Irene and I assured him he was not and returned the conversation to reflect on him while we women dutifully basked in his masculine glory. We clinked our glasses, toasted him, and then toasted ourselves together and individually. We had each in our own way emerged unscathed from what could have been, would have been, ruinous for anyone less fortunate, which, I reflected, was probably most of the world.

Chapter Sixteen

Why would a man with a wife and three kids drive a Porsche? Maybe the wife drove a station wagon. Why hadn’t he shown me pictures of his kids? Even Gordon carries pictures of his kids in his wallet. Though these and other questions nagged at me, for Saturday I bought some beach balls and a kite to amuse the kids, and a big basket of strawberries from the Farmer’s Market, and potato salad and chocolate cake too. Saturday morning I made ham sandwiches, about a hundred of them. Or at least that’s what it felt like. What do I know of kids other than Irene’s? And they don’t count.

I was reading a script on the high front porch when Terrence Dexter came up the stairs. I peered down the steps behind him. “Where are Mrs. Dexter and the three kids?”

He burst out laughing. “Oh, Roxanne, I was funning with you! I’m not married! I am so not-married I live in a rented room on Naomi Avenue with a hot plate and a garage. I live there so I can drive the Porsche.”

“A worthy set of values,” I said, happily relieved.

“Brought you a present.” He handed me a record album—Buddy Collette. “Buddy’s a Central Avenue man. Put him on the hi-fi. See if you like him.”

“Thanks, I’ll do that,” I said, feeling pretty certain I’d like Buddy Collette better than John Philip Sousa. Buddy and his mellow quartet filled the little cottage with music that seemed to spark intimacy. Or maybe that was my own mood and Buddy just helped it along.

“Nice place. Sure different than Summit Drive, with all those antiques.”

“I was tired of all that heavy hand of the past. I want to be chic, modern.” I had a serious look around. “Or, if I can’t be chic and modern, then bohemian-eclectic.”

“Are the movies in these posters by your writers?”

“No, these are Empire films from a long time ago. The men who wrote these movies are long gone.”

He stood in front of each one studiously while I nattered on, anecdotes about the making of this one or that, saying nothing of who had died or fled the country or been shamed or professionally maimed, or any of that. I didn’t want to tarnish the afternoon with any sad stories.