ists.

Clothiers for both sexes offering styles that made Brooks Brothers seem New Wave. A profusion of dry cleaners, florists, interior decorators, banks, and brokerage houses. Three stationers in two blocks suddenly that made sense. Plenty of Esq."s and Ltd."s and faux-Victorian nomenclature on the signs. Nowhere to eat or drink or stretch.

Frequent signs directing the meandering tourist to the museum.

A Hispanic man in blue city-issue coveralls pushed an industrial-strength vacuum cleaner along the sidewalk. A few whitehaired figures walked around him. Otherwise the streets were bare.

The haut monde approach to exurbia. Picture-perfect. Except for the sky, soot-streaked and dingy, clouding the foothills. Because money and connections couldn't buck geography: Ocean winds blew the smog here and, trapped by the hills, it settled in for the long run.

San Labrador air was poisonous 120 days a year.

Following Melissa's directions, I drove six blocks past the commercial area, took the first left-turn break in the median, and got onto Cotswold Drive, a pine-canopied straightaway that began snaking and climbing a half-mile in. Cool shade and post-nuclear silence followed: L.A."s usual dearth of humanity, but here it seemed more pronounced.

Because of the cars the lack of them. Not a single vehicle at the curb. The NO PARKJNG AT ANY TIME enforced with Denver boots and predatory fines. Rising above the empty streets were big tileroofed houses behind sloping lawns. They got bigger as the grade climbed.

The road split at the top of the hill: Essex Ridge to the west, Sussex Knoll to the east. No homes visible here, just two-story walls of green eugenia and juniper and red-berried toyon backed by forests of oak, ginkgo, and liquidambar.

I lowered my speed and cruised until I finally saw it. Handcarved pine gates on thick doweled posts capped with verdigrised iron the kind of hard, waxed pine you see on Buddhist temples and the counters of sushi bars. The posts sided by iron fencing and twelve foot hedge. The numeral "1" on the left arm of the gate, "0" on the right. To the left of the "1," an electric eye and talk box.

I pulled up, reached out the driver's window, and punched the button on the box.

Melissa's voice came out of the speaker. "Dr. Delaware?"

"Hi, Melissa."

"One second."

A rumble and groan and the gates angled inward. I drove up a steep stone path that had been hosed down so recently the air was misty.

Past regimentally planted fifty-foot incense cedars and a vacant guardhouse that could have housed a couple of middle-class families.

Then another regiment of trees-a sky-blotting grove of Monterey pines that stretched for several moments before condescending to smaller cousins: gnarled, bonsailike cypress and mountain dogwood ringed with free-form clumps of purple rhododendron, white and pink camellia japonica.

A dark drive. The silence seemed heavier. I thought of Gina Dickinson making her way down here, alone. Gained a new appreciation for her affliction. And her progress.

The trees finally cleared and a stadium-sized lawn came into view ryegrass so healthy-looking it could have been fresh sod, edged with circular beds of begonia and star jasmine. I saw flashes of light at Two no, three khaki-clad men, too distant to be clearly discernible.

Hernandez's sons? I could see why he needed five. he gardeners worked on the vegetation with hand clippers, barely breaking the silence with dull clicks. No air guns or power tools here. Another covenant? Or house rules?

The path ended in a perfectly semicircular drive backed by a pair of date palms. Between the knobby palm trunks, two flights of double-width Bouquet-Canyon stone steps flanked by wisteria-laced stone balustrades led to the house: peach-colored, three-storied, wide as a neighborhood.

What could have been simply monolithic grossness was merely monumental.

And surprisingly pleasing to the eye, the visual flight piloted by fanciful turns of the architect's pencil. Subtly shifting angles and elevations, a richness of detail. High, arched, leaded windows grilled with teal-green, neo-Moorish wrought-iron work.

Balconies, verandas, dripstones, running molds, and mullions carved from mocha-colored limestone. A limestone colonnade on the east end.

Spanish roof-tiles honeycombed with mosaic precision. Stainedglass cinquefoil insets placed with a contempt for synchrony but an unerring eye for balance.

Still, the very size of the place-and the solitude-was oppressive and sad. Like an empty museum. Nice place to visit, but I wouldn't want to be phobic here.

I parked and got out. The gardener's clicks were augmented by bird-squawks and breeze-rustle. I climbed the stairs, unable to imagine what it would have been like to grow up here, an only child.

The entry was big enough to accommodate a delivery truck: double doors of lacquered oak, trimmed with more verdigrised iron, each side divided into half a dozen raised panels. Carved into the panels were peasant scenes that evoked high-school Chaucer. They held my interest as I pressed the doorbell.

Two baritone chimes sounded; then the right door opened and Melissa stood there, wearing a white button-down shirt, pressed blue jeans, and white tennies: she looked tinier than ever. A doll in a dollhouse built to too large a scale.

She shrugged and said, "Some place, huh?"

"Very beautiful."

She smiled, relieved.

"My father designed it. He was an architect. The most she'd said about him in nine years. I wondered what else would emerge now that I'd made a house call.

She touched my elbow briefly, then drew it away.

"Come in," she said. "Let me show you around."

Around was a vast space crammed with treasures-an entry hall big enough for croquet, and at its rear a sinuous green marble staircase. Beyond the stairs, cavernous room after cavernous roomgalleries built for display, vast and silent, indistinguishable from one another in terms of function. Cathedral and coffered ceilings, mirrorsheen paneling, tapestries, stained-glass skylights, kaleidoscopic Oriental and Aubusson rugs over floors of inlaid marble and handpainted tile and French walnut parquet. So much sheen and opulence that my senses overloaded and I felt myself losing equilibrium.

I remembered feeling that way once before. Over twenty years ago. A college sophomore, backpacking solo across Europe on a second-class rail pass and $4 a day. Visiting the Vatican. Staring bugeyed at gdd I encrusted walls, the treasure-trove assembled in the name of God.

Gradually pulling away from it and watching other tourists and Italian peasants visiting from the southern villages, gawking, too. The peasants never leaving a room before dropping coins in the alms boxes that stood near each door..

Melissa was talking and pointing, a docent in her own home.

We were in a book-lined, five-sided, windowless room. She indicated a spotlit painting over a mantel. "And this one's a Goya. "The Duke of Montero on His Steed." Father bought it in Spain when art was much more reasonable. He wasn't concerned with what was fashionable this was considered a very minor Goya until just a few years ago; too decorative. Portraiture was de'classe'. Now auction houses write us letters all the time. Father had the foresight to travel to England and brought back cartons of Pre-Raphaelites when everyone else thought they were just kitsch. Tiffany glass pieces, too, during the fifties, when the experts brushed those off as frivolous."

"You know your stufi," I said.

She blushed. "I was taught."

"ByJacob?"

She nodded and looked away. "Anyway, I'm sure you ve seen enough for one day."

Turning heel, she began walking out of the room.

"Are you interested in art yourself?" I said.

"I don't know much about it-not the way Father or Jacob did.

I do like things that are beautiful. If nobody gets hurt by it."

"What do you mean?"

She frowned. We left the book-filled room, passed by the open door of another huge space, this one ceilinged with hand-painted walnut beams and backed with tall French doors. Beyond the glass was more lawn and forest and flowers, stone pathways, statuary, an amethyst-colored swimming pool, a sunken area, vine-topped and walled with dark-green tennis tarp under chain link. From the distance came the hollow thump of a ball bouncing.

