“Yeah,” he said, his voice now muffled and indistinct, as if he were cradling the phone between his shoulder and neck so he could do something else. She hated this, though it wasn’t as bad as being put on speakerphone—both practices made things easier for the people on the other end, while you had to strain to understand them. It was like what her mother always said about call waiting; what did it take to be someone’s first priority? “Late March. I’ll be there in plenty of time to read manuscripts and help you out. But I know you have things under control. Mark is really happy with your management of everything.”

She didn’t know how to tell him that his brother’s approval meant far less to her than it did to him—it had almost a negative quality, in fact—so instead she said she had to go, they could talk again next week.

“Okay,” he said. “I really am sorry I won’t be there sooner. I was looking forward to being with you.”

“Do you have seasons in Dubai?” she asked, suddenly anxious to stay on the line. “Without them, I feel like time moves indiscriminately. Like a cartoon clock. Every week is the same as the last. Before we know it—”

“We don’t have seasons here either, if by seasons you mean leaves falling from deciduous trees,” he said. Marianne noticed, jealously, the way he included himself among the Emirates. Dubaians? He must be doing well there, she realized, to have been offered a second contract. What if he was offered a third? What if he never came back, what if he left her alone with the Ranch? “You have to tune in to subtler signs. You have to get out—are you getting out?”

“I have a date,” she said. “Later this week.”

“A date!”

She was pleased by Eric’s slight alarm, but she clarified anyway. “With a woman. An older woman. Drinks on the lanai, probably something with pineapple and rum.”

“Pineapple and rum,” Eric said fondly, and then repeated his wish to be in Florida, maybe one too many times. Marianne got off the phone before she could gauge his sincerity, and began missing him at once.