"Good," she said, looking out the window at the approaching earth. "Good."

The coarse gravel in the driveway crunched under the car's tires as we rolled to a stop behind Samas' beach home.

Poppy surveyed the residence over lowered sunglasses. "How quaint, it looks like a carriage house. Are you ready?" she asked as she reached over and placed her hand on the case's handle.

My first instinct was to shout out in protest. Everything rode on this. I mustered a stern look from my tired eyes and spoke. "I am choosing to trust you."

"I know that," she said through an innocent smile. "Let's go."

The sad notes of a cello hung in the air as we approached the open door. I knocked softly on the wooden door jamb and stepped cautiously inside, Poppy right behind me, case in hand.

Zohra sat in a kitchen chair, her eyes shut tight in concentration. She cradled the singing cello between her legs like a wooden lover.

"Zohra," I said in a soft tone.

Her eyes snapped open in shock. A sour note escaped them both as the bow slid wildly off the strings.

"It's you," she gasped. "We thought that you had..." She left the sentence unfinished as she noticed Poppy's Embe tattoo.

"Where is he?" I asked.

"Upstairs, on the balcony," she answered, still somewhat disoriented.

I smiled at her and walked down the hall. The sound of the amplified surf rolled down the stairs toward us like an invisible waterfall. We climbed to find Samas filling a lounge chair on the balcony overlooking the ocean.

He placed the telephone handset back into its cradle as he heard the approaching footsteps. "I don't like this at all love. The woman at the hotel said he left with--" His jaw dropped open as he turned around and saw us. "You!" he growled at her.

"Hi there," Poppy said cheerfully.

"What the hell are you doing here?"

"That would seem to be the question of the day," she said, glancing at me. "And one I very much want to answer." She walked over and placed the guitar on the railing. Samas seemed to hold his breath as she opened the case and removed the canvas roll. Gripping it by the top edge, she let it unfurl in front of her, exposing the image to him. His face flushed white then red with the realization that she had it, not me.

"What's the matter, Juan? You're not laughing this time," she said, in a sly smile that betrayed her enjoyment of this perverse pleasure.

He reluctantly turned toward me, barely able to take his eyes off the long-awaited painting. "Why have you done this?"

"He did nothing," said Poppy. "I took it from him for my own reasons. This is between you and me now."

"You don't mean to tell me this is still about Latsei?" he asked, getting to his feet.