We’re whisked to a table on the terrace, nestled between rustling palms and heavy red hibiscus flowers. I want to scoff at the location because it’s definitely a place to see and be seen, but it’s also lovely in that way of LA restaurants, a secluded little fairyland of grace and beauty.

I order their take on a moscow mule and sit back with a content sigh. Now that I’m far away from the doctor’s office and soaking up the warm sun, I’m happy.

The drinks are arriving when a harassed-looking woman in a dove-gray Dior day dress hurries over.

“I’m sorry I’m late, darling,” she says to Macon, forestalling his attempt to rise by giving him a quick kiss on the cheek. “Traffic on the 101 is a beast.”

It’s always a beast. But I suspect she knows this and is more concerned about making a grand entrance. The woman is tall and thin, her long dark-brown hair flowing in perfect waves around her face. I know the effort it takes to have your hair turn out that perfectly; either she puts aside a few hours to get ready in the morning, or she has a standing reservation at a salon.

Regardless, I’m impressed and a little envious. I’d resisted washing my hair for as long as possible, but my own blowout gave up the ghost with this morning’s shower, and I am not nearly as adept with the flat iron as my stylist. Which means my hair now floats too thick and fluffy around my head.

Karen takes a seat and plunks her elbows on the table with a dramatic sigh. She’s older than Macon and me, maybe five years, and there’s a hardness about her, as though the lines bracketing her mouth were made by frowns instead of smiles. “Well,” she says, eyeing Macon. “You’re looking much better.”

“Out of the wheelchair, at any rate,” he answers before taking a sip of his iced tea.

“Thank God for that,” Karen says expansively. “The studio wants you looking strong and healthy, or they’ll start worrying you’ll be unfit to play the role.”

I frown at the idea that Macon has to hide the fact that he’s been seriously injured. The man has months to heal, for pity’s sake.

I don’t realize I’m swinging my crossed leg in agitation until the tips of Macon’s fingers touch my knee. The contact is firm and fleeting, but it’s enough to grab all my attention. Abruptly, I halt and uncross my legs.

“Karen,” he says. “This is my new assistant and chef, Delilah.”

It’s as if I’ve magically just appeared at the table and she’s seeing me for the first time. Her blue eyes do a quick inventory. “I see what you mean,” she says to Macon, dismissing me with a turn of her shoulder.