As Danny drove away, Dave said: “I like this place. Let’s buy it.”

Morty protested: “I have five more to show you!”

“I’m in a hurry to see my fiancée.”

“You might like one of the other places even more than this.”

Dave gestured over the vine fields. “Do any of them have this view?”

“No.”

“Let’s go back to San Francisco.”

“You’re the boss.”

On the way back, Dave began to feel daunted by the project he had embarked on. “I guess I need to find a builder,” he said.

“Or an architect,” said Morty.

“Really? Just to fix a place up?”

“An architect would talk to you about what you want, draw up plans, then get bids from a number of builders. He would also supervise the work, in theory—though in my experience they tend to lose interest.”

“Okay,” said Dave. “Do you know anyone?”

“Do you want an old established firm, or someone young and hip?”

Dave considered. “How about someone young and hip who works for an old established firm?”

Morty laughed. “I’ll ask around.”

They drove back to San Francisco and, shortly after midday, Morty dropped Dave off at the Dewar family house on Nob Hill.

Beep’s mother let Dave in. “Welcome!” she said. “You’re early—which is great, except that Beep’s not here.”

Dave was disappointed, but not surprised. He had anticipated spending the whole day looking at properties with Morty, and had told Beep to expect him at the end of the afternoon. “I guess she’s gone to school,” Dave said. She was a sophomore at Berkeley. Dave knew—though her parents did not—that she studied very little, and was in danger of failing her exams and getting expelled.

He went to the bedroom they shared and put down his suitcase. Beep’s contraceptive pills were on the bedside table. She was careless, and sometimes forgot to take the tablet, but Dave did not mind. If she got pregnant, they would just get married in a hurry.

He returned downstairs and sat in the kitchen with Bella, telling her all about Daisy Farm. She was infected by his enthusiasm and eager to view the place.

“Would you like some lunch?” she offered. “I was about to make soup and a sandwich.”

“No, thanks, I had a huge breakfast on the plane.” Dave was hyped up. “I’ll go and tell Walli about Daisy Farm.”

“Your car’s in the garage.”

Dave got in his red Dodge Charger and zigzagged across San Francisco from its wealthiest neighborhood to its poorest.

Walli was going to love the idea of a farmhouse where they could all live and make music, Dave thought. They would have all the time they wanted to perfect their recordings. Walli was itching to work with one of the new eight-track tape recorders—and people were already talking about even bigger sixteen-track machines—but today’s more complex music took longer to make. Studio time was costly, and musicians sometimes felt rushed. Dave believed he had found the solution.

As Dave drove, a fragment of a tune came into his head, and he sang: “We’re all going to Daisy Farm.” He smiled. Perhaps it would be a song. “Daisy Farm Red” would be a good title. It could be a girl or a color or a type of marijuana. He sang: “We’re all going to see Daisy Farm Red, where the fruit hangs on the vine.”