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friends and neighbors know what’s
happening. A simple service at the chapel in the cemetery, then
morning tea in the hospital lounge, and that’s it. Indecently fast,
but there won’t be many people.”
    “Well, while you’re drinking tea, I’ll get
the legal proof sorted for you.”
    Her chin shot up again and her eyes fixed on
his. “God, you’re horrible! It’s not a tea-party—I’m burying my
lovely Gran. How would you feel if she were yours?” Furious, she
reached out, snapped a peach off the tree, and fired it at him. It
hit him on the chest and then glanced off onto the lawn.
    “Feeling better now?” he asked, wiping the
juicy splodge off his skin.
    “I won’t feel better until I know this is
some sort of stupid dream. Or nightmare.” She huffed out a deep
sigh.
    He tipped the last drops of beer from his
bottle and set it down by the trunk of the tree. “Let’s get back to
your nightmare kitchen then.”
    Jetta flounced off in front of him, calling
back over her shoulder, “And don’t leave glass in my garden—bring
it inside for the recycling bin.”
    He hoped his laugh would set her even further
on edge.
    That’s the way. Get her rattled. Keep her mad
at you. This is only going to work if you stay well clear of
her.
    He bent for the bottle and strolled
inside.
    Jetta poked at the pile of linoleum fragments
with the toe of her sneaker. “You don’t really think there’s
asbestos in this, do you?” She looked so anxious that his resolve
to keep her on edge softened somewhat.
    “It’s probably too old,” he said, bending to
examine it. “When vinyl first replaced linoleum they sometimes used
asbestos in the backing, but this stuff looks solid all
through.”
    “I knew that,” she said, but she swept up the
rest of the fragments and the dust with care, and tied it into a
plastic bag before carrying it out to the growing pile on the front
lawn.
    He surveyed the devastation as he unpacked
the tape and roller and his old brushes. Her final sweeping had
removed almost all of the remains; the finish was not too bad at
all.
    “Have a scrape at that last piece,” he
suggested, indicating a patch where the glue had been thicker.
“Good result otherwise.”
    Jetta ignored him and glared at the cupboards
instead. “One day,” she said, “I’ll do something about all those
pink doors.”
    “We could whack a bit of white over
them?”
    “No, the surrounds are too creamy. White
would look terrible.”
    “Won’t be for long enough to worry
about.”
    She sent him a sub-zero glare. “Maybe a
neutral sisal shade until I can afford to do the proper kitchen
remodeling,” she challenged.
    “Waste of paint. It’ll be gone in a few
months.”
    She poked her tongue out and turned away. A
pointed little tongue as pink as the cupboard doors.
    He took a deep breath. No distractions.
Certainly no imagining that moist rosy tongue mating hotly with
his, or sliding like silk over his skin once he’d moved into the
bedroom next to hers...
    “We’ll start in the dining room,” he
suggested in a tone as frustrated as he felt. “I’ll unhook those
god-awful curtains, and if we drag the sideboard out together you
can start taping around the architraves.” He hoped he sounded
businesslike. He didn’t feel it. The combination of her cute little
body and sassy face and tart comments had him way on edge.
    “So what are you going to do?” She set her
hands on her hips and glared at him.
    “Follow along the edges with a paintbrush.
Then I’ll roll the walls.”
    “I’ll give some of them a wipe first—they’re
pretty dusty.”
    And half a minute later she was crawling
along the floor, pert bottom angled toward him, scrubbing a damp
rag over the top of the skirting boards.
    Anton stood back and watched her shuffling
and shifting, rump in the air. As she worked, the old cream T-shirt
crept higher and higher until a slice of slender waistline was
exposed. She seemed entirely innocent of her posture,