Young Lady was my nickname with his family and my ex-fiancé’s family. Hearing it made me feel nostalgic for the Grants and for Oswald’s wine-country ranch, which had been my home for almost two years. “I’m happy to be with you, too. What time is Cricket coming? Do you think she was named after the sport or the insect?”

“The latter, I should think. She has something of a voracious crop-devouring quality. She’s bringing her husband.”

“He’ll probably drone endlessly about cars or technology or the stock market. Promise to prop me upright if I begin to list.”

“Perhaps he’ll be a handsome gigolo and you’ll exchange erotic innuendos.”

“Oh, Ian, why must you get my hopes up?”

“We’ve just time for a shower.”

“That shower is the only good thing about this house. And the disco ball. And the view. And Rosemary likes the pool.”

After we showered, I massaged multispectrum sunblock all over Ian’s body, and was getting distracted again when he asked about my newsletter.

“The latest brouhaha is between the pit bull people and the Chihuahua people. They’re waging a bitter nature-versus-nurture battle and submitting dozens of frothing-at-the-mouth letters and columns. Circulation has tripled.”

“I’m very proud of you, but I hope you’ll have time for your own writing.”

“All I get are rejections from agents,” I said with a sigh. “I can’t tell myself anymore that the literary world isn’t ready for my stories. It’s me they don’t want. They want a crafty little bastard like Don Pedro.”

I’d ghostwritten a bestselling book, a fantastical memoir of a man who claimed to be a shape-shifter. I’d been paid a pittance and Don Pedro was internationally lauded as a spiritual leader.

“Is it the money or the fame you desire?”

“I want to be taken seriously for my craft.”

Ian tweaked my nipple and said, “I take you seriously. Now, if you don’t want Cricket to think you’re predictable, you may want to wear clothes.”

“Cricket. It’s onomatopoeic, isn’t it? Cricket, cricket, cricket.”

“I’m looking forward to your veiled insults already, darling.”

“I will be the epitome of charmishness,” I said as I went to the walk-in closet where I kept a few of my things. I dressed in a tiered lavender silk flapper dress and silver metallic flats, brushed out my hair, and stroked on shadow, mascara, and lip gloss before going to the kitchen.

I sloshed together a pitcher of martinis and put out Fra’ Mani salametto, Humboldt Fog cheese, pears, almonds, and a baguette. I hoped the sausage wouldn’t give Cricket ideas.

I heard the doorbell ring, and a minute later Ian escorted his neighbor and a younger man into the not-so-great room.