The dog posted himself at the bathroom door as Robin stepped into the suds. She soaped up, and I picked him up and carried him, grumbling, to his towel bed. The moment I put him down, he tried to escape. I closed the kitchen doors and gave him a Milk-Bone and as he began chewing, I snuck out.

He fussed for a while, attempting a sonorous rendition of the old-man-choking bit, but I applied sound behavior theory principles and ignored him, while trying to suppress my guilt. After a minute or so he calmed down and soon I heard him snoring in two-four time.

When I got back, Robin looked at me reproachfully. Her hair was up and the water's soapy surface reached just below her nipples.

“He's fine.” I got out of my clothes. “Enjoying the slumber of the truly virtuous.”

“Well,” she said, putting her arms behind her head and watching, “I suppose it's best.”

“Forgiven?” I said, sinking into the heat of the bath.

She contemplated. Breathed in. Smiled.

“I don't know . . .”

I kissed her. She kissed back. I touched one breast, kissed a soapy nipple.

“Umm,” she said, breaking away. “Well . . .”

“Well, what?”

“You can forget Mr. Cruel and Mr. Heartless, but I think it's time to take a meeting with their partner—what's his name?”

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER

9

Thursday morning she was up and out of the shower by six-fifteen. When I got to the kitchen I expected to see her dressed for work, that restless look in her eyes.

But she was still in her robe, drinking coffee and reading ArtForum. She'd set out food for the dog and only a few bits remained. He was at her feet and looked up at me only briefly before returning his head to the side of her leg.

She put the magazine down and smiled up at me.

I kissed her and said, “You can get going, I'll be fine.”

“What if I just want to be with you?”

“That would be great.”

“Of course, if you have other plans . . .”

“Nothing till the afternoon.”

“What's then?”

“Patient appointment out in Sun Valley at three-thirty.”

“Making a house call?”

I nodded. “Custody case. Some resistance and I want to see the kids in their natural environment.”

“Three-thirty? That's good. We can hang out together till then.”

“Terrific.” I poured myself a cup, sat down, and pointed to the magazine. “What's new in the art world?”

“The usual foolishness.” She closed it and pushed it aside. “Actually I have no idea what's going on in the art world or anywhere else. I can't concentrate, Alex. Woke up in the middle of the night, thinking about everything that's been happening to you and that poor psychiatrist up in Seattle. Do you really think there is a connection?”

“I don't know. It was a hit-and-run, but he was eighty-nine and couldn't see or hear well. Like Freud said, sometimes a cigar is just a cigar—did you get any sleep?”