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while Trevor picked up his brushes, arranging them in groupings that made no sense to Martin, then added solvent to each of the jars from a tin can. Martin, crouching low, managed to wedge the leg back in place fairly securely, then stood up.
    â€œI didn’t mean for you to stop work,” he said, realizing that this was what was happening.
    The painter regarded him as if he’d said something particularly foolish. He was a very big man, Martin couldn’t help but notice; he had a huge belly, but was tall enough to carry the weight without appearing obese. He’d probably been slimmer before, when he and Laura were lovers. Martin hadn’t doubted that this was what they were from the moment he unpacked the painting.
    â€œThe light’s about finished for today, Martin,” the other man shrugged. “The best light’s usually early. The rest is memory. Not like that bastard business you’re in.”
    So, Martin thought. Laura had talked about them. First she’d fucked this painter and then she’d told him about their marriage and their lives.
    â€œWhat’s that term movie people use for the last good light of the day?”
    â€œMagic hour?”
    â€œRight. Magic hour,” Trevor nodded. “Tell me, is that real, or just something you people made up?”
    â€œIt’s real enough.”
    â€œReal enough,” Trevor repeated noncommittally, as if to weigh the implications of “enough.” “Well, if you aren’t here to murder me, why don’t you have a seat while I get us a beer. And when I come back, you can tell me if
my
Laura’s ‘real enough’ to suit you.”
    She had arrived professionally wrapped and crated, and when Martin saw the return address on the label, he set the parcel aside in the corner of his study. Joyce had always been an unpleasant woman, so it stood to reason that whatever she was sending him would be unpleasant. She’d called a week earlier, telling him to expect something but refusing to say what. “I wouldn’t be sending it,” she explained, “except I hear you have a new girlfriend. Is it serious, Martin?”
    â€œI don’t see where it’s any of your business, Joyce,” he’d told her, glad to have this to say since he didn’t have any idea whether he and Beth were serious or not. Still, it was something of a mystery how Joyce, who lived clear across the country, could have heard about Beth to begin with. Why she should care was another. What she’d sent him, crated so expertly against the possibility of damage, was a third, but all three mysteries together aroused little curiosity in Martin. That the parcel contained a painting was obvious from its shape and packaging, but he’d idly assumed that talentless, bitter Joyce herself was the painter.
    So he’d left the package unopened for more than a week. Beth had been curious about it, or maybe just intrigued by his own lack of interest. She loved presents and received a great many, it seemed to Martin, although the majority were from her doting father, a man not much older than Martin himself. Daddy, as she referred to him, lived in Minnesota with a wife his own age, and Martin, thankfully, had never met either of them. Beth displayed little urgent affection for her parents, though her eyes always lit up when one of her father’s packages arrived. “You never buy me presents, Martin,” she sometimes said, feigning complaint, when she opened one of these. “Why is that?”
    Whatever instinct prevented Martin from opening the painting in front of Beth, he was grateful for it as soon as he tore the outer covering off the skeleton of protective latticework. Seeing Laura there, just behind the crosshatched slats, he had to suppress a powerful urge to lock the front door and pull the curtains shut against the brilliant California sunlight. After she was uncrated and leaning against the