I turned back in amazement, but before I could ask a thing, she was hustling me toward the motorcycle.

“Go on, now. I’ll have your things sent back by car. Your bicycle and dress.”

Thorpe helped me into the sidecar, made sure my dress was tucked inside. I still carried my bouquet of pink hibiscus. The smell reminded me of my bungalow, of Cable Beach, of the bark of the sea grape trees on the edge of the patio. I looked at Thorpe’s face, which had lost its smile, and now looked tense with shock. I touched my cheek and realized I felt the same. As I said, thank God there was no Cecil Beaton in Nassau to pop from the bushes and immortalize that.

“Which home, though?” I said. “Mine or yours?”

“Yours. Mine smells like something’s got in and died there.”

Thorpe went around the side of the motorcycle, climbed aboard, started the engine. From the portico, the duke and duchess, Miss Drewes, Marshall the butler all stood and waved.

“Off we go,” said Thorpe, and I tossed my bouquet just as the motorcycle jumped from the curb. I thought I sent it in a nice, clean arc toward Miss Drewes, but when I glanced back, I saw the pink flowers inside the bemused palms of George Marshall.

At the end of Cumberland Street, Thorpe stopped the motorcycle. The British Colonial Hotel loomed before us. To the left, West Bay Street ran along the shore toward Cable Beach. To the right lay the business district, the docks, the ships alongside, the smaller boats bobbing at their moorings. I realized that the trembling came not from the rumble of the idling motorcycle engine, but from within. I glanced up at Thorpe’s profile and thought, My husband.

For no particular reason, as the motorcycle turned left down West Bay Street, I thought of Tommy Randolph’s funeral. Did I mention it was May when I killed him? Well, it was. It was early May and the air was turning hot in Bakersfield, California, hot and dry, so the medical examiner had packed his body in enough ice to freeze an elephant before they shipped it by train across the country to some mortician chosen by his parents.