Page 48 of Beautiful Savage
After four minutes of touching brick, Daphne crosses to me. Takes my hand briefly, squeezes it. Just that small acknowledgment that we're looking at this together, as a place we could be. The contact burns through me, makes my body respond instantly.
She continues exploring: the kitchen area with its industrial fixtures, the mezzanine that overlooks the main floor like a stage, the bathroom where brick continues on three walls, thesmall back patio where a palm tree older than both of us provides shade.
Adrian returns, slipping his phone away. "She's practically purring," he observes. "I haven't seen anyone fondle brick with that much enthusiasm outside of certain clubs in South Beach."
We leave without verbal commitment, but the Wynwood loft is in the running. I can feel it in how Daphne walks. Lighter, like she's already imagining her life in those eighteen-foot ceilings.
South to Coconut Grove, Adrian narrating the change: "Different Miami down here. Older money, bigger trees, the kind of neighborhood where people pretend they don't know where their trust funds came from."
The 1930s coral-rock bungalow sits quiet on a residential street, mature live oak spreading shade across the small front yard. Original mahogany floors visible through the front window. Adrian unlocks with the third key.
Inside, maybe 1,400 square feet. Intimate after the Wynwood loft. Daphne walks through slowly. Living room with built-in shelves, small kitchen with a window over the sink, two bedrooms. One she could use as a studio, I register. The other for us. She's reading each room differently than Wynwood: the loft for the dancer, this for the woman.
The Florida room at the back opens onto the garden. Postage-stamp sized, overgrown, neglected. Patchy lawn, bougainvillea against the back fence, a mahogany tree in the corner. And there, a mature lemon tree near the back fence, heavy with fruit, some yellow, some still green.
Daphne walks straight to it. Picks a lemon, rolls it between her palms, releasing oils that make the air sharp and bright. The green-yellow skin catches the afternoon light as she smells it, then starts talking.
"Meyer lemon. See the shape? More round than oval. They're sweeter than Eureka, less acidic. Fifteen years old, maybe more."She's planning aloud now, her voice carrying the same certainty she had teaching eight-year-olds ballet. Complete authority over something she loves. "I'd put rosemary along the south fence. It needs full sun. Herbs by the kitchen door for easy cutting. This tree needs pruning, see how the interior branches cross? That blocks air flow, encourages disease."
She gestures where things would go, sketching a garden that doesn't exist yet with her hands. "The light comes through here in the evening, probably gorgeous in December. Basil would do well in that corner. Maybe tomatoes if we amended the soil."
I stop hearing the words. Just watch her face move when she talks about lemons, her hands drawing herb beds in the air. She's planning a garden in a life where I might not survive the week. The Hallstein operation could end with me in federal custody or a Miami canal, and she's talking about tomatoes like we have seasons ahead of us.
The realization lands: I'm going to spend the rest of my life finding excuses to watch her talk about lemon trees. However long that turns out to be.
"I love you."
The words scrape my throat raw. Nine years of silence, and these are the words that finally matter.
Daphne stops mid-sentence about soil acidity. The lemon in her hand catches the light as she turns from the tree. She looks at me. Really looks, the way she has since that first day when she didn't flinch. The lemon drops, hits the grass with a soft thud. She crosses the small space between us, takes my face in her hands, and kisses me.
Brief and full, her mouth on mine like she's sealing something. When she pulls back, her forehead rests against mine. She doesn't say it back. Instead: "Gunner. You impossible man."
From the house, Adrian calls out: "I'm giving you two another minute before I start charging rent on this showing."
We walk back inside, the ghost of that dropped lemon behind us.
Adrian drops us at La Sirena's loading dock as the afternoon light goes gold. The Cadillac purrs away, Cuban radio fading down the alley. We climb the back stairs quiet, the bubble shifted. I've said the word, she hasn't.
In the apartment, late afternoon sun slants through the south window. Daphne crosses to the kitchen counter, hops up onto it, legs swinging like a kid. But her face is all woman when she speaks.
"Just how rich are you?" she asks.
"Huh?" I ask dumbly.
"You live like a pauper here, apart from the absurdly expensive oak desk. But all this formica, the two-burner stove, the bedroll, the moldy shower curtain."
"It isn't moldy."
"But then you randomly buy me a motorbike. And a Galia Lahav gown. I mean nobody actually owns Galia Lahav gowns."
"The bathroom curtain isn't moldy," I say.
"But the places we just looked at were… wow. That penthouse apartment in Brickell must cost a bomb. Millions. And maybe some more millions on top of that. I mean, I knew the Delgados were wealthy but you're just the security guy, aren't you?"
I smile at 'just the security guy'. If she only knew.
"They pay well," I say with a shrug.
