back down three flights of stairs to staff quarters. He was a stoic old man, but Laura thought he looked tired. He’d had lifeguard duty. The Canadians’ manic brood had run him ragged.
    Laura kicked off her sandals and hung her vest and skirt in the bedroom closet. She shrugged out of her blouse, then sat on the bed and peeled off her hose. Her injured ankle had swollen and was now an impressive blue. She kicked her legs out straight and leaned back against the headboard. A ceiling vent came on and cool air poured over the bed. Laura sat in her underwear, feeling tired and vaguely squalid.
    David stalked naked out of the bathroom and disappeared into the baby’s room. She heard him making soothing goo-goo noises. Laura checked tomorrow’s schedule on her watchphone. Her mother was leaving tomorrow. Her departure flight to Dallas was scheduled just before the Grenadians arrived. Laura grimaced. Always more trouble.
    David emerged from the baby’s room. His long hair was parted in the middle and wet-combed down, flatly, over his ears and neck. He looked like a demented Russian priest.
    He flopped down onto the bed and gave her a big, knowing grin. Make that a demented Russian priest with a yen for women, Laura thought with a sinking feeling.
    â€œGreat day, huh?” He stretched. “Man, I worked my ass off. I’ll be sore tomorrow. Feel great now, though. Lively.” He watched her with narrowed eyes.
    Laura was not in the mood. A sense of ritual settled over both of them, a kind of unspoken bargaining. The object