“Then you must know that the saga of the flood, passed down by generations of bards, may have inspired the tale of Noah and the ark. Which means that the ark sailed these waters. It would be a waste of time humping our cameras up the side of Mount Ararat. Don't you agree?”

Austin leaned back in his chair and gazed into the dark amber eyes. They sparkled with good-humored intelligence.

“I'll answer that with a question of my own.”

“Let me guess. You want to know why someone who pretends to be a serious reporter ended up on the television equivalent of a supermarket tabloid.”

Austin added perceptiveness to the list of Kaela's other admirable qualities. “I've seen your show. In the episode I watched, Big Foot had been found living in Loch Ness with an alien love-child.”

“That must have been before my time, but I take your point. U.M. is trash television at its trashiest.”

Austin spread his hands. “So?”

“It's a long story.”

“We've plenty of time to talk. I'll have the sommelier refill your wineglass as often as you'd like.”

“That's the best offer I've had all day.” She cradled her chin in one hand and gazed into his face. There was no timidity in her large eyes. “I'll tell you about my background if you do the same for yourself.”

“Okay, you're on.”

She took another sip of Chianti. “I was born in Oakland, California. I was named Katherine after my dad's mother, and Ella after Ella Fitzgerald, Mom's favorite singer. My last name was Doran. I shortened it to Kaela Dorn when I went into TV. My mother was a ballet instructor at an African-American community center and my dad was an Irish-American, long-haired, pot-smoking hippie who had come to Berkeley to protest the Vietnam War and everything else.”

“There was a lot of that in the sixties.” She nodded. “Dad put aside his love beads and bongos and now teaches courses in contemporary American history at Berkeley, specializing in the protest movements of the sixties and seventies. He still has his beard, but it's a lot whiter than it used to be.”

“Happens to the best of us,” Austin said, pointing to his prematurely steel gray hair.

“I was something of a rebel as a kid. Pop's fault. One day Mom came down to the corner, where I was hanging out with a gang, and dragged me into her ballet classes where she could keep an eye on me. I traded in my gangsta colors for a tutu. I wasn't a bad dancer.”

The woman sitting across from Austin seemed made for dancing. “I would have been surprised if you were any less graceful than a Pavlova.”