They were all silent after that, listening to the hum of the Bronco’s wheels and the sounds of static and country music from the station in Flagstaff. Fifteen minutes after they passed the turnoff for Montezuma’s Castle, Doug pulled off Black Canyon Highway and headed down the two-lane road that led to Sedona. Of the three approaches to the town, this was the most spectacular. There was no gradual shift in the color of the rocks as there was coming in from Camp Verde, and there were no obscuring plants and trees as there were along the road through Oak Creek Canyon. The land here was tailor-made for western movies: great open expanses strategically broken by the dramatic shapes of the red rock cliffs. The colors were vivid: blue sky, white clouds, green trees, red rocks, sharp contrasts that could not be captured by any camera.

They drove past Bell Rock and past Frank Lloyd Wright’s Church of the Holy Cross, the road gradually hugging closer to the creek and the cliffs as the first shops and resorts appeared.

They went directly to Tlaquepaque, a Spanish-styled complex of galleries, shops, and boutiques located in a wooded spot at the edge of Oak Creek. They strolled through the shops, taking their time. Billy soon grew bored and ran ahead, checking out the tiled fountains that seemed to be in every courtyard and counting the coins in the water while surreptitiously examining the bathing-suited mannequins in the clothes store windows. Tritia fell in love with a Dan Namingha print she saw in one of the galleries, and while she and Billy continued on ahead, Doug doubled back on the pretext of going to the bathroom and bought the print, hiding it under a blanket in back of the car.

As Tritia had promised, they ate lunch in the outdoor patio of the small Mexican restaurant, listening to the burble of the creek. Their view was limited by the trees and the courtyard, but they could still see hills of red rock, the color made more brilliant in contrast with the green foliage.

It was a relaxing lunch, and for a moment Doug was almost able to forget about the mail, to forget about everything that had happened recently in Willis. Then a blue-suited postal carrier, brown bag slung over his shoulder, stopped off and handed a stack of envelopes to the girl behind the cash register. The mailman smiled at the girl, seemingly normal and friendly, but for Doug the mood was spoiled, and as he ate his chili relleno, he watched the mailman make the rounds of all the shops.