It was Viridian’s habit to work at her writing during the morning, then do her yoga practice. She took a nap after lunch, in the upstairs room with the blue curtains drawn across the windows and the ceiling fan whispering overhead. Then she’d make her way downstairs to check the mail and see who or what might have turned up while she slept. It was all so very pleasant: the big, shabby house, the company, the food and drink, the slow afternoons shading into evening. None of us who were part of it that summer wanted it to end or change, certainly not me, living in self-exile at my mom’s, no longer at home anywhere.

Surely all of it cost money. All of it, the food we ate, the wine we drank, the fruiting trees, the water in the pipes, the whispering electric current in the walls, the books and paper and ink that made up the enterprise of poetry. Did poems pay for the house, or any part of it? I couldn’t have said.

One afternoon I was working on the center island in the courtyard when Viridian came out and sat on the top step. “Don’t mind lazy me,” she said. Her feet, long and narrow, were bare. She wore a denim shirt and black pants, and her white hair was pulled back in a braid. I had already promised myself that when I was old, I would dress like she did. “You’ve been working so hard, Carla. Everything looks just lovely.”

“Thanks.” I had been working hard and I was pleased and shy that she’d noticed. “I love being up here. It’s like a whole separate world.”

“It can seem that way, can’t it.” She raised her gaze to the treetops surrounding us, motionless in the afternoon heat. “I love it, too. I’ve been lucky to have the place.”

I was careful to keep my eyes on the weeding in front of me. I hoped she would keep talking if I didn’t look at her.

“I bought it back when you could still almost afford California real estate. Now we’re all house poor. Ah well. Nothing lasts forever.”

“Is everything all right?”

“Everything is fine.”

Neither of us spoke for a time. Then she said, “You and Tony have all the conference details worked out?”

“I think so. Enough to give me a running start.”

“I’m glad you’re coming. You’ll be a big help to Tony. You won’t let all the titanic egos get to you.”

I wondered if Barb had meant something similar. “Well. I hope not.”

“You’ll be fine. You won’t fall all over yourself trying to be nice. What I call ‘good girl syndrome.’”