“All right? Are you kidding?” I throw myself on the dry sand and laugh at the sky. “That was just what I needed!”

He laughs too and throws himself next to me. The sinking sun turns his skin to bronze. I lie there and find a curious pleasure in my own restraint, in the uncomplicated perception of his body next to mine, both of us still panting a little, dripping and salty, bound together by a half hour of shared adventure. And while I’m contemplating this innocent enjoyment, congratulating myself even, Leo turns on his side and kisses my lips.

“What was that for?”

“I’m sorry. Lost my head. It won’t—”

I reach for his shoulders and kiss him back.

Leo brings me a flower when he returns to Coolibah for dinner an hour later. His hair is dark and wet from a hasty shower, and the flower is a passionflower. I tuck it behind my ear. At dinner, Doris asks me why I’m wearing a flower in my hair, and I tell her it’s from a suitor. Leo grins from across the table. Olle’s busy carving the pork roast. Wesley’s got his head under the tablecloth for some reason. Lindquist leans forward on her elbows and frowns.

Once dessert is cleared and the children sent to bed, Olle retires to the library and Lindquist sends Leo on an errand. As soon as he disappears around the corner, she turns to me.

“Kaiko made a little confession to me this afternoon,” she says.

“It’s not his fault. I might have goaded him a little.”

“You’re doing your job. I understand that. But the airplane is off limits, is that clear? I want that film you took.”

I hesitate. “It’s in the cottage.”

“Then bring it to me at breakfast.” She jiggles her wedding ring. “Please.”

“But why? I mean, you’ve kept it, all these years. It must mean something to you.”

“Because even if I destroyed that airplane, the parts would make their way into public notice. Someone would find some scrap of wing, some section, match the rivets. It’s safer where it is. At least until I’m dead.”

“You don’t believe that. Not really. You’re worried about some scrap making its way into the wrong hands? You can’t destroy that airplane, any more than you could cut off your own arm.”

She stands.

“You keep it clean, don’t you? Not a speck of dust. You keep it in working order.”

“Her,” Irene says. “An airplane is a she.”

“She, he, it. There must be a reason, right? So tell me.”