A tiny rectangle of abalone was clamped to a padded section of the bench. The edges were beveled and the corners were inlaid with bits of ivory and gold wire. She'd traced the shell with minuscule curlicue shapes, cut out some of them, and was in the process of excising another.

“Beautiful,” I said. “Fretboard inlay?”

“Uh-huh. Thanks.” She blew away dust and cleaned the edge of a pick with a fingernail.

“You do root canal, too?”

She laughed and hunched lower. The tools clicked as she carved out a speck of shell. “Kind of baroque for my taste, but it's for a stockbroker who wants a showpiece for his wall.”

She worked some more, finally put the tools down, wiped her forehead, and wiggled her fingers. “Enough for one day, I'm cramping up.”

“Everything okay?” I rubbed her neck.

“Nice and quiet. How about you?”

“Not bad.”

I kissed her. The wind got stronger and drier, ruffling the cypress trees and shooting a cold stream through the open garage. Robin unclamped the abalone, and put it in her pocket. Her arms were goosebumped. I put mine around them and the two of us headed for the house. By the time we got to the door, the wind was whipping the trees and stirring the dust, causing the bulldog to blink and sniff.

“Santa Ana?” she said.

“Too cold. Probably the tail end of something arctic.”

“Brr,” she said, unlocking the door. “Leave your jacket in the car?”

I shook my head. We went inside.

“You were wearing one, weren't you?” she said, rubbing her hands together. “That baggy brown tweed.”

Artist's eye.

“Yup.”

“Did you lose it?”

“Not exactly.”

“Not exactly?”

“I gave it away.”

She laughed. “You what?”

“No big deal. It was fraying.”

“Who'd you give it to?”

I told her about Little Calcutta. She listened with her hands on her hips, shaking her head, and went into the kitchen to wash her hands. When she came back, her head was still moving from side to side.

“I know, I know,” I said. “It was a bleeding-heart reflex, but they really were pitiful—it was a cheap old thing, anyway.”

“You wore it the first time we went out. I never liked it.”

“You didn't?”

“Nope. Too philosophy prof.”

“Why didn't you tell me?”

She shrugged. “It wasn't that important.”

“Snoring, poor taste in haberdashery. What else don't you like that you haven't informed me about?”

“Nothing. Now that you've ditched the coat, you're perfect.”

She ruffled my hair, walked to the French doors, and looked out at the mountains. They were shimmering, denuded in patches, where the foliage was brushed back like blow-dried hair. The pool water was choppy, the surface gritty with leaves and dirt.

Robin loosened her hair. I hung back and kept looking at her.

Perfect female statuary, rock-still against the turbulence.