A couple of hundred feet back, to the left of the court, was a long, low peach-colored building that resembled a stable: ten or so wooden doors, some of them ajar, backing a wide cobbled courtyard filled with gleaming, long-nosed antique automobiles. Amoeboid pools of water dotted the cobblestones. A figure in gray overalls bent over one of the cars, chamois in hand, buffing the flaring ruby-colored fender of a splendid piece of machinery. From the blower pipes, I guessed it was a Duesenberg and asked Melissa for confirmation.

"Yes," she said, "that's what it is," and keeping her eyes straight ahead, she led me back through the art-filled caverns, toward the front of the house.

"I don't know," she said suddenly. "It just seems that so many things start off beautiful and turn hateful. It's as if being beautiful can be a curse.

I said, "McCloskey?"

She put both hands in the pockets of her jeans and gave an emphatic nod. "I've been thinking about him a lot."

"More than before?"

"A lot more. Since we talked." She stopped, turned to me, blinked hard. "Why would he come back, Dr. Delaware? What does he want?"

"Maybe nothing, Melissa. Maybe it means nothing. If anyone can find out, my friend can."

"I hope so," she said. "I certainly hope so. When can he start?"

"I'll have him call you as soon as possible. His name is Milo Sturgis."

"Good name," she said. "Solid."

"He's a solid guy."

We resumed walking. A big, broad woman in a white uniform was polishing a tabletop, feather duster in one hand, rag in the other.

Open tin of paste wax near her knee. She turned her face slightly and our eyes met. Madeleine, grayer and wrinkled but still stronglooking.

A grimace of recognition tightened her face; then she showed me her back and resumed her work.

Melissa and I stepped back into the entry hall. She headed for the green stairway. As she touched the handrail I said, "In terms of McCloskey, are you concerned about your own safety?"

"Mine?" she said, pausing with one foot on the first step. "Why should I be?"

"No reason. But you were just talking about beauty as a curse.

Do you feel burdened or threatened by your own looks?"

"Me?" Her laughter was too quick, too loud. "Come on, Dr. D.

Let's go upstairs. I'll show you beautiful."

The top of the landing was a twenty-foot rosette of black marble inlaid with a blue-and-yellow sunburst pattern. French provincial furniture hugged the walls, potbellied, bowlegged, almost obscene with marquetry.

Renaissance paintings of the Sentimental School cherubs, harps, religious agony competed with flocked-velvet paper the color of old port. Foot-wide white molding and coving defined three hallway spokes.

Two more women in white vacuumed the one on the right. The other corridors were dark and empty. More like a hotel than a museum. The sad, aimless ambience of a resort during the off-season.

Melissa turned onto the middle corridor and led me past five white panel doors adorned with black and gold cloisonne' knobs.

At the sixth, she stopped and knocked.

A voice from within said, "Yes?"

Melissa said, "Dr. Delaware's here," and opened the door.

I'd been ready for another megadose of grandeur but found myself in a small, simple room-a sitting area, no more than twelve feet square, painted dove-gray and lit by a single overhead milk-glass fixture.

A white door took up a quarter of the rear wall. The other walls were bare except for a single lithograph: A softly colored mother-andchild scene that had to be Cassatt. The print was centered over a rosecolored, gray-piped loveseat. A pine coffee table and two pine chairs created a conversation area. Bone-china coffee service on the table.

Woman on the couch.

She stood and said, "Hello, Dr. Delaware. I'm Gina Ramp."

Soft voice.

She came forward, her walk a curious mix of grace and awkwardness. The awkwardness was all above the neck her head was held unnaturally high and tilted to one side, as if recoiling from a blow.

"Pleased to meet you, Mrs. Ramp."

She took my hand, gave it a quick, gentle squeeze and let go.

She was tall had at least eight inches on her daughter-and still model-slender, in a knee-length, long-sleeved dress of polished gray cotton. Front-buttoned to the neck. Patch pockets. Flat-heeled gray sandals. A plain gold wedding band on her free hand. Gold balls in her ears. No other jewelry. No perfume.

The hair was medium-blond and starting to silver. She wore it short and straight, brushed forward with feathered bangs. Boyish.

Almost ascetic.

Her face was pale, oval, made for the camera. Strong, straight nose, firm chin, wide gray-blue eyes stippled with green. The pouty allure of an old studio photo replaced by something more mature.

More relaxed. Slight surrender of contour, the merest sag at the seams. Smile lines, brow furrows, a suggestion of pouch at the junction of lips and cheek.

Forty-three years old, I knew from an old newspaper clipping, and she looked every day of it. Yet age had softened her beauty.

Enhanced it, somehow.

She turned to her daughter and smiled. Lowered her head, almost ritualistically, and showed me the left side of her face.

Skin stretched tight, bone-white and glassy-smooth. Too smooth the unhealthy sheen of fever-sweat. The jawline sharper than it should have been. Subtly skeletal, as if stripped of an underlying layer of musculature and refurbished with something artificial.

Her left eye drooped, very slightly but noticeably, and the skin beneath it was scored with a dense network of white filaments. Scars that seemed to be floating just beneath the surface of her skin a suspension of threadworms swimming in flesh-colored gelatin.

The neck-flesh just below the jaw was ruled with three ruddy stripes as if she'd been slapped hard and the finger marks had lingered. The left side of her mouth was preternaturally straight, offering harsh counterpart to the weary eye and giving her smile a lopsided cast that projected an uninvited irony.

She shifted her head again. Her skin caught the light at a different angle, and took on the marbled look of a tea-soaked egg.

Off-kilter. Beauty defiled.

She said to Melissa, "Thank you, darling," and gave a crooked smile.

Part of the left side didn't smile along.

I realized that just for the moment I'd blocked out Melissa's presence.

I turned, with a smile for her. She was staring at us, a hard, watchful look on her face. Suddenly, she turned up the corners of her mouth, forced herself to join in the smile-fest.

Her mother said, "Come here, baby," and went to her, holding out her arms. Hugging her. Using her height to advantage, cradling, stroking Melissa's long hair.

Melissa stepped back and looked at me, flushed.

Gina Ramp said, "I'll be fine, baby. Go on."

Melissa said, "Have fun," in a voice on the verge of cracking.

Gave one more look back and walked out.

Leaving the door open. Gina Ramp walked over and closed it.

"Please make yourself comfortable, Doctor," she said, readjusting the tilt of her face so that only the good side was visible. She gestured toward the china service. "Coffee?"

"No, thanks." I sat in one of the chairs. She returned to the loveseat. Sat perched at the edge, back straight, legs crossed at the ankles, hands in lap the identical posture Melissa had adopted at my house yesterday.

"So," she said, smiling again. She leaned forward to adjust one of the teacups, spent more time at it than she had to.

I said, "Good to meet you, Mrs. Ramp."

A pained look fought with the smile and won. "Finally?"

Before I could answer, she said, "I'm not a terrible person, Dr. Delaware."

"Of course you aren't," I said. Too emphatically. It made her start and take a long look at me. Something about her-about this place-was screwing up my timing. I sat back and kept my mouth shut. She recrossed her legs and shifted her head, as if in response to stage direction. Showing me only her right profile. Stiff and defensively genteel, like a First Lady on a talk show.

