"That's right."
"Delivery from Beds, Beds, Beds."
Emma released the entrance door, let out a war whoop.
"What?" Marianne demanded, sitting back far enough to frown at her work.
"Beds!" Emma shouted. "We've got beds."
"Don't joke about something like that, Emma. Not while I'm painting, or
I'll give you a wart."
"I'm not joking. They're on their way up."
Marianne paused, dripping brush in hand. "Real beds?"
"Mattresses, Marianne." Emma leaned a hand on the ladder. "Box
springs."
"Jesus." Marianne shut her eyes then gave a dramatic shudder. "I think
I had an orgasm."
At the elevator's ding, Emma was across the room like a shot. When the
doors opened, all she could see was a queen-sized mattress covered in
plastic. "Where do you want it?" was the muffled question.
"Oh. You can take that one right up those stairs in the far corner."
The man with "Buddy" stitched across his cap rolled his eyes, hefted the
mattress over his head, and started for the stairs. "We could only fit
one at a time in the elevator. My partner's waiting downstairs."
"Oh, right." She pushed the release button again. "Real beds," she said
as Marianne joined her.
"Please, not while we have company. Damn, there's the phone. I'll get
it."
The elevator dinged. Emma directed the second man-Riko according to his
cap-then smiled at Buddy as he went out to get box springs. When the
elevator opened, she grinned at the box springs that filled the car.
"One goes up, one goes down. Want a cold drink?"
Brian eased his way from behind the springs. "Yeah."
"Dad!"
"Mr. McAvoy," Marianne shouted over the radio. She stopped in
midstream, wiped her painly hands on her overalls. "Hi."
"You want to move?" Buddy complained, then maneuvered the box springs
toward the stairs.
"Dad," Emma managed again. "We.didn't know you were here."
"Obviously. Christ, Emma, anyone could ride up in that elevator.
Do you always leave the entrance unlatched?"
"They're delivering. Beds." She gestured as Riko struggled in with his
load. She drummed up a smile and kissed her father. "I thought you
were in London."
"I was. I decided it was time I got a look at where my daughter was
living." He stepped farther into the room to take a long, frowning
study. Drop cloths covered most of the floor. The packing crate from
the stove served as both a table and a stool and was now covered with
old newspapers, a lamp, a half-filled glass, and a paint can. The radio
sat on a windowsill, blasting away as Casey Kasem ran down the top
forty. The stepladder, the card table, and a single folding chair
composed the rest of the furniture.
"Jesus," was all Brian could think of to say.
"We're a construction zone," Emma told him with forced cheerfulness. "It