It is late afternoon – nearly 3:00 p.m. – when Mrs. Walraven comes by to drop off the first load of cash. When I look in on them an hour later, Natalie is busy at her canvas, and Mrs. Walraven lies curled up on the sofa along the window, the afternoon sun making her cheeks warm and her skin glow. Her head is propped up on her hand, and she has let her hair down. It tumbles in a loose wave over her wrist as she watches her daughter. She looks at me when I stop outside the doorway. I look back at her, head down, hands hanging loose in my pockets. I nod at her, and she gives me a fleeting smile. Natalie's hand moves with the practiced precision of an artist, but her eyes are alive, like a wild creature's, flitting across the canvas at the pace of a bird's heartbeat.

An hour after that, it is silent. Natalie is curled up in the desk chair, arms wrapped loosely around her body, head nestled into the back of the seat. She sleeps lightly, fitfully, her hands twitching as if she is still painting in her dreams. The sun has moved away from the window now, and Mrs. Walraven sleeps huddled into herself, her body cocooned inside her jacket to keep her warm. I walk in – silently – and stand over her. Her breathing is shallow, quick, as if she isn't accustomed to staying still for so long. Even in sleep, she is active.

I look over my shoulder at Natalie. She is still asleep. Then I turn back to Mrs. Walraven, take off my jacket and lay it over her.


The sun is a flash of heat on my neck, my back, where the linen of my dress dips down to the base of my spine. It is a soft white, the color of milk, where it gathers around my legs, the hem dipping into the water at my feet. The ocean air is balmy, sweet, almost thick to the touch, like a hand caressing my back.

Evan comes toward me, wearing a white linen shirt, its drawstring laces open at his collar. He smiles at me, and it's like the sun shining down, filling me with a warmth I can't contain. He sits down beside me on a hammock strung over the ocean, my foot rocking us steadily back and forth. He leans close to me, right up against me and when he whispers, his lips brush my neck. But it's not his voice I hear.


I go back in an hour later, but they are still sleeping. An hour after that, almost 7:00 p.m., I go in again. I cross the room and stand over Mrs. Walraven. She murmurs in her sleep. I kneel down next to her face and listen. She is speaking in Russian, the words coming out with softer edges than I've heard the language spoken before. The k's and z's are lighter, the y's dragged out less with a gentler pull. I wish Natalie were awake so I could ask her what her mother is saying, but at the same time I'm not sure I would want to spoil the mystery.

I wait until she has stopped speaking and then I say her name – quietly – into her ear. She doesn't stir so I lay my hand on her back, rubbing it to wake her from her dreams. She rolls toward me, burying her face in her arm, and lies on her stomach right at the edge of the couch, her side coming to rest against mine. I smile because she cannot see it, and say her name to her again. This time she doesn't react at all, and I can see that she is too tired to wake easily. I uncover her right shoulder to let in some cool air. Then I slip my hand beneath the jacket and rub her back.


Schiller's voice is a distant rumble in my ear, and I'm cold so I move toward the warmth of his body. I can smell him all around me, like I'm wrapped in him, and I press close until I feel him against my side. I feel him rub my shoulder through a blanket. Then his hand slides under it and courses over my back. He rubs from my neck to the base of my spine and back up again, pressing in enough that his touch is almost rough. I move closer, but he backs away a little, letting more cold in air under my blanket. He uncovers half my back, and I press closer, trying to stay warm but I'm already at the edge so I have to stop.

Evan's saying something to me I can't understand, and I can see him sitting on the hammock in front of me. But the voice I hear and the hand I feel, the scent I smell are all Schiller's. I raise my head a little and then rest it on Evan's shoulder. He's warm, but I can feel him slipping away.

"Evan?" I say. My voice sounds airy, whisper thin, as if I can't get enough air to speak while I'm breathing.

"No, it's not Evan. It's me," he says.

I press my face closer to the sound of his voice, but the lights are too bright here, and they hurt my eyes. I bury my face back into my arm.

