By six thirty she had turned off Wilshire Boulevard onto Selby Avenue, where she lived with her father—when he was around—in a modest bungalow that encompassed two bedrooms and a clipped, rectangular lawn of tough grass. Out front, there was a lemon tree, on which Irene lavished most of her love and care. The houses on Selby all looked alike to Irene, so she aimed for the lemon tree and turned left into the short drive so she could park the Model T in the lean-to garage she’d built with her father last year.

This morning, however, the garage was already occupied. Irene reached down for the brake lever just in time. She stared at the curved rump of the car in front of her and rattled her thumbs against the steering wheel, until the engine, starved of fuel, started to sputter and miss its beats. She shut off the ignition and climbed out. The surfboard she removed carefully from the back and set in its place at the back of the garage, next to the workbench.

She entered through the side door, which wasn’t locked. “Dad?” she called out.

“In the kitchen, pumpkin!”

Irene smoothed back her hair and turned right into the kitchen, where her father sipped coffee at the wooden table. Mr. Foster stood up and opened his arms. Irene stepped into his embrace and kissed his cheek, then turned her own cheek to be kissed.

“This is a nice surprise,” she said. “You must’ve set out early from Victorville.”

“I wasn’t in Victorville. I was out in Nevada. Reno way. Drove through the night so I could eat breakfast with my best girl.” He sat. “Weren’t out surfing, were you?”

“Sure, I was. Nice morning like this one.” The blue enamel coffeepot sat on the stove behind him, keeping warm. Irene had already taken a cup and saucer from the cabinet. She poured her coffee, added a teaspoon of sugar, stared at the swirling liquid as she stirred it in. The heat felt good on her fingers; she didn’t realize how cold they were.

“How were the waves?” asked Mr. Foster.

“Waves were good. Big, slow rollers, coming in northwest.”

He nodded. “Could maybe join you tomorrow, if you like.”

“Maybe,” Irene said.

He motioned to the other chair. “Sit down a bit and have coffee with me.”

“Can’t. I’ve got to be at work in an hour. I can fry you an egg, if you like.”

“Why, I’d love an egg or two,” Mr. Foster said, as if the idea never occurred to him.