“Well, I must get home,” she says. She also has a bag which she switches from her right to her left hand.
“You must stop by the house,” I say.
“OK.” She nods.
“Really, you must,” I insist. “Come pick some mangoes. The trees are full and I don’t know what to do with all of them.” I nod encouragingly. “And bring your children. They can see the fountain.”
“Yes,” she says softly. She promises to drop by sometime. Then we leave that too-sunny corner. I think of her and Danny and I sitting on the brittle grass under the mango tree, our tongues sweet with the juice of mangoes.
The next day I send the maid to the bakery to buy all types of pastries. I give her a list of meringue- and jelly-filled cakes, and airy rolls dusted with sugar. The children I send out for soft drinks. I am overprepar
