He sets her down and Sophia gasps, breathless, weeping. Relief. Relief to be wrong and to be his.
“Is that dissatisfaction I see?” her husband asks, lifting her chin with his thumb. His eyes search hers. “It couldn’t be, not my Sophie.”
“No,” she gasps. “Never. I love you. I’m such a silly thing, you know. Such a silly thing.”
He looks over her head. His face shifts, darkens, pales, like clouds moving on water. “What happened to the window?”
“I have no idea,” Sophia says, and immediately recoils from herself. She cannot understand why she lied, and for the second time in a day. Only that she has, and she cannot take either of them back, and the world is changed because of it.
GINGER GOLD
16.??At no time and for no reason will the Residents be permitted to transfer ownership of the Property, sublet, subdivide, sell, or otherwise abandon it. Dissolution of this Agreement may occur only at the discretion of the Association.
17.??No fences or other obstructions for the purpose of partitioning Arcadia Gardens properties are permitted. Be a good neighbor and you will have good neighbors!
18.??Roof shingles are to conform and be no larger than three inches by three （3x3） inches, in shades of Gevurah Grey or Binah Brown.
19.??Fraternization and assembly may occur only in private residences or in the following designated public areas: the Community Garden, within six （6） feet of all shops and business fronts, Chikidel Community Pool, Dilmun Park and Promenade, the Hesperides Riverwalk, and the Arcadia Gardens Municipal Amphitheater. Loitering, dallying, idling, lingering, or malingering on streets, sidewalks, and other non-designated locations is forbidden.
GALA
The night dazzles Sophia.
Fireflies blaze in the brush just as she thought they might. The amphitheater benches fill slowly with all the friendly faces of her dear and darling neighborhood. Everyone buzzes with the thrill of being allowed out of doors at night, granted dispensation for a special event.
There flits Mrs. Bea up and down the stands with her covered mugs of tea for sale. There sits Mr. Breame with his big belly and his lady and all their little ones bubbling around them. There lounges Mrs. Baer with her big heavy coat, even in summer, fishing raspberries out of the greasepaper bag she got from Mrs. Elke, the broad, pretty brunette who rules the farmer’s market every weekend like a kingdom.
And yes, there goes Mrs. Lyon!
And all her little ones, and Mrs. Minke and Mrs. Fische besides, waving to her, to Sophia, the luckiest woman the earth could imagine. And there is Mr. Semengelof too. He sits straight-backed as a heron in the lower rows, the last of the sun a corona ringing his hair. He lifts a solemn hand to them in greeting. Sophia looks away quickly. Her husband grins and waves to the music teacher as though they are old friends.
“Do you know him?” Sophia asks, and then feels foolish. Of course he does. He knows everyone.
“We work together,” he says, drinking from his bottle. His tan throat moves gorgeously as he swallows.
Sophia blinks. He has never mentioned a music teacher, nor can he carry a tune. So it must be Semengelof’s other work that her husband knows. “Did you help him find that criminal?” she whispers. “Is that what you do when you don’t come home? Hunt?”
His head whips round toward her. He lowers his voice to a half-growl and engulfs her upper arm in his inexorable hand. “Who told you about her?” he asks urgently. “Who?”
“No one,” she insists. She tries to get free of his grip, but she is only small compared to him. “No one, it was only a bit of gossip.”
He storms off toward Semengelof. His handprint flushes pink and harsh on her skin. The two men speak urgently, but Sophia cannot hear; too many other voices swarm up toward her, a protective wall against whatever is happening down there in the front rows.
“Come on, kittens,” Mrs. Lyon chortles loudly, and shuffles her brood toward Sophia, trailing the other ladies behind her like an ellipsis. “Where’s your better half, my dear?” she asks, stretching languidly and plopping herself down on the rough-hewn stone slab beside her friend.
And he appears again at her back, arms full, as though he only left to get treats.
“Right here, Mrs. Lyon,” booms the voice of Sophia’s beloved, her devotion, who could never hurt anyone, not really, not ever. She understands that so completely now, seeing him in the firefly-light, among the throng of their little village where they both belong, the color high and happy in his cheeks, his hair combed until it shone, just for her, just for her to love a little better than if it were tangled. He hands her a slab of honeycomb wrapped in Mrs. Orpington’s greasepaper and keeps a bottle of sweet, cold wine from the Guernseys’ vineyard for himself. “The life of the party, reporting for duty!”