She swam a few strokes, then stood at the edge of the pool, dripping, as Layla’s and Erik’s voices rose inside. We couldn’t hear what they were saying, but Zania listened intently nonetheless, tilting her head and swiping over her ears with her palms so her wet hair fell back and away. She looked troubled, then the slightest bit satisfied.

Abruptly the voices stopped, and Zania’s face turned blank again. She gazed at me, as if astonished to see me there.

“Do you think your dad’s excited about Hal’s show?” I said.

“He needs to make money on it,” she said. “But no one makes money on Hal’s shows.” Seeing my inquisitive look, she added, “Hal won’t sell his work. He never sells anything. Dad keeps trying, but Hal refuses.”

Mentally I calibrated what this meant for Nelson’s business. A month-long show for no profit? Why would he do it to himself?

“What happens to the art?” I said instead.

“Depends. This time, Hal wants viewers to take shoes home with them. He wants us to rip them out in the last week until the cathedral falls apart. He’s going to announce it at the opening. The whole thing will collapse while it’s on view. Everything we made. My dad gets nothing from this but press.” She sounded proud. Then she shivered. “I need to jump back in or get dressed. I hate this pool. He keeps it too hot.” Then she shouted to Layla and Erik, “How long till the food?”

“Half an hour!” Layla said, her voice muffled.

As I digested the new information about Nelson’s finances and his patronage of Hal, a large male figure in a black rash guard and navy board shorts appeared, strolling under the pool lights. “That means an hour, then,” Pearson said, and sat on a lounge chair. His body-hugging shirt reminded me of his considerable size. He could beat any of us to a pulp.

“You’re swimming?” Zania said. She sounded alarmed.

“Maybe. I like to warm up first,” said Pearson.

“The water is warmer than the air,” she said, and jumped back in, sending a spray of water in my face. I edged back to the far wall, away from her.

Pearson looked over to me, his eyes widening as if he had just noticed me for the first time. “You look different with wet hair,” he observed.

“She looks less mysterious,” said Layla, appearing behind him. Her voice was welcoming, but she didn’t smile. “How long have you lived in L.A., Mary?”

“Four years,” I said truthfully.

“Four years and still temping?” She made a face. “I’m so sorry.”

Layla was wearing a white bathing suit with white cutoffs, her pale, freckled chest and arms exposed. She came to the edge of the pool, sat down, and lowered her legs in the water, sinking them up to her knees.