Public Secrets

and a jar of strawberry preserves. When the buzzer sounded again, she dumped all of them on a shelf. Beside the elevator, which opened up into their living area, she pushed the intercom. “Yes?”
“McAvoy and Carter?”
“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.”
“Da!”
“Mr. McAvoy,” Marianne shouted over the radio. She stopped in midstream, wiped her painty hands on her overalls. “Hi.”
“You want to move?” Buddy complained, then maneuvered the box springs toward the stairs.
“Da,” 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 doesn’t look like it, but we’re nearly done. The carpenters just have a bit of finish work here and there and mister—I mean the tile man is coming Monday to finish the bath.”
“It looks like a warehouse.”
“Actually, it was a factory,” Marianne chimed in. “We’ve sectioned it off here and there with glass brick. That was Emma’s idea. It’s great, isn’t it?” She pointed to the waist-high wall that separated the living area from the kitchen. “We got some terrific old appliances,” she continued, and taking his arm, gave him the tour.
“Emma’s bedroom’s going to be here. The glass makes it private, but still lets in the light. I’m upstairs—a sort of combination studio and bedroom. Emma’s darkroom’s already set up through there, and come Monday the bath should be not only functional but attractive.”
He hated the fact that he could see the potential. Hated it because it made Emma seem less like his little girl than a woman, and a stranger.
“Have you decided to do without furniture?”
“We wanted to wait until it was finished.” Emma knew her voice was stiff, but couldn’t prevent it. “We aren’t in any hurry.”

“Wanna sign here?” Buddy pushed a clipboard under her nose. “You’re all set.” He blew his nose into a red bandana, then eyed Brian. “Hey. Hey, aren’t you—well, sure you are. I’ll be damned. McAvoy. You’re