In the bedroom, Robin unbuttoned her work shirt and I unsnapped her bra and cupped her breasts. They were warm and heavy in my palms and as I touched her, she arched her back. Then she stepped away from me and crossed her arms over her chest.

“Let's get out of here, Alex—out of the city.”

“Sure,” I said, looking over at the dog, head-butting the bedcovers. “Do we take him with us?”

“I'm not talking summer vacation, just dinner. Somewhere far enough to feel different. He'll be fine. We'll leave food and water, the air-conditioning on, give him a couple of chew-bones.”

“Okay, where would you like to go?”

Her smile was barren. “Normally I'd say Santa Barbara.”

I forced myself to laugh. “How about the other direction—Laguna Beach?”

“Laguna would be peachy.” She came over and placed my hands on her hips. “Remember that place with the ocean view?”

“Yeah,” I said. “Calamari and pictures of weeping clowns—wonder if it's still in business?”

“If it isn't, there'll be someplace else. The main thing is we get away.”

We left at seven-thirty, to avoid the freeway jam, taking the truck because the gas tank was fuller. I drove, enjoying the height and the heft and the power. A tape Robin had picked up at McCabe's was in the deck: a teenager named Allison Krause, singing bluegrass in a voice as sweet and clear as first love and running off fiddle solos that had the wondrous ease of the prodigy.

I hadn't called Milo to tell him about Meredith.

Another scumbag, he'd say, world-weary. Then he'd rub his face . . .

I thought of the man on the tape, chanting like a child, reliving his past. . . .

Bad thoughts intruding.

I felt Robin tighten up. Her fingers had been tapping my thigh in time with the music, now they stopped. I squeezed them. Strummed the fingertips, let my hand wander to her small, hard waist as the truck roared in the fast lane.

She had on black leotards under a short denim skirt. Her hair was tied up, showing off her neck, smooth as cream. A man with a functioning brain would have thanked God for sitting next to her.

I pressed my cheek against hers. Let my shoulders drop and bobbed my head to the music. Not fooling her, but she knew I was trying and she put her hand high on my thigh.

A babe and a truck and the open road.

By the time I reached Long Beach, it started to feel real.

Laguna was quieter and darker than I remembered, the art fair over, nearly all the tourist traps and galleries closed.

The place with the squid and clowns was no longer in business; a karaoke bar had taken its place—people getting slogged on margaritas and pretending to be Righteous Brothers. The painful sounds made their way to the sidewalk.