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"Isn't it wonderful? Oh, wait until you meet him! This is the most
terrific man in the world! We clicked, just like that, and the very first night, after we'd..." Nita blushed with unaccustomed modesty. "Well, after we'd done it, we were talking and Carlos said, what's your deepest, most secret, wish? And I said, no, you have to tell me yours first, and he said, well, he'd always wanted to go to the South Pacific and do the Gauguin thing." She giggled. "So then I said, wasn't it amazing but my deepest, most secret wish had always been to fall crazy in love and set up housekeeping on an island in the South Pacific!"
"I thought your deepest, most secret wish was to marry the Sheik of some oil-rich kingdom and bathe in a tub full of L'Air du Temps," Miranda said dryly.
Nita nudged her in the ribs with her elbow. "You aren't listenin', girlfriend. I am in love. L-O-V-E. Do you understand?" She took a breath. "It was all just talk, anyway. Carlos said he was the same as all artists. Lots of dreams but no money, and I said, well, that was okay, because I was worried about leaving you. I mean, we've been friends for such a long time, and now you're having all this trouble—whatever that means."
"Nita, slow down. If he's broke, how's he taking you on vacation to Tahiti?"
"Well, that's the miracle. He's not broke anymore. Carlos got this letter from some mucho mysterioso bunch of folks that gives out grants to artists, telling him he'd won a humongous grant!"
"But—but what about your work?"
"What about it? Listen, I'm damn near a living fossil, same as you. I've got, what, maybe another year or two left?"
"You're sure?" Miranda said slowly, staring at Nita, trying to feel happy for her instead of feeling what she did feel, a selfish, awful sense of loss. "That you love this guy?"
"I sewed a button on his shirt last night," Nita said with a soft smile. "Tonight, I'm gonna cook him dinner."
Miranda smiled back at her. "Well, I have to admit, that does sound serious." Her smile tilted. "And the money? I mean, he's not planning on doing a trip on you, is he?"
"My God, this girl is such a cynic! It's absolutely legit. I saw the letter he got, telling him he'd won this grant. It came hot on the heels of my chat with your Mr. O'Neil." Nita threw her arms into the air. "Oh, Miranda, I just can't believe everything came together like this, you deciding to go home, then Carlos getting this money... Isn't it all just wonderful?"
"Wonderful," Miranda said, and blanked her mind to the sudden, absolutely ridiculous thought that Conor was somehow, someway, involved in this.
It was worse than ridiculous.
It was insane.
* * *
At ten that night, Miranda was curled up on the sofa with Mia in her lap.
She was watching TV or trying to, anyway, when the telephone rang.
The noise made Mia jump. Miranda jumped, too. Who would phone her so late? Jean-Phillipe, maybe. She hadn't heard from him in a couple of days, except for a hard-to-hear message he'd left on her voice mail yesterday, something about suddenly having to stay away a little longer. That was what she thought he'd said, anyway; there'd been too much background noise to be certain.
She sat still, letting her machine screen the call, something she'd never done until lately.
It was Madame Delain phoning, which was a surprise. The concierge never called. If she had something to say, she came to the door.
Miranda picked up the phone.
"Yes, Madame Delain," she said, "what is it?"
Madame, never one to be flustered by anything, was obviously flustered now.
"Mademoiselle," she said, "I am afraid I do not know how to approach this."
Had there been another visit from the elevator inspector? Miranda sat up straight. "What's wrong?"
"Your apartment, mademoiselle."
"Yes? What about it?"
"You must vacate it before the month is out."
Mia offered a loud, Siamese complaint as Miranda pushed her from her lap and shot to her feet.
