They got into Morty’s Cadillac, drove across the Bay Bridge, and headed north, passing the university town of Berkeley, where Beep was a student. As he drove, Mort said: “I received a proposition for you. It’s not really my role, but I guess they thought I was the nearest thing to your personal agent.”

“What proposition?”

“A television producer called Charlie Lacklow wants to talk to you about doing your own TV show.”

Dave was surprised: he had not seen that one coming. “What kind of show?”

“You know, like The Danny Kaye Show or The Dean Martin Show.”

“No kidding?” This was big news. Sometimes it seemed to Dave that success was falling on him like rain: hit songs, platinum albums, sellout tours, successful movies—and now this.

There were a dozen or more variety shows on American television every week, most of them headlined by a movie star or a comic. The host would introduce a guest and chat for a minute, then the guest would sing his or her latest hit, or do a comedy routine. The group had appeared as guests on many such programs, but Dave did not see how they could fit into that format as hosts. “So it would be The Plum Nellie Show?”

“No. Dave Williams and Friends. They don’t want the group, just you.”

Dave was dubious. “That’s flattering, but . . .”

“It’s a major opportunity, if you ask me. Pop groups generally have a short life, but this is your chance to become an all-around family entertainer—which is a role you can play until you’re seventy.”

That struck a chord. Dave had thought about what he might do when Plum Nellie were no longer popular. It happened to most pop acts, though there were exceptions—Elvis was still big. Dave was planning to marry Beep and have children, a prospect he found daunting. The time might come when he needed another way to earn a living. He had thought about becoming a record producer and artist manager: he had done well in both roles for Plum Nellie.

But this was too soon. The group was hugely popular and now, at last, making real money. “I can’t do it,” he said to Morty. “It might break up the group, and I can’t risk that while we’re doing so well.”

“Should I tell Charlie Lacklow you’re not interested?”

“Yeah. With regrets.”

They crossed another long bridge and entered hilly country with orchards on the lower slopes, the plum and almond trees frothing pink and white blossoms. “We’re in the valley of the Napa River,” said Morty. He turned onto a dusty side road that wound upward. After a mile he drove through an open gate and pulled up outside a big ranch house.

“This is the first one on my list, and the nearest to San Francisco,” Morty said. “I don’t know if it’s the kind of thing you had in mind.”

They got out of the car. The place was a rambling timber-framed building that went on forever. It looked as if two or three outbuildings had been joined to the main residence at different times. Walking around to the far side, they came upon a spectacular view across the valley. “Wow,” said Dave. “Beep is going to love this.”