When Leesa arrived, all of Nolan’s senses seemed to change. He noticed things he had overlooked before, forgot about things that, while she was in-country, seemed a part of his unchanging daily routine. Cleanliness, that was one variable. He was ordinarily a neat man, but Leesa was fastidious, and so the first instant she walked through his door, he spotted the dust castles in the corner and the stains on the carpet. Scent, that was another. The air inside the apartment seemed stale and flat, but Leesa’s hair smelled like lavender and camomile, perfumes he would not even have been able to name a day ago but which now reminded him of the ingredients in his sister’s soaps and shampoos.

“Sorry,” was the first word out of his mouth as he ushered her in. “It’s a little messier than I remembered.”

Leesa strolled in with her usual unconscious grace, like a statue that had deigned to step down from its marble base, and trailed absolution behind her. “Oh, it’s just fine,” she said. “That’s new, isn’t it? That chair? What else have you gotten since I was here last?”

“When were you here last?” he said, because he couldn’t remember. She gave him a brief minatory look which told him he should not have forgotten. “Oh, right, three months ago,” he said hastily. “Well, the chair. That painting by the kitchen door. Some pillows in the bedroom.”

She wandered over to inspect the painting, a small oil showing the city skyline by a subtle sunset. He had bought it one afternoon at an art festival held outside the Complex, and Melina had admired it. Leesa did not. “I don’t think it’s very good,” she pronounced. “Was this a student artist?”

“Probably. I didn’t ask,” Nolan said. “I got it at a street fair. I liked the colors.”

She turned and smiled at him. “Naturally you should buy anything you like,” she said. “There will always be rooms in our house that are just yours, and you can fill every wall with pictures and colors that I can’t stand.”

He smiled. “That’s very generous of you.”

She was laughing. “The public rooms, however, the rooms that people will actually see, those I insist on decorating exactly how I choose.”

“Well, of course,” he said with heavy gallantry. “You’re the one with the exquisite taste.”

She pirouetted again, giving the whole room one comprehensive glance, then crossed to the sofa. Sitting down, she patted the cushion beside her. “Come talk to me,” she said in a voice that was half plaintive, half commanding. “You write such short letters, I never feel as if I know what’s going on in your life.”

Obediently, he sat beside her, taking her hand because he knew she liked these casual gestures of affection. “Sometimes I think my life would sound strange but uninteresting to you,” he said.