“Maybe we’d better go in,” Jack said as it sank below the distant treetops. He checked his watch. 7:10. “The Wehrmacht mosquito squadrons will be launching soon.”

“So?”

“You like mosquito bites?”

“You like to deny those poor females their sustenance?”

“Females?”

“Only the female mosquito bites. The males suck nectar.”

“Male or female, I’m not keen on being a mosquito buffet.”

She waved a hand at him. “Not to worry. They won’t bother you here.”

“Why not?”

“Because I won’t let them.”

Ooookay, lady, Jack thought. If that’s what you want to believe.

But damn if they didn’t sit there well into the dusk without a single mosquito bite.

When the magnum of Côtes du Rhone was done, Anya draped a fuchsia blouse over her shoulders, rose, and faced him.

“Come on inside, hon. I’ll fix you dinner.”

Not having a better offer, Jack accepted.

He stopped short as he crossed the threshold. He’d thought the outside was lush, but inside was a mini jungle of potted plants and trees lining the perimeter and clustered here and there on the floor, with vines growing among them and climbing the walls. He could identify a ficus here, a bird of paradise and a rubber plant there, but the rest were a mystery: potted palms of all sorts—were those baby bananas on the big one in the corner?—and smaller plants with leaves mixing reds and yellows and even silver on a couple. Reminded Jack of one of the plant shops on Sixth Avenue.

Anya turned to him and said, “I’m going to change into something more appropriate for dinner.”

“What’s wrong with what you’re wearing?”

“I want something more haute couture,” she said with a wink.

“Not necessary, but this is your party…”

As she threaded her way through the plants toward the master bedroom, Jack decided to take a look around. Oyv, curled like a cat on a worn yellow easy chair, watched him with his big dark eyes as he wandered the front room.

He realized that her layout was the mirror image of his father’s—whatever was on the right here, was on the left there. But where his father’s walls sported some artwork—mostly south Florida beachscapes—and some photos, Anya’s walls were bare except for the vines. Not a shell, not a fishnet, not a knick knack. Nada.

She’d said she had no family. Jack guessed she was right. But how about a painting of something ? Even Elvis or a tiger on black velvet would say something about her.