“Next year. Some day you’ll thank me, Alex. You’re welcome in advance.”

* * *

I hooked up the pump and got to work.

When I was finished, Robin said, “The way you handled it— just enough to defuse the situation and no one got hurt. Classy.”

She took my face in her hands and kissed me hard.

We found a deli on Washington Boulevard, bought more takeout than we needed, drove back to Beverly Glen.

Robin walked into the house as if she lived there, entered the kitchen and set the table. We made it halfway through the food.

* * *

When she got out of bed, the movement woke me. Sweaty nap but my eyes were dry.

Through half-closed lids, I watched her slip on my ratty yellow robe and pad around the bedroom. Touching the tops of chairs and tables. Pausing by the dresser. Righting a framed print.

At the window, she drew back one side of the silk curtains she’d designed. She put her face against the glass, peered out at the foothills.

I said, “Pretty night.”

“The view,” she said without turning. “Still unobstructed.”

“Looks like it’s going to stay that way. Bob had his lower acre surveyed and it’s definitely unfit for construction.”

“Bob the Neighbor,” she said. “How’s he doing?”

“When he’s in town, he seems well.”

“Second home in Tahiti,” she said.

“Main home in Tahiti. Nothing like inherited wealth.”

“That’s good news— about the view. I was hoping for that when I oriented the room that way.” She let the curtain drop. Smoothed the pleats. “I did a decent job with this place. Like living here?”

“Not as much as I used to.”

She cinched the robe tighter, half faced me. Her hair was wild, her lips slightly swollen. Faraway eyes.

“I thought it might be strange,” she said. “Coming back. It’s less strange than I would’ve predicted.”

“It’s your place, too,” I said.

She didn’t answer.

“I mean it.”

She baby-stepped over to the far end of the bed, played with the edges of the comforter. “You haven’t thought that through.”

I hadn’t. “Sure I have. Many a long night.”

She shrugged.

“The place echoes, Robin.”

“It always did. We were aiming for great acoustics.”

“It can be musical,” I said. “Or not.”

She pulled at the comforter, squared the seam with the edge of the mattress. “You do all right by yourself.”

“Says who?”

“You’ve always been self-contained.”

“Like hell.” My voice was harsh.

She looked up at me.

I said, “Come back. Keep the studio if you need privacy, but live here.”

She tugged at the comforter some more. Her mouth twisted into a shape I couldn’t read. Loosening the robe, she let it fall to the floor, reconsidered, picked it up, folded it neatly over a chair. The organized mind of someone who works with power tools.

Fluffing her hair, she got back in bed.