Summer
They could kick themselves, or each other, for not thinking of this before.
No one's been here in three years, and more, and the last time someone was here it was to shut the whole place down and take what was salvageable with the permission of a devastated assistant and lover who cared for approximately none of it without the man who created it; of course the air conditioning wouldn't work.
It's the middle of summer, on a tropical island; of course it's going to be swelteringly, disgustingly hot.
They've spent three winters getting used to snow and wind; of course it's going to seem even worse.
So maybe heat's not the worst thing that could happen to them, and when they consider the worst thing that could happen to them, they're pretty damn lucky that no one was waiting for them, no one's come to catch them unaware, they weren't found on the plane, or trying to rent a boat and go the rest of the way on their own.
But it doesn't stop him from complaining that those scraps she calls shorts and tee-shirts and sun-dresses she's been wearing the whole time they've spent rebuilding and directing construction are just making the heat worse.