He went to the desk, picked up the phone and dialed, and spoke for about twenty minutes with Melvin Grant. I stood up and walked to the window. I did not yet have the kind of mastery of my emotions that he did. That Julia did, for that matter. Maybe that only comes with time and age and practice.

He put the receiver down. “As you know, I own a lot of properties in LA. One of them is a bungalow, a cottage at Malibu. You can live there. You can go to Melvin Grant’s office and pick up the key from the secretary, and sign the lease.”

“Thanks,” I said, my voice shaking. I started to leave, but he too rose, and took me in his arms, held me, pressed me to him as if he would never let me go. I held him too, breathed in his old remembered scent that spoke to me of being loved, cared for, a cherished child. I wanted to tell him how much I loved him, and how sad I was, and how I wanted everything to be different. But since it could never be the same, what was the use?

I broke from his embrace, picked up my hat, gloves, and purse, and went out to the garages, where I found my MG T among the dozen vehicles Leon kept there. The silver MG was a present for my twenty-first birthday, and though I loved it, it was fussy and unreliable. I had to coax the choke when it refused to start, and hope like hell I wouldn’t have to go back inside the house after my grand exit. Finally the engine hummed to life, and I tore down the long drive, the long, winding hill, and out the gates, as I sped toward Melvin Grant’s office on Wilshire.

“Miss Granville,” said the receptionist at the law office. “I was told you’d come by and sign these papers and collect the key. Perhaps you’d like to pay the first year’s rent now.”

My eyes widened.

“That’ll be a dollar.” After I gave her a dollar, she handed me a receipt. “The rent for nineteen fifty-four will be due next year on January first.” She put the key in my hand.