He uncovers me the rest of the way, and the air is so cold I groan. His hand courses – warm and rough – down my back and then up. It's waking me, but I don't want him to stop. He sighs. "You shouldn't have come," he says. He whispers it into my ear. "You need to drive in a few hours, and you're exhausted. You should have stayed at the marina to sleep."

"But I wanted to see you," I say. I mumble the words, and I'm not sure if I mean Evan or him.

"I know you want Natalie, but there's a job to be done and you can't do it in your present condition," he says.

In the back of my mind I register danger. Schiller cautioning me about a job only means one thing. He's unhappy with something I've done, and his discontent often manifests in violence. I struggle to sit up, and he leans back to give me room but a rush of cold air makes me want him to stop.

"Don't go," I say.

He continues to stand.

"Mr. Schiller, don't go," I say. I catch onto his lapel with my hand.

I feel his hand wrap, warm and tight around my wrist, and he kneels back down onto the floor. "Mrs. Walraven, I can't understand you," he says softly. He rubs my back again and speaks into my ear like before.

"What do you mean?" I ask.

"Mrs. Walraven, you're dreaming. I can't understand you. You're speaking in Russian," he says.

I open my eyes and raise my face from my arm. Schiller is leaning so close to me when I look up that all I see are his eyes. Then I look down at my hand, holding a clump of his lapel in my fist, and I let go, smoothing it out with my palm. "I'm sorry," I say. I touch my head. "I must have been dreaming about something."

"It's alright," he says. He stands up.

I push myself into a seated position and wrap my arms around my body, holding tight. It is so cold in the back office, and I wonder why I didn't notice it before.

"You should say goodbye to Natalie. You have to leave for the marina soon," Schiller says.

I nod, brushing my hand across my face, trying to shake my dream off and remember it at the same time.

"Mrs. Walraven," Schiller says.

"I know. I'm going," I say.

And he steps back to give me some space. I wonder why his tone has softened so much when he was so rough with me earlier. He follows me across the room to where Natalie is sleeping, but he stops on the other side of the desk.

"Solnyshka," I whisper. I pass my hand down her face. "My girl, I have to go now."

Natalie looks at me, eyes hazed with sleep, and I wonder how long she hasn't been sleeping. "Where are you going?" she asks.

"I have to go back to the marina, baby," I say.

"When are you coming back?" she asks.

"In the morning. I'll come to see you at Mr. Schiller's house," I say.

"Hurry," she says.

I give a soft laugh. "I will, baby girl. I promise." I stand slowly, my hand lingering on Natalie's face for as long as I can reach her. Then I turn and head toward the door. Schiller steps back to let me pass and then follows me out into his office.

"Take those with you. There's one for each boat," Schiller says. He nods toward the conference table at the front of his office, where there are three devices that look more like walkie talkies than phones.

"Sat phones?" I ask. I look over my shoulder at him.

"Just in case something goes wrong," Schiller says.

I pick one up and run my fingers over the buttons. They make clacking sounds like old landline phones. He's left the duffel, now empty, on the table for me, and I start loading the phones into the bag.

"What is 'solnyshka'?" he asks. He leans back against the front of his desk, his hands resting on either side of the front edge.

I look over my shoulder at him. "I'm sorry?" I say.

"'Solnyshka', what you call your daughter," Schiller says. He glances over his shoulder at Natalie. He turns back to me, his eyes even, relaxed.

I give a small smile. I look down and unzip another compartment. "It means 'my sunshine'," I say. I look up at him and shake the hair out of my eyes.

Schiller nods, and I turn back to the bag. "And 'ne idut'?" he asks.

"It means 'don't go'," I say. I put the last phone into the bag and zip it up. "Why do you ask?"

Schiller walks over and reaches past me, picking up the office phone on the table. He presses a button and holds it up to his ear. "Bring Mrs. Walraven's car to the front," he says. He hangs up without waiting for an answer. "The sat phone lines are secure so you should use those if you need to talk about the shipment. The numbers are written on the backs of the phones. Call me if you have any difficulties," he says. He nods at the bag in my hand.

"Alright," I say. I sling the strap over my shoulder and turn to walk out the door. I am halfway to the elevator bank before I remember he told me that I'd been speaking to him in Russian.