I said, "I'm not here to judge you. This is about Melissa's going away to college. That's all."

She tightened her lips and shook her head. "You helped her so much.

Despite me."

"No," Isaid. "Becauseofyou."

She closed her eyes, sucked in her breath, and clawed her knees through the gray dress. "Don't worry, Dr. Delaware. I've come a long way. I can handle harsh truths."

"The truth, Mrs. Ramp, is that Melissa turned out to be the terrific young woman she is in good part because she got a lot of love and support at home."

She opened her eyes and shook her head very slowly. "You're kind, but the truth is that even though I knew I was failing her, I couldn't pull myself out of my.. out of it. It sounds so weakwilled, but "I know," I said. "Anxiety can be as crippling as polio."

"Anxiety," she said. "What a mild word. It's more like dying.

Over and over. Like living on Death Row, never knowing..." She swiveled, revealing a crescent of damaged flesh. "I felt trapped.

Helpless and inadequate. So I continued to fail her."

I said nothing.

She went on: "Do you know that in thirteen years I never attended a single parent-teacher conference? Never applauded at her school plays or chaperoned field trips or met the mothers of the few children she played with. I wasn't a mother, Dr. Delaware. Not in any true sense of the word. She's got to resent me for it. Maybe even hate me."

"Has she given any indication of that?"

"No, of course not. Melissa's a good girl too respectful to say what's on her mind. Even though I've tried to get her to."

She leaned forward again. "Dr. Delaware, she puts on a brave front feels she always has to be grown up, a perfect little lady. I did that to her-my weakness did." Touching her bad side. "I turned her into a premature adult and robbed her of her childhood. So I know it's got to be there anger. All bottled up inside."

I said, "I'm not going to sit here and tell you you gave her the ideal upbringing. Or that your fears didn't influence hers. They did.

But throughout it all-from what I saw during her therapy-she perceived you as being nurturant and loving, giving her unconditional love. She still sees you that way."

She bowed her head, held it with both hands, as if praise hurt.

I said, "When she wet your sheets you held her and didn't get angry.

That means a lot more to a child than parent-teacher conferences.

She looked up and stared at me. The facial sag more evident than before. Shifting her head, she switched to a profile view.

Smiling.

"I can see where you'd be good for her," she said. "You put forth your point of view with a... force that's hard to debate."

"Is there a need for us to debate?"

She bit her lip. One hand flew up and touched her bad side again.

"No. Of course not. It's just that I've been working on... honesty.

Seeing myself the way I truly am. It's part of my therapy. But you're right, I'm not our concern. Melissa is. What can I do to help her?"

"I'm sure you know how ambivalent she is about going away to college, Mrs. Ramp. Right now she's framing it in terms of her concern about you. Worry that leaving you at this point in your therapy might upset the progress you've made. So it's important for her to hear from you-explicitly-that you'll be okay. That you'll continue to make progress with her gone. That you want her to go. If you do."

"Dr. Delaware," she said, looking at me straight on, "of course I do.

And I have told her that. I've been telling her since I found out she'd been accepted. I'm thrilled for her-it's a wonderful opportunity. She must go!"

Her intensity caught me by surprise.

"What I mean," she said, "is that I see this as a crucial period for Melissa. Breaking away. Starting a new life. Not that I won't miss her of course I will. But I've finally gotten to a point where I can think of her the way I should have been doing all along. As the child.

I've made tremendous progress, Dr. Delaware. I'm ready to take some really giant steps. Look at life differently. But I can't get Melissa to see that. I know she mouths the words, but she hasn't changed her behavior."

"How would you like her to change?"

"She overprotects me. Continues to hover. Ursula Dr. Cunningham-Gabney has tried to talk to her about it, but Melissa's unresponsive. The two of them seem to have a personality conflict.

When I try to tell her how well I'm doing, she smiles, gives me a pat, and says "Great, Mom,' and walks away. Not that I blame her. I let her be the parent for so long. Now I'm paying for it."

She lowered her gaze again, rested her brow in one hand, and sat that way for a long time. Then: "I haven't had an attack in over four weeks, Dr. Delaware. I'm seeing the world for the first time in a very long time, and I feel I can cope with it. It's like being born again. I don't want Melissa limiting herself because of me. What can I say to convince her?"

"Sounds like you're saying the right things. She just may not be ready to hear them."

"I don't want to come out and tell her I don't need her I could never hurt her that way. And it wouldn't be true. I do need her. The way any mother needs any daughter. I want us always to be close. And I'm not giving her mixed messages, Doctor believe me. Dr. Cunningham-Gabney and I have worked on that. Projecting clear communication. Missy just refuses to hear it."

I said, "Part of the problem is that some of her conflict has nothing to do with you or your progress. Any eighteen-year-old would be anxious about leaving home for the first time. The life Melissa's led up till now the relationship between the two of you, the size of this place, the isolation makes moving out scarier for her than for the average freshman. By focusing on you, she doesn't have to deal with her own fears."

"This place," she said, holding out her hands. "It's a monstrosity, isn't it? Arthur collected things, built himself a museum.

A trace of bitterness. Then quick cover: "Not that he did it out of ego that wasn't Arthur. He was a lover of beauty. Believed in beautifying his world. And he did have exquisite taste. I have no feel for things. I can appreciate a fine painting when it's placed in front of me, but I'd never accumulate it's just not in my nature.

"Would you ever consider moving?"

Faint smile. "I'm considering lots of things, Dr. Delaware.

Once the door opens, it's hard not to step through. But we Dr. Cunningham-Gabney and I are working together to keep me in check, make sure I don't get ahead of myselfo I've still got a long way to go. And even if I was ready to dump everything and roam the world, I wouldn't do that to Melissa pull everything out from under her."

She touched the china pot. Smiled and said, "Cold. Are you sure you don't want me to call down for fresh? Or something to eat have you had lunch?"

I said, "I'm sure, but thanks anyway."

"What you said before," she said. "Avoiding her own conflicts by mothering me. If that's the case, how can I pull that out from under her?"

"She'll come to grips with your improvement naturally gradually as you continue to make progress. And to be honest, you may not be able to persuade her to go to Harvard before the application deadline's up."

She frowned.

I said, "It seems to me there's something else complicating the situation-jealousy."

"Yes, I know," she said. "Ursula's pointed out how jealous she is."

"Melissa's got lots to be jealous of, Mrs. Ramp. She's been hit with a lot of change over a short period of time, besides your progress: Jacob Dutchy's death, your remarriage." The return of a madman "What makes it even rougher for her is the fact that she takes credit or blame-for initiating a good deal of the change. For getting you into treatment, introducing you to your husband."

"I know," she said. "And it's true. She did get me into therapy.

Nagged me into it, God bless her. And therapy's helped me cut a window in my cell. Sometimes I feel like such a fool for not doing it sooner, all those years..." She shifted position suddenly, showing me her complete face. Flaunting it.

Saying nothing about her second marriage. I didn't pursue it.

She stood suddenly, made a fist, held it in front of her, and stared at it. "I've got to convince her, somehow." Tension blanched the scarred side, marbling it again, bleaching the stripes on her neck.

"I'm her mother, for God's sake!"

Silence. The distant whir of a vacuum cleaner.

I said, "You sound pretty convincing right now. Why don't you call her in and tell her that."

