On Monday afternoon the payment left Cal's business account. He checked the acknowledgment, then waited. There were calls he had to return, an appointment he couldn't miss, and a lawyer's number written on the back of a receipt. He hadn't brought any of his cameras home from the hotel or the boat.
Juno's message came while he was clearing her shelf.
Received. 18,400. Thank you.
He put the phone down beside her notebook. She had asked him to leave the notebook closed. There were years of work in this one, names and timings and things she had written while he was speaking. He put a rubber band around it without opening it.
Her spare rain jacket hung behind the door of the workroom. He had thought it was one of his. There was a little crescent of white paint on the cuff from a ceiling they'd once filmed under, the owner insisting it was dry while moving the ladder into place himself. Cal took it down, folded it and put it on top of the notebook.
The woman who came for the things was Tess. She had a small car already full of bags and said Juno had told her which shelf. Cal pointed. She checked the contents against a list on her phone and asked about a charger.
He found it in his drawer. The label had Juno's initials on it, rubbed nearly blank.
“How is she?” he asked.
Tess slipped the charger into the box. “She'll tell you what she wants to tell you.”
He nodded. Tess picked the box up by its handholds. The bottom bowed. He reached under it before the notebook could fall through, and between them they got it onto the table.
“I'll get tape,” he said.
“Another box would be better.”
He found one, transferred the things and carried it down with her. At the car she tried to make space among a folded blanket, two grocery bags and a small electric fan. The fan had to go in front. Cal held the box while she rearranged everything. It took longer than it should have. His arms began to ache where he had pulled against the ladder.
Tess shut the trunk, tested it, opened it again. The jacket was caught. Cal folded the sleeve inside. This time it latched.
She thanked him for bringing the box down. Not for anything else. He watched the car pull out, leaving the place beside the curb where he had stood.
Upstairs, the workroom door had swung almost shut. He put his foot against it and carried the discarded box back inside. The broken bottom had torn along the seam. It could still be used flat to protect the floor.
He knelt, spread it under the table's loose leg and found the screw he'd been meaning to replace. For a moment he couldn't remember where he kept the tools. Then he opened the lower drawer, moved the old camera straps aside and took out the screwdriver.
The table rocked when he leaned on it. He held the leg straight with one hand and began to tighten the screw.