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Show 118 "Just the avocados," Leah said. She looked at Hunt and smiled. He tried smiling back, but felt something like helium bubbling in his spine. "Be assured that he painted the avocados." It wasn't mean; it was private - Hunt knew that - a private joke, that prodded him into the world and said she loved him. He loved her. In the most counted ways, she was strong - and it anchored him. "Well, then, let's go," Andi Pierson said. "I'm excited," Paula Schoefield had a voice like a firefly. "Show us your work." "What exactly's a Realist?" Hunt liked Paula Schoefield's question; he liked her really wanting to know. "Pretzels?" Leah offered. But they all were up. They were standing, waiting, ready to move. "Well, I guess . . . if you insist," Hunt said. He looked at Leah. The others followed his glance. Leah held her breath again, then broke the silence. "I try to wait," she said, "until things are finished. Sometimes even beyond." One more time, Leah sent her meaningful code. Lane Pierson also stayed behind. "Check," he said, as if it all were a poker game; then he rose and crossed to the wrought-iron bar, pouring himself . . . this time some Chivas Regal. The group started off. Hunt led them. Behind him, through light notes of chatter, he heard Lane Pierson asking Leah, "You a Realist too?" "Half and Half," Hunt heard his wife respond, "Half Realist, Half Christian Scientist." And then the glass door to the house from the patio thudded |