She thought about that. Lowered the fist but kept it clenched.

"Yes," she said. "Okay. I will. Let's do it."

She excused herself, opened the door on the rear wall, and disappeared through the doorway. I heard padded footsteps, the sound of her voice, got up and looked.

She sat on the edge of a canopied bed, in an immense off-white bedroom with a muraled ceiling. Mural of courtesans at Versailles, enjoying life before the deluge.

She sat slightly stooped, bad side unprotected, pressing the mouthpiece of a white-and-gold phone to her lips. Her feet rested on plum-colored carpeting. The bed was covered with a quilted satin spread and the phone rested on a chinoiserie nightstand. High crank windows flanked the bed on both sides clear glass under pleated, gold-fringed valances.

Gilt-framed mirrors, lots of lace and toile and happily pigmented paintings. Enough French antiques to put Marie Antoinette at ease.

She nodded, said something, and put the phone back in its cradle. I returned to my seat. She came out a moment later, saying, "She's on her way up. Do you mind being here?"

"If Melissa doesn't mind."

Smile. "She won't. She's quite fond of you. Sees you as her ally."

I said, "I am her ally."

"Of course," she said. "We all need our allies, don't we."

A few minutes later footsteps sounded from the hall. Gina got up, met Melissa at the door, took her by the hand, and drew her in.

Placing both hands on Melissa's shoulders, she looked down at her solemnly, as if preparing to confer a benediction.

"I'm your mother, Melissa Anne. I've made mistakes and been weak and inadequate as a mother, but that doesn't change the fact that I'm your mother and you're my child."

Melissa looked at her quizzically, then whipped her head in my direction.

I gave what I hoped was a reassuring smile and shifted my glance to her mother. Melissa followed it.

Gina said, "I know my weakness has put a burden on you, baby.

But that's all going to change. Things are going to be different."

At the word different, Melissa stiffened.

Gina saw it and drew her close, hugging her. Melissa didn't fight it, but neither did she yield. "I want us always to be clpse, baby, but I also want us to live our own lives."

"We do, Mother."

"No, we don't, sweetheart. Not really. We love each other and care about each other you're the best daughter a mother could ever hope for.

But what we have is too. tangled. We have to untangle it. Get the knots out.

Melissa pulled away a bit and stared up at her. "What are you saying?"

"What I'm saying, baby, is that going away back east is a golden opportunity for you. Your apple. You earned it. I'm so proud of you your whole future is waiting and you have the brains and the talent to make the best of it. So take advantage of the opportunity I insist you take advantage."

Melissa wriggled free. "You insist?"

"No, I'm not trying to What I mean, baby, is that "What if I don't want to take advantage of it?" Melissa's tone was soft but combative. A prosecutor building the foundation for an assault.

Gina said, "I just think you should go, Melissa Anne." Some of the conviction had left her voice.

Melissa smiled. "That's fine, Mother, but what about what I think?"

Gina drew her close once more and pressed her to her breast.

Melissa's face was impassive.

Gina said, "What you think is the most important, baby, but I want to make sure you know what you really think that your decision isn't clouded by your worries about me. Because I'm fine, and I'm going to continue to be fine."

Melissa looked up at her again. Her smile had widened but turned cold.

Gina looked away from it while holding tight.

I said, "Melissa, your mother has given a lot of thought to this.

She's certain she can handle things."

"Is she?"

"Yes, I am," said Gina. Her voice had risen half an octave. "And I expect you to respect that opinion.

"I respect all of your opinions, Mother. But that doesn't mean I have to live my life around them."

Gina's mouth opened and closed.

Melissa took hold of her mother's arms and peeled them off her.

Stepping back, she looped her fingers in the belt loops of her jeans.

Gina said, "Please, baby."

"I'm not a baby, Mother." Still smiling.

"No. No, you aren't. Of course you aren't. I apologize for calling you that-old habits are hard to break. That's what this is all about changing. I'm working on changing you know how hard I've been working, Melissa. That means a different life. For all of us. I want you to go to Boston."

Melissa looked at me, defiant.

I said, "Talk to your mother, Melissa."

Melissa's attention swung back to Gina, then to me once more.

Her eyes narrowed. "What's going on here?"

Gina said, "Nothing, ba Nothing. Dr. Delaware and I have had a very good talk. He's helped me clarify things even further. I can see why you like him."

"Can you?"

Gina started to reply, stammered, and stopped.

I said, "Melissa, this family's going through major changes. It's rough for everyone. Your mother's searching for the right way to let you know she's really okay. So that you don't feel obligated to take care of her."

"Yes," said Gina. "Exactly. I really am okay, honey. Go out and live your own life. Be your own person."

Melissa didn't move. Her smile had vanished. She was wringing her hands. "Sounds like the grown-ups have decided what's best for little me.

"Oh, honey," said Gina. "That's not it at all!"

I said, "No one's decided anything. What's important is that the two of you keep talking-keep the channels of communication open.

Gina said, "We sure will. We'll get through it, won't we, honey?"

She walked toward her daughter, arms out.

Melissa backed away, into the doorway, braced herself by grasping the doorframe.

"This is great," she said. "Just great."

Her eyes blazed. She pointed a finger at me. "This isn't what I expected from you.

"Honey!" said Gina.

I got up.

Melissa shook her head and held her hands out, palms-front.

I said, "Melissa "Forget it. Just forget it!"

She shuddered with anger and ran out.

I stuck my head out the door, watched her race down the corridor, legs flying, hair flapping.

I considered going after her, then thought better of it and turned back to Gina, trying to conjure up something profound.

But she was in no shape to listen.

Her face had gone ghostly and she was clutching her chest.

Mouth open, gasping for breath. Body starting to shake.

The shakes got violent. I rushed to her. She stumbled back, shaking her head, holding me off, her eyes wild.

Reaching into one of the pockets of her dress, she fumbled for what seemed like a very long time, finally pulled out a small L-shaped white plastic inhaler. Inserting the short end in her mouth, she closed her eyes and tried to fasten her lips around the apparatus.

But her teeth chattered against the plastic and she had trouble gripping it in her mouth. Our eyes met but hers were glazed and I knew she was somewhere else. Finally she clamped her jaws around the mouthpiece and managed to inhale. Depressed a metal button at the tip of the inhaler's long end.

A faint hiss sounded. Her cheeks remained hollow. The bad side more hollow. She clutched the inhaler with one hand, grabbed a corner of the loveseat for balance with the other. Held her breath for several seconds before removing the device and collapsing on the couch.

Her chest heaved. I stood there and watched as the rhythm slowed, then sat next to her. She was still shaking; I could feel the vibrations through the sofa cushions. She mouth-breathed, worked at slowing down her respiration. Closed her eyes, then opened them.

Saw me and closed them again. Her face was filmed with sweat. I touched her hand. She gave a weak squeeze in return. Her flesh was cold and moist.

We sat together, not moving, not talking. She tried to say something, but nothing came out. She rested her head against the back of the loveseat and stared at the ceiling. Tears filled her eyes.

"That was a small one," she said in a feeble voice. "I controlled it."

"Yes, you did."

The inhaler was still in her hand. She looked at it, then dropped it back in her pocket. Bending forward, she took my hand and squeezed it again. Exhaled. Inhaled. Let out breath in a long, cool, minty stream.

