Ever returned the courtesy of a goodnight, not attempting Spanish to Pedro’s near perfect English.

Ever did not question the delivery of what, he just wanted to sit and drink and get lost in the haze of the distilled agave, the beauty of the sky, the sound of the sea and the smell. He realised it was the same feeling that he got from Lomita, that smell of confidence of being at one. It was nature, pure and simple. Manita came to say goodnight and told him to lock the terrace door when he went to his bed, which was to his left at the end of the living room. He wasn’t sure whether lying down with his thoughts on his own would be possible tonight or indeed ever again. The chill of the wind made him aware he had nothing with him, just what he sat with, there had been no preparation, no thought put into this adventure. It was a strange turn of events that had brought them here. Nothing would ever be the same again.

How long would it take?

*

The next morning after a sleepless night.

But one that had taken him inside when the damp from the ocean presented a chill to his bones, too tired to resist its invasion. And then there came the sound of engines. His first fear quickly evaporated. The reality of the noise became apparent. Pedro arrived in a convoy of four pickup trucks as the sun was rising over the ocean. Manita handed Ever a cup of coffee: life started early here. He was standing outside with a stare, he could see uncovered The Wave. Pedro handed him a piece of paper: the delivery logistics and timeframe. The trucks contained his father’s paintings and had been picked up from a storage facility at the back of the old town in San José, next to the church, according to the instruction, where they had been delivered, driven straight down from the gallery in downtown Los Angeles.

A world away now and Lomita had known when he had asked if he would ever see them again that he would. But what else she knew then he had no idea. He, with a surprisingly relaxed feel, wandered around the trucks and counted twenty paintings. He sank to his knees, his head dropped to his chest and he prayed; the four Mexicans didn’t seem too concerned, and even seemed to accept that the act had a normality, a place. He prayed to his God, he prayed for Lomita and gave her the biggest thank you he had the power to give in his soul. He stood up and walked away into his own world and wept. Wept for them both.

What had he done?

He recognised the imbalance that he always knew was in him.

Now the gyroscope had levelled.

There was no more he could do.

He was done.

*