Sweeney swept the blanket around them and drew her in. “All these balls,” he said. “Too much symbolism.” He kissed her, tasting of wine, feeling damp against her.
“Sand wedges,” he said. “Big Bertha drivers—” She wanted another kiss, and he kissed her again, folding her close, pressing the small of her back.
“A very naughty game,” she said. She shoved her hand down his pants, finding him underway. He did the same in one move, grasping her with his whole hand and in her with his index finger. The ease of it proved this was real enough.
“Bogey,” she asked. “What’s that again?”
“One over par.”
“Birdie.” She closed her eyes, working him in the rhythm of his own hand on her, feeling weak-kneed. It was that simple.
“I’ll give you a rule book.” He dropped down and pulled her with him, on him, the blanket still around them.
“This must happen fairly often,” she said. “Fairway often. All this nice grass—”
Both were fumbling under the blanket, undoing clothes. Sweeney’s hands were in the way. He stopped to let her unbutton and unzip him. He let her do her skirt, the clasp. She shucked it down with her panties, both of them keeping their shirts on. That, too, was funny to her—keep your shirt on, I’m coming, I’m coming—
Both of them now looked out and around as they went on touching each other in a mutual need to be done with first steps. The approach, she thought, remembering the lesson. Then the green. With clothes wherever they were, the grass damp under her, the air humid, Sweeney sat with his legs out, braced on his hands. Brenda now sat carefully, leaning and folding her arms around him as he entered her and made a small teepee of the blanket.
He folded her close. It was good. She was riding him slowly, seated in the saddle of his lap. Part of what made it good was each of them facing over the other’s shoulder, keeping watch. She was riding him now, feeling pleasure, but mostly a kind of peace, and a certainty that what they were doing would not be discovered, the double-faced god Janus giving his name to the position, assuring her this was all there would or need to be.
After removing the ornaments, Rivera disassembled the tree. He took it down to the storage room in the Bellissima’s garage, then changed out of his shorts and left.
As he made his cautious way south on 41, he felt more confident. At first, Burlson’s threat had convinced Rivera he must leave Naples. If he did what Burlson wanted, it wouldn’t matter. He would always be the old man’s tool. His slave. Did you really think I’d give a twin-engine Pursuit worth a quarter of a million to a spic handyman? But Rivera had arranged for Stuckey to be at Le Bonheur. The same attendant on duty when Chester Ivy had died. And Rivera now had the time sheet signed by Mrs. Hailey.
At Davis Boulevard he continued east in light Sunday night traffic. This, too, added to Rivera’s confidence. No daytime hang-ups in long lines. No wrecks. It would succeed. This was just a bad patch, a speed bump. Kleinman said when things like this happened, you couldn’t take it personally. You had to see it as part of the mix. Baked into the cake, he called it. Hope for the best, James, but always plan for the worst.
He had planned: the moon’s position meant Burlson’s terrace would now be in shadow. The floors under the penthouse were still unfinished and dark. That meant anyone walking the beach at night would be unable to see. Burlson would not be discovered until after sunrise.
Turning in at the Donegal entrance, he slowed and stopped, lowered his window. The guard stepped out. “I have to pick up some equipment at the Ivys’.” The guard leaned in and pushed a button. The gate rose and Rivera entered.
George and Rachel Ivy left Connecticut for Naples for two weeks at Christmas. Rachel came down several times during the winter, and when George wasn’t there, his young second wife was joined by her lover. But Rachel didn’t like her boyfriend having to stay at the Inn on Fifth. At Christmas, when her husband was out on the deck making one of his many calls, she had reminded Rivera of what she wanted: If you have to make a choice, let nature take its course, she said. He understood. And if they were to lose Mr. Ivy, Rivera wanted something in return. Rachel Ivy had shrugged. Name it, she said.
With George Ivy still shouting into his phone outside, Rivera had led Rachel into the great room. He pointed to the wall of pictures. That one, he said, stepping closer. The number 5 is special for me. Looking at it, Rachel Ivy had crossed her arms. That’s a Jasper Johns lithograph, she said. It’s just a print, but it’s worth some money. I never liked the thing, it’s gloomy. When Rivera suggested replacing it with one of the pictures that George Ivy’s mother had painted, Rachel smiled broadly.
The old man’s bedroom walls were covered with his wife’s paintings of tropical birds. Parrots, toucans, snowy egrets. The painter had posed the birds as oversized hood ornaments on cars. The cars themselves had been painted from photos of GM models that her husband Chester had helped to design.
Still looking at the lithograph, Rachel had started laughing. She had coughed and pounded her chest. I like it, she said finally. Put up the one Chester likes best.
They walked back outside the beam of light, holding hands.
It was after eleven. “I don’t like leaving you with all this housekeeping,” Brenda said.
“It won’t take long.”
“Chilly now.”
Sweeney let go of her hand and settled the blanket over her shoulders. They resumed walking. “Old Paint,” she said. “Cool her down before walking her back to the barn.”
He took back her hand and shook
