I moved out onto the balcony and looked over the rail. Below, a wooden walkway stretched from the first-floor deck across the ice plant as far as the loose sand. Waves broke in a series of thunderous reports, the surf washing up and back. I could see the appeal of living a stone’s throw from the ocean. The sounds were restful and it was lovely to look out and see nothing but ocean all the way out to the horizon. On the downside, the salt air took its toll and the occasional strong storm could plant a sailboat in your front yard.

I moved back into the living room and sat down on the couch. I entertained myself by looking at the family photographs in silver frames that had been placed on the nearest end table. Children or grandchildren. There was no way to sort out which personal touches belonged to the condominium’s owner and which had been brought in by Teddy and Kim to help them feel at home.

There was also a small stack of promotional brochures for what must have been the infamous condominium where Stella’s husband died. I was curious to see what million-dollar real estate was looking like these days. I picked up the brochure on top; a four-fold color spread showed the living room with its high coffered ceiling, wood-burning fireplace, and abundance of light, the gleaming kitchen, the marble-lined bathrooms, the bedrooms, the gracious outdoor patio with its view to the ocean in the distance. The accompanying sales pitch was one I could have written myself. The word “stunning” loomed large.

A glossy library book about Tiffany jewelry rested open on the arm of the couch. The cover featured a necklace that looked like a baby’s bib, dense with diamonds, emeralds, and gold filigree. I didn’t realize Teddy had returned until she said, “I know what you’re thinking, that we’ve hardly fallen on hard times living in a place like this.” She carried a bottle of white wine and two wineglasses that she placed on the coffee table.

“Crossed my mind.”

“Kim and I are housesitting for a friend. We’re like gypsies. We pick up every few weeks and move to another encampment.”

“But you don’t pay rent.”

“True enough.” Her gaze drifted to the book about Tiffany jewelry. In one easy motion, she closed the book and set it on the floor by her chair.

I kept my expression disinterested. “How long have you been here?”

“A month. We have another month to go; maybe more if she extends her stay abroad.”

Even in the harsh sunlight streaming through the windows, I was struck anew by her facial structure, with its angular planes, the prominent nose with the bump at the bridge. And all that excessive hair. It was a rich mahogany shade with glints of red, thick and layered, with some of the strands forming ringlets. If she was wearing makeup, it wasn’t evident. I watched her use an auger-style opener to remove the cork. It was the same wine we’d enjoyed that night at the Clipper estate.