He took a small sip of his beer. “Well, you’re more than kind, but a general contractor is not so much a creator as he is a combination foreman, interpreter, referee, and chaplain. Lot of emphasis on the last part. I did more hand-holding than a gigolo in a home for spinsters.” He looked at Martha with a good-natured laugh, and perhaps his timing could have been more gallant. “I got the army engineers to talk with the civilians, the civilians to the politicians, the politicians to the gangsters—although the politicians were on pretty good speaking terms with the gangsters to begin with. But yes, it was some job, and it doesn’t seem to want to end: building an island where there was nothing, raising a city on top of it, then come this October dismantling that same damn city and building an airport in its place. Can you imagine those planes taking off and landing by the hundreds each day from a location that was once considered nothing more than a menace to navigation? That’s going to be something.” He took another sip of his beer. “Really something.”

The front door wasn’t locked and Gail walked in, a bit unkempt and breathless. She looked at me with pity. “Poor Ray, have you been getting the third degree? I’m so sorry I’m late.”

“Not at all,” I said.

“Isn’t he great?” she asked the room.

Martha Prentice replied, “Have some orangeade, Gail. You must be thirsty.”

We made small talk for a while, Gail stealing the occasional glance at her mother, gauging her reaction to what I was saying. Russ certainly tried to be cordial, and he cast a few curious looks at Martha’s demeanor, which was running the gamut from sullen to very sullen.

Finally Gail clapped her hands together and grimaced. “Okay, can’t stall any longer, I have to play my composition for Ray, so . . . you’ll excuse us?”

Russ stood quickly. “As it happens. Yes, I was thinking of taking a little stroll as far as Dimond Park and back. Join me, Martha?” He moved toward the front door.

“I’m not going anywhere,” said Gail’s mother flatly. It may have been the first words she’d spoken in over ten minutes.

Russ inquired softly, “You feeling okay, Martha?”

She took a kerchief from her dress pocket. “I’ve been so busy filling in at Dr. Corwin’s that I’ve completely fallen behind on the cleaning.” She turned to Gail. “You two do what you have to at the piano and I’ll try not to be a bother.”

“Hope you’ll join us for dinner, Sherwood,” said the departing Russ. Martha glared at his back.