Page 53 of Suite 7

“It’s low maintenance.”

“It’s the plant equivalent of a warning sign.” She crosses to it before I can respond, leaning in, studying it like it’s evidence. “Does it have a name?”

“No.”

“Of course it doesn’t.” She straightens. “How long have you had it?”

“Six years.”

She goes briefly still. “Six years and no name.”

“It’s a cactus.”

“It’s been alive in your home for six years.” She sounds almost reproving. Then the corner of her mouth turns up. “Who gave it to you?”

“Sloane,” I say. “She said it was the only plant she trusted me not to kill.” A pause I didn’t plan. “She was right.”

Vera looks at me for a moment. Then back at the cactus.

“She knows you well,” she says.

“Better than anyone.”

The word anyone sits in the air between us with its full weight. We both let it.

Then she sets her legal pad on the bar cart. “Okay. I’m naming it.”

“You are not naming my cactus.”

“Someone has to.” She tilts her head, studying it with the focused attention she brought to the negotiation. “Gerald.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Gerald is a perfect name for a cactus.”

“It’s a perfect name for an accountant.”

“Gerald the cactus.” She says it with finality, the tone of someone closing a contract. “Six years without a name is too long. Gerald deserves better.”

I look at her. Standing in my kitchen in her cream sweater, legal pad abandoned, naming my cactus with complete seriousness. I hadn’t expected her to be this.

“Gerald,” I say. Testing it.

She beams. It’s catastrophic. “See? It works.”

“It doesn’t work.”

“Kane.” She picks up her legal pad again, chin lifting. “You just said his name. It works.”

I don’t have an answer for that.

I look at the cactus.

Gerald.

God help me.

She turns, and her gaze moves through the space: the architectural models on the shelves, the clean lines of everything, the total absence of clutter.