We were so close I could hear her heart beating. But I was focusing on other sounds listening for footsteps. Thinking of Melissa returning, seeing us that way.

When her hand relaxed, I let it go. It took a couple more minutes for her breathing to return to normal.

I said, "Should I call someone?"

"No, no, I'm fine." She patted her pocket.

"What's in the inhaler?"

"Muscle relaxant. Ursula and Dr. Gabney did the research on it.

It's very good. For short term."

Her face was soaked with sweat, the feathery bangs plastered to her brow. The bad side looked like inflatable plastic.

She said, "Whew."

I said, "Can I get you some water?"

"No, no, I'll be fine. Really. It looks worse than it is. This was a small one-the first time in... four weeks... I.

"It was a tough confrontation."

She put her hand to her mouth. "Melissa!"

Shooting up, she ran out of the room.

I went after her, following her slender form down one of the dark spokes, to a rear spiral staircase. Sticking close so as not to get lost in the huge house.

The second man in his early fifties, I guessed was thickset but not flabby, a lifelong athlete who'd stayed in condition. Heavyjawed and blue-eyed. Executive-cut black hair with gray temples, clipped gray mustache precisely as wide as his mouth. Seamed, ruddy complexion.

Marlboro Man goes Country Club.

He cocked an eyebrow and said, "Gina? What's up?" His voice was mellow and resonant, the kind that seems friendly even if it isn t.

The stairway bottomed at a short hallway just outside a pantry as big as my living room. We walked through it and into the kitchen, a banquet-sized galley painted custard-yellow and floored with white hexagonal ceramic tiles. There were two walls of coolers and freezers, oiled butcher-block counters, and lots of copper pots hanging from cast-iron ceiling racks.

No cooking smells. A bowl of fruit sat on one of the counters.

The industrial eight-burner stove was bare.

Gina Ramp led me out, past a second, smaller kitchen, a silver room, and a paneled dining hall that could accommodate a convention. Looking from side to side, calling out Melissa's name.

Getting silence in return.

We backtracked, made a couple of turns, and ended in the room with the painted ceiling beams. Two men in tennis whites came through the French doors, holding rackets and wearing towels around their necks.

Both were big and well built.

The younger man was in his twenties, with thick shaggy yellow hair worn past his shoulders. A long thin face was dominated by narrow dark eyes and a cleft chin deep enough to hide a diamond. His tan had taken more than one summer to build.

"Have you seen Melissa, Don?"

"Sure, just a minute ago." Directing his gaze at me. "Something the mat-?"

"Do you know where she is, Don?"

"She left with Noel-" "With Noel?"

"He was doing the cars, she came running out like a bat out of Hades, said something to him, and the two of them drove off. In the Corvette.

Something wrong, Geen?"

"Oh, boy." Gina sagged.

The mustachioed man put his arm around her shoulder. Cast another searching look at me. "What's going on?"

Gina forced a smile and fluffed her hair. "It's nothing, Don. Just aThis is Dr. Delaware. The psychologist I told you about. He and I were trying to talk to Melissa about college and she got upset. I'm sure it'll blow over.

He held her arm, pursed his lips in a way that made his mustache peak in the middle, and arched his eyebrows again. Strong and silent.

Another one to the camera born Gina said, "Doctor, this is my husband, Donald Ramp. Don, Dr. Alex Delaware."

"Pleased to meet you." Ramp extended a big hard hand and we shook briefly. The younger man had retreated to a corner of the room.

Ramp said, "They can't have gotten too far, Geen. If you'd like, I can go after them, see if I can haul "em back."

Gina said, "No, it's okay, Don." She touched his cheek. "The price of living with a teenager, darling. Anyway, I'm sure she'll be back fairly soon maybe they just went to get gas."

The younger man was examining a jade bowl with a fascination too intense to be genuine. Lifting it, putting it down, lifting it again.

Gina turned to him. "How are you today, Todd?"

The bowl descended and stayed put. "Great, Mrs. Ramp. And you?"

"Muddling along, Todd. How did Don do today?"

The blond man gave her a toothpaste-ad smile and said, "He's got the moves. All he needs is to work."

Ramp groaned and stretched. "These old bones rebel against work."

Turning to me: "Doctor, this is Todd Nyquist. My trainer, tennis coach, and all-around Grand Inquisitor."

Nyquist grinned and touched one finger to his temple. "Doctor."

Ramp said, "Not only do I suffer, I pay for it."

Obligatory smiles all around.

Ramp looked at his wife. "You sure there's nothing I can do, honey?"

"No, Don. We'll just wait. They're bound to be back soon.

Noel's not finished yet, is he?"

Ramp looked out the doors, toward the cobbled courtyard.

"Doesn't look like it. The Isotta and the Delahaye are both due for a wax and all he's been doing so far is washing."

"Okay," said Gina. "So they probably did go for gas. They'll be back, and then Dr. Delaware and I will take up where we left off. You go shower off, mister. Don't worry about a thing."

Tight voice. All of them tight. Squeezing out chitchat like meat through a grinder.

Tight silence.

I felt as if I'd wandered into the middle of a collaboration between Noel Coward and Edward Albee.

Gina said, "Drink, anyone?"

Ramp touched his midriff. "Not for me. I'm going for that shower.

Good to meet you, Doctor. Thanks for everything."

I said, "No problem," not sure what he was thanking me for.

He used one end of the towel to wipe his face, winked at no one in particular, and began walking off. Then he stopped, looked over his shoulder at Nyquist. "Hang in, Todd. See you Wednesday. If you promise to spare the thumbscrews."

"You bet, Mr. R said Nyquist, grinning again. To Gina. I could handle a Pepsi, Mrs. R. Or anything else you got that's cold and sweet.

Ramp continued to look at him, hesitated as if contemplating return, then walked off.

Nyquist flexed his knees, stretched his neck, ran his fingers through his mane, and checked the netting on his racket.

Gina said, "I'll get Madeleine to fix you something."

Nyquist said, "Sure bet," but his grin died.

Leaving him standing there, she escorted me to the front of the house.

We sat in overstuffed chairs in one of the caverns, surrounded by works of genius and fancy. Any space not filled with art was paneled with mirror. All that reflection turned true perspective into a carny joke.

Nearly engulfed by cushions, I felt diminished. Gulliver in Brobdingnag.

She shook her head and said, "What a disaster! How could I have handled it better?"

I said, "You did fine. It's going to take time for her to readjust."

"She doesn't have that much time. Harvard needs to be notified."

"Like I said, Mrs. Ramp, it may not be realistic to expect her to be ready by some arbitrary deadline."

She didn't respond to that.

I said, "Suppose she spends a year here watching you get better.

Getting comfortable with the changes. She can always transfer to Harvard during her sophomore year."

"I guess," she said. "But I really want her to go not for me."

Touching her bad side. "For her. She needs to get away. From this place. It's so It's a world to itself. All her needs met, everything done for her. That can be crippling."

"Sounds like you're afraid that if she doesn't leave now she never will."

She sighed.

"Despite all this," she said, taking in the room, "all the beauty, it can be malignant. A house with no doors. Believe me, I know."

That startled me. I thought I'd concealed it, but she said, "What is it?"

"The phrase you just used a house with no doors. When I treated her, Melissa used to draw houses without doors and windows."

"Oh," she said. "Oh, my." Touching the pocket that held the inhaler.

