I drove down Sunset to Pacific Coast Highway. Though the Silver Bullet is a difficult English car, it has everything I love: speed, style, wire rims, a smooth purr to the engine, and grace on curves. On PCH I turned north toward Malibu, where I pulled off to the side of the road, and though it was January, I unsnapped the convertible top and pushed it back so I could really feel my freedom. Speeding up PCH, to my left the sea was a dolphin-gray, and blue-gray waves broke in a white, ruffled froth along the pale beaches. The wild wind seemed both soothing and invigorating as I snatched that stupid little hat off my head and flung it away. Then, one by one, I pulled off the black gloves, like a stripper. My short hair whipped around my face. Yes, I was bereft and saddened that Julia had died, bereft and saddened that I had lost my grandfather to that slut, Denise, but happy to be my own self, free of the antique past, ready for the future. No thought of what that future might be or mean, however, and at the moment, not caring either.

•   •   •

Two days later I returned to Summit Drive to get my things. I chose a time, mid-morning, when I knew Leon would be at Empire. I parked in the broad circular drive, opened the massive front door, and went in. I went up the staircase, and in the hall I was surprised to see Denise’s mother, Elsie O’Dell, come out of a bedroom door. (Denise’s real name was Dora O’Dell, a fact I knew because Julia used to make fun of it.) Elsie’s overdone mouth opened in alarm to see me. Her hair was an impossible saffron color, and she looked like a Victorian sofa, all puffs and rolls and bulges on tiny little feet. I thought about making some snotty remark, but instead, I walked past her without a word. She didn’t deserve to be spoken to.

In the spacious bedroom suite that had been mine for as long as I could remember, only the view—the tiered gardens, the swimming pool, the artificial lake—remained the same. The room was clean, but everything of mine was boxed up, labeled, and stacked; the drawers and closets were all empty, the canopy bed stripped and bare. Well, fine. I poked about in the boxes. The girl who had lived here seemed far distant to me.

Clarence knocked and entered. “Shall I instruct that all this be delivered to your new home?”

“All I want is my clothes, my books, my records, and the hi-fi. The rest of it can just go up in the attic.”

“Very well, Miss Roxanne. Please give me your new address before you leave. By the way, this came for you yesterday.” He handed me an envelope, nodded, and left.