“I don’t blame her. Spread her wings, all that bullshit. I gave her a doozy of a settlement, too. Fuck, I’m letting her live in my house, just to have someone keep an eye on the place. You couldn’t imagine the burden of having a Richard Neutra. I’ve got wackos climbing in the windows just to get a look at the built-ins.”

“I had no idea,” Sara says. She doesn’t know what a Richard Neutra is, but hopes he can’t tell.

“He’s an architect, dear.”

“I knew that.”

“You didn’t. But don’t worry about it. Listen, Sara, I didn’t call to talk midcentury design. I need help.”

The offer: Sara would live in the guest suite—a large bedroom, private bath, separate entrance if she felt so inclined. She would be responsible for transporting him to and from appointments in his vehicle—she’s noticed the Escalade, with its customized lift, coming and going from Diamond. She’d shop for groceries and prepare meals, all expenses covered. She’d generally maintain the household. “I can do bills from the chair,” he says. “And running the business is no problem, or all the usual problems. But someone’s got to make sure me and Kirby get fed.” As if on cue, the dog yips in the background. “And once spring baseball gets going, you’d come with me to games. I splurged on a suite at the new Lions complex.”

Sara has never been to a baseball game, but she can guess what he wants to hear. “That sounds nice.”

“It is. Don’t worry, it’s not like I need someone to wipe my ass,” he continues. “I mean, not anymore, thank God. To be honest, that’s probably the straw that fucked the camel, regarding Marlene and me.” Sara tries to imagine this woman, but can’t. “The leg’s doing better, as you know. But it’d be nice to have an able body around the house.”

“I don’t know, Mr. Allison,” Sara says, her mind racing. She wants to ask for the details again, they sound so impossible, so good. A nice place to stay, no expenses … “I’ve been with Dr. Jewell a long time and—”

“What’s he paying you?”

“What?”

“How much? I’ll double it. On top of room and board.”

Truth be told, Dr. Jewell has underpaid her from the start, but she’s been afraid to complain. In all the ups and downs, the bad boyfriends and good times, the weeks she’d call in “sick” for spur-of-the-moment trips to Mexico or Burning Man, and for all the hangovers that really did keep her in bed, Dr. Jewell forgave her. He’d dock her pay and cancel vacation hours, talk down to her plenty—and he never once has given her a raise—but he forgave her screwups.

She rounds up to save face. “Thirty-two thousand.”