"Did you ever use the phrase in front of her?"

"I don't think I did that would be terrible if I did, wouldn't it?

Putting that image into her head."

"Not necessarily," I said. Hear ye, hear ye, the great yea-sayer cometh. "It gave her a concrete image to deal with. When she got better she started drawing houses with doors. I doubt this place will ever be for her what it was for you.

"How can you be sure of that?"

"I can't be sure of anything," I said gently. "I just don't think we need to assume that your prison is hers."

Despite the gentleness, it wounded her. "Yes, of course you're right.

She's her own person I shouldn't see her as my clone." Pause.

"So you think it'll be okay for her to live here?"

"In the interim."

"How long of an interim?"

"Long enough for her to get comfortable about leaving. From what I saw nine years ago, she's pretty good at pacing herself."

She said nothing, gazed at a ten-foot grandfather clock veneered with tortoise shell.

I said, "Maybe they decided to go for a drive."

"Noel hasn't finished his work," she said. As if that settled it.

She got up, walked around the room slowly, staring at the floor.

I began taking a closer look at the paintings. Flemish and Dutch and Renaissance Italian. Works I felt I should have been able to identify.

But the pigments were brighter and fresher than any I'd seen in museum Old Masters; some of them bordered on lurid. I remembered what Jacob Dutchy had said about Arthur Dickinson's passion for restoration.

Realized how much of a dead man's aura remained in the house.

House as monument.

Mausoleum sweet mausoleum.

From across the room, she said, "I feel terrible. I meant to thank Right off, as soon as we were introduced. For all you did years as well as what you're doing now. But we got into things and I Please forgive me. And accept my disgracefully belated you. ago, forgot. thanks."

I said, "Accepted."

She looked at the clock again. "I do hope they get back soon."

They didn't.

A half hour passed thirty very long minutes filled with smalltalk and a crash course in Flemish art delivered with robotic enthusiasm by my hostess. Throughout it all I kept hearing Dutchy's voice. Wondered what the voice of the man who'd taught him sounded like.

When she ran out of things to say, she stood and said, "Maybe they did go out for a drive. There's no sense in your waiting around.

I'm so sorry for wasting your time."

Pushing myself up from the quicksand cushions, I followed her on a furniture-strewn obstacle course that ended at the front doors.

She opened one of them and said, "When she does come home, should I get right into it with her?"

"No, I wouldn't push it. Let her behavior be your guide. When she's ready to talk, you'll know it. If you want me to be there next time you have a discussion, and that suits Melissa, I can be. But she may be angry at me. Feel I betrayed her."

"I'm sorry," she said. "I didn't want to spoil things between you.

"That can be fixed," I said. "What's important is what goes on between you.

She nodded. Patted her pocket. Came closer and touched my face, the way she'd touched her husband's. Gave me a close-up look at her scars a white brocade and kissed my cheek.

Back on the freeway. Back on planet Earth.

Sitting in the jam at the downtown interchange, I listened to the Gipsy Kings and tried not to think about whether I'd screwed up.

Thought about it anyway and decided I'd done the best I could.

When I got home I phoned Milo. He picked up and growled, "Yeah?"

"Gee, what a friendly greeting."

"Keeps away scambags trying to peddle bullshit and geeks taking surveys. What's up?"

"Ready to get to work on the ex-con thing?"

"Yeah. I've been thinking about it, figure fifty an hour plus expenses is reasonable. That going to sit okay with the clients?"

"I didn't have a chance to get into the financial details yet. But I wouldn't worry-there's no shortage of funds. And the client says she has full access to plenty."

"Why wouldn't she?"

"She's only eighteen and-" "You want me to work for the kid herself, Alex? Jesus, how many cookie jars we talking about?"

"This is no ditsy teenager, Milo. She's had to grow up fast too fast.

And she has her own money, assured me payment would be no problem. I just need to make sure she realizes exactly what it entails.

Thought I'd get to it today, but something else came up.

"The kid herself," he said. "Do I look like Mister Rogers or something?"

"Well," I said, "I know you like me just the way lam."

He said, "Jesus," again. Then: "Tell me more about this. Who, exactly, got damaged and what kind of damage."

I started describing the acid attack on Gina Ramp.

He said, "Whoa. Sounds like the McCloskey case.

"You know it?"

"I know ofit. It was a few years before my time, but it was a teaching case at the academy. interrogation procedures."

"Any particular reason?"

"The weirdness of it. And the guy who taught the course-Eli Savage was one of the original interrogators."

"Weird in what way?"

"in terms of motive. Cops are like anyone else they like to classify, reduce things to basics. Money, jealousy, revenge, passion, or some sort of sexual kink sums up ninety-nine percent of your violentcrime motives. This one just didn't fit any of those. The way I remember learning it, McCloskey and the victim had once had a thing going, but it ended friendly, half a year before he had her burned. No pining away on his part, no poison pen or love letters or anonymous phone calls or any of the harassment you typically see in an unrequited passion situation. And she wasn't going out with any other guys, so jealousy seemed out of the question. Money wasn't a strong bet because he had no insurance out on her, no one discovered any way he'd made a dime off the attack, and he actually paid out plenty to the yog who did the dirty work. In terms of revenge, there was some speculation that he blamed her for his business going bad-he had a modeling agency, I think."

"I'm impressed."

"Don't be. You don't forget a case like that-I remember they showed us photos of her face. Before and after and during she had tons of surgery. It was a real mess. I kept wondering what kind of person could do that to someone else. Now, of course, I know better, but those were the days of sweet innocence. Anyway, in terms of the money motive, it turns out losing the agency had nothing to do with her either. McCloskey was on the skids due to his drinking and some very heavy doping, and he himself went out of his way to make that clear during his interrogation. Kept telling the detectives he'd fucked up his life, begged to be put out of his misery. Wanting everyone to know that his putting the contract out on her had nothing to do with business."

"What did it have to do with?"

"That's the big question mark. He refused to say, no matter how hard they pressed him. Turned deaf and mute any time the issue of motive came up. Leaving only the psychopath angle, but no one uncovered any history of violence he was a punk and an asshole, liked to hang around gangsters, do the Vegas bit. But that was more of a pose everyone who knew him said he was a weenie."

"Weenies can snap.

"Or get elected to office. So, sure, maybe he was faking it.

Maybe he was a goddam sadist and hid it so well, no one ever figured it out. That was Savage's hunch something psychological, maybe kinky.

The case stuck in his craw. He prided himself on being a topnotch questioner. He ended the lecture with this speech about how McCloskey's motive didn't really matter; what counted was the asshole was behind bars for a long time, and that was our job: put "em away, let the shrinks figure "em out.

I said, "A long time's up."

"How long did he stay in?"

"Thirteen years on a twenty-three-year sentence time off for good behavior. Then they gave him parole for six."

"Usually parole's limited to three probably made some kind of a deal."

He grimaced. "Par for the course. Burn someone's face, rape a baby, whatever, attend remedial reading class and don't get caught shanking anyone and you walk in half the time." He paused, said, "Thirteen, huh? That would be some time ago. And you're saying he just got back to town?"

I nodded. "He spent most of his parole in New Mexico and Arizona.

Working on an Indian reservation.

"The old do-gooder scam."

"Six years is a long time to scam.

