Page 119 of Counterpoint
When we stepped out into the courtyard a minute later, my father was indeed inspecting the lemon trees. My mother sat at the iron table with a small cup of coffee. Celeste stood near the French doors with her wine and one eyebrow already slightly raised in our direction.
Two months earlier, I had been in this same house moving lemon trees before a storm. I had known the drains and the windows and the feel of the air before rain, but I had not yet known how quickly a life could be split between before and after.
I had not known that the parlor could smell of gunpowder. I had not known that the wrong arrangement of “Saints” could chill me more deeply than violence. Most importantly, I had not known that a man from New York would walk through the front door and learn the house quickly enough to help keep it standing.
I felt Thiago shift slightly at my side and, without looking, place my hand against the center of his back.
He was whole.
So was the house.
***