"But who knows if he behaved himself for six years who knows how many dead Indians paid for it. Even if he did, six isn't that long if the alternative is shoveling shit in some landfill or doing more time. Did he also pull a Chuckie Colson and find Jesus?"

"I don't know."

"What else do you know about him?"

"Just that he's off parole, free and clear, and that his last parole officer's named Bayliss and he's ready to retire or already has."

"Sounds like your eighteen-year-old's a pretty good sleuth herself."

"She learned all of this from one of the servants a guy named Dutchy, kind of a super-butler. He kept tabs on McCloskey from the time he was convicted. Very protective of the whole family. But he's dead now."

"Ah," he said. "Leaving the helpless rich to protect themselves.

Has McCloskey tried to get in touch with the family?"

"No. As far as I know, the victim and her husband aren't even aware he's back in town. Melissa the girl knows and it's hanging over her head."

"For good reason," he said.

"So you do think McCloskey's dangerous."

"Who knows? On the one hand you've got the fact that he's been out of jail for six years and hasn't made any moves. On the other, you've got the fact that he left the Indians and came back here. Maybe there's a good reason that has nothing to do with nastiness. Maybe not. Bottom line is it would be a smart idea to find out. Or at least try.

"Ergo.

"Yeah, ergo. Time to sharpen up the old private eye. Okay, if she wants me to, I'll do it."

"Thanks, Milo."

"Yeah, yeah. The thing is, Alex, even if he does have a solid reason for being back, I'd still be concerned."

"Why's that?"

"What I told you before-the motive thing. The fact that no one knows why the hell he did it. No one ever got afix on him. Maybe thirteen years opened him up and he blabbed to a cellmate. Or talked to some jail shrink. But if he didn't, that means he's a secretive fucker.

Muchopatient. And that pushes my buttons. Fact is, if I was less of a macho, invincible guy, that would goddam well scare me."

After he hung up I thought ofcalling San Labrador, but decided to let Melissa and Gina try to work things out.

I went down to the pond, tossed pellets to the koi, and sat facing the waterfall. The fish were more active than usual but seemed uninterested in food. They were chasing one another, in tight formations of three or four. Racing and splashing and bumping against the rock rims.

Puzzled, I bent down and got close to the water. The fish ignored me, continued circling.

Then I saw it. Males chasing females.

Spawn. Shiny clusters clinging to the irises that sprouted in the corners of the pond. Pale caviar, fragile as soap bubbles, glistening under the setting sun.

First time in all the years I'd had the pond. Maybe it meant something.

I crouched and watched for a while, wondering if the fish would eat the eggs before they hatched. If any of the young would survive.

I felt a sudden urge to rescue but knew it was out of my hands.

Nowhere to put the spawn professional breeders kept multiple ponds.

Removing the eggs and putting them in buckets would kill all chances of survival.

Nothing to do but wait.

Nothing like impotence to round off a charming day.

I went back up to the house and made dinner: a grilled minute steak, salad, and a beer. Ate it in bed, listening to Perlman and Zukerman do Mozart on CD, most of me getting lost in the music, a small segment of consciousness standing guard, waiting for a call from San Labrador.

The concert ended. No call. Another disc cued itself. The miracle of technology. The CD player was state-of-the-art. A gift from a man who preferred machines to people.

Another dynamic duo took center stage: Stan Getz and Charlie Byrd.

Brazilian rhythms didn't do the trick either. The phone remained mute.

More of me slipped away from the music. I thought of Joel McCloskey, apparently remorseful but keeping his motive hidden.

Thought of how he'd shattered Gina Paddock's life. Scars, visible and otherwise. The hooks that people embedded in one another while trolling for love. The agony when the barbs had to come out.

Impulsively, without thinking it through, I phoned San Antonio.

A stuffed-sinus female twang said, "Yay-lo." I heard TV noise in the background. Comedy from the sound of it: flat laughter that rose, peaked, and ebbed in an electronic tide.

The stepmother.

I said, "Hello, Mrs. Overstreet. This is Alex Delaware, calling from Los Angeles."

A moment of silence. "Uh hi, Doc. How're yew?"

"Fine. And you?"

Sigh almost long enough for me to recite the alphabet. "Good as can be."

"How's Mr. Overstreet?"

"Well we're all praying and hoping for the best, Doc. How's things in L.A.? Haven't been there in years. I bet everything's bigger and faster and noisier and whatever that's the way life always seems to go, doesn't it? You should see Dallas and Houston, and down here, too, though not as much down here we got a ways to go before our troubles get really big."

Word assault. Feeling as if I'd been hit hard in the end zone, I said, "Life goes on.

"If you're lucky, it does." Sigh. "But anyway, enough philosophizing that isn't gonna help anyone or anything. I expect yew'll be wanting to talk to Linda."

"If she's available."

"That's all she is, sir. Available. Poor thang never leaves the house, though I keep telling her it's not natural for a girl her age to be just sittin' around, playing nursie, getting all gloomy with no letup.

Not that I'm suggesting, mind you, that she go out and live the high life every night, what with her daddy being the way he is, no telling what could happen at any minute. So she daren't do anything she might feel regretful for later, mind you. But all this sitting can't bring good to anyone. To herself, especially. If you catch what I mean.

"Uh-huh."

"Gotta figure it this way: tapioca pudding that doesn't get eaten develops a skin and turns hard and crusty around the edges and soon it's no good for anyone. Same for a woman. That's as true as the Pledge of Allegiance, believe me."

"Uh-huh."

"Anyway.. I'll go get her, tell her you're calling long distance.

Clunk.

Shouts over the network babble: "Leen-da! Leen-da, it's for yew!.

.

. Linda, thepho-one! It's him, Linda-yew know. C'mon, hurry, girl, it's long distance!"

Footsteps, then a harried voice: "Let me take this in another room.

A few moments later: "Okay one second-I've got it. Hang up, Dolores!"

Hesitation. Click. Demise of the laugh-track.

Sigh.

"Hi, Alex."

"Hi."

"That woman. How long did she chew your ear off?"

"Let's see," I said. "Part of one lobe's gone.

She laughed without heart. "It's amazing I've got any of mine left.

Amazing Daddy hasn't. So how are you?"

"Fine. How is he?"

"Up and down. One day he looks fine; the next he can't get out of bed.

The surgeon says he definitely needs the operation but is too weak to go through it right now too congestive, and they're still not sure how many arteries are involved. They're trying to stabilize him with rest and medicine, get him strong enough for more tests. I don't know..

.

What can you do? That's the way things go. So how are you? I already asked you that, didn't I?"

"Keeping busy."

"That's good, Alex."

"The koi spawned."

"Pardon?"

"The koi the fish in the pond are laying eggs. First time they've ever done it."

"How nice," she said. "So now you'll be a daddy."

"Yup."

"Ready for the responsibility?"

"I don't know," I said. "We're talking multiple births." If any.

She said, "Well, look at it this way. At least there'll be no diapers to deal with."

Both of us laughed, said "So at the same time, and laughed again.

Synchrony. But stilted. Like bad summer-stock theater.

She said, "Been down to the school?"

"Last week. Everything seems to be going well."

"Real well, from what I hear. I spoke to Ben a couple of days ago.

He's turned out to be a bang-up principal."

"He's a nice guy," I said. "Organized, too. You made a good recemmendation."

"Yeah, he is. Very organized." She gave another heartless chuckle.

"Wonder if I'll have a job when I get back."

"I'm sure you will. Made any plans, yet in terms of getting back?"

"No," she said sharply. "How in the world can I?"

I was silent.

She said, "I didn't mean to snap, Alex. It's just been hell.. waiting. Sometimes I think waiting's the hardest thing in the world.

Even worse than... Anyway, no sense obsessing on it. It's all part of growing up and being a big girl and facing reality, isn't it?"

"I'd say you've had more than your share of reality lately."

"Yeah," she said. "Good for toughening up the old hide."

"I kind of like your hide the way it is."

Pause. "Alex, thanks for coming out last month. The three days you spent out here were the best days I've had."

"Want me to come out again?"

"I wish I could say yes, but I'd be no good to you.

"You don't have to be good."

"That's sweet of you to say but. no it just wouldn't work out. I need to... be with him. Make sure he gets good care."

"I take it Dolores hasn't become much of a nurse?"

"You take it correctly. She's the original Helpless Hannah a broken nail's a major tragedy. Till now she's been one of those lucky idiots, never had to deal with anything like this. But the sicker he gets, the more she falls apart. And when she falls apart, she talks.

Lord, how she talks. I don't know how Daddy tolerates it. Thank God I'm here to shelter him. It's as if she's bad weather-a wordstorm.

I said, "I know. I got caught in the downpour."

"Poor you.

"I'll survive."

Silence. I tried to conjure her face blond hair against my chest. The feel of our bodies... The images wouldn't come.

"Anyway," she said, sounding very tired.

"Is there anything I can do for you long distance?"

"Thanks, but I can't think of anything, Alex. Just think good thoughts about me. And take care of yourself."

"You, too, Linda."

"I'll be fine."

"I know you will."

She said, "I think I hear him coughing. Yeah, I sure do.

Got to be going."

"Bye."

"Bye."

I changed into shorts, aT-shirt, and sneakers, and tried to run off the phone call and the twelve hours that had preceded it. Got home just as the sun was setting, showered, and put on my ratty yellow bathrobe and rubber thongs. After dark I went back down to the garden and ran a flashlight over the surface of the water. The fish were inert; even the light didn't arouse them.

Postcoital bliss? Some of the egg clusters seemed to have dissipated, but several remained, adhering to the pond walls.

After I'd been down there for a quarter of an hour, I heard the phone.

News from San Labrador, finally. Hopefully, mother and daughter had started to talk.

I vaulted up the stairs to the landing and made it into the house in time to catch it on the fifth ring.

"Hello."

"Alex?" Familiar voice. Familiar, though I hadn't heard it in a time.

This time the images tumbled out like vending-machine long candy.

"Hello, Robin."

"You sound out of breath. Everything okay?"

"Fine. Just made a mad dash up from the garden."

"Hope I'm not interrupting anything."

"No, no. What's up?"

"Nothing much. Just wanted to say hi."

I thought her voice lacked buoyancy, but it had been a while since I'd been an expert on anything to do with her. "Hi. How've you been doing?"

"Just great. Working on an arch-top for Joni Mitchell. She's going to use it on her next album."

"Terrific."

"Lots of hand-carving. I'm enjoying the challenge. What've you been up to?"

"Working."

"That's good, Alex."

Same thing Linda had said. Identical inflections. The Protestant ethic, or something about me?

I said, "How's Dennis?"

"Gone. Flew the coop."

"Oh."

"It's okay, Alex. It was long-brewing no great shakes."

"Okay."

"I'm not trying to be a tough broad, Alex, say it didn't affect me at all. It did. In the beginning. Even though it was mutual, there's always that... empty space. But I'm over it. It wasn't like What he and I had was- I mean, it had its merits as well as its problems.

But it was different... from you and me."

"It would have to be."

"Yes," she said. "I don't know if there'll ever be anything like what we had. That's not a manipulation, just the way I feel."

My eyelids began to ache.

I said, "I know."

"Alex," she said in a pinched voice, "don't feel pressured to respond-in any way. God, that sounds so ridiculous. I'm so afraid of going out on a limb here "What is it?"

"I'm feeling really lousy tonight, Alex. I could really use a friend."

I heard myself saying, "I'm your friend. What's the problem?"

So much for steely resolve.

"Alex," she said timidly. "Could it be face-to-face, not just over the phone?"

"Sure."

She said, "My place or yours?" then laughed too loudly.

I said, "I'll come to you.

I drove to Venice as if in a dream. Parked in back of the storefront on Pacific, impervious to the graffiti and the trash smells, the shadows and sounds that filled the alley.

By the time I reached the front door she had it open. Dim lights touched upon the hulls of heavy machinery. Wood-sweetness and lacquer-bite floated forth from the workshop, mixing with her perfume-one I'd never smelled before. It made me feel jealous and antsy and thrilled.

She had on a gray-and-black floor-length kimono, the bottom hems flecked with sawdust. Curves through silk. Slender wrists. Bare feet.

Her auburn curls were lustrous and loose, tumbling around her shoulders. Fresh makeup, age lines I'd never seen. The heart-shaped face I'd woken up to so many mornings. Still beautiful as familiar as morning. But some region of it new, uncharted. Journeys she'd taken alone. It made me sad.

Her dark eyes burned with shame and longing. She forced herself to look into mine.

Her lip trembled and she shrugged.

I took her in my arms, felt her wrap around me and adhere, a second skin. Found her mouth and her heat, lifted her in my arms, and carried her up to the loft.

The first thing I felt the next morning was confusion a desolate bafflement, throbbing like a hangover, though we hadn't drunk. The first thing I heard was a slow rhythmic rasp-a leisurely samba-beat from down below.

Empty bed beside me. Some things never change.

Sitting up, I looked over the loft rail and saw her working.

Hand-sanding the rosewood back of a guitar clamped to a padded vise.

Hunched at her bench, wearing denim overalls, safety goggles, and a surgical mask, her hair tied up in a curly knot, bittersweetchocolate curls of wood collecting at her feet.

I watched her for a while, then got dressed and went downstairs.

She didn't hear me, kept working, and I had to step directly in front of her to catch her attention. Even then there was a delay before our eyes met; her focus, narrowed and intense, was aimed on the richly patterned wood.

Finally she stopped, placing the file on the bench top and pulling down the mask. The goggles were filmed with pinkish dust, making her eyes look bloodshot.

"This is it the one forJoni," she said, cranking open the vise, lifting the instrument, and rotating it to give me a frontal view.

"Your basic carved belly, but instead of maple she wants rosewood for the back and sides with only a minimal arch should be interesting to hear it."

I said, "Good morning."

"Good morning." She put the guitar back in the vise, kept her glance lowered even after the instrument was secured. Her fingers grazed the file. "Sleep well?"

"Great. How about you?"

"Great, too.

"Feel like breakfast?"

"Not really," she said. "There's plenty in the fridge mifridge es sufridge. Feel free."

I said, "I'm not hungry either."

Her fingernails drummed the file. "Sorry."

"For what?"

"Not wanting breakfast."

"Major felony," I said. "You're busted."

She smiled, looked down at the bench again, then back at me.

"You know how it is-the momentum. I woke up early fivefifteen.

Because I really didn't sleep well. Not because of I was just restless, thinking about this." Caressing the guitar's convex back and tapping it. "Still trying to