I had barely aired out the place when my neighbor, Mr. George Wilbur, came over with his wife, Mildred, in tow. I say “in tow” because she walked behind him, stood behind him, spoke when spoken to. She was better behaved than their dog, a big, friendly Irish setter who bounded up the porch, eager to make friends. The Wilburs were both of them pinch-lipped, middle-aged, and nosy. They insisted they’d only come by to be certain I wasn’t a squatter. This place had been empty for months, they said, and before that a disreputable writer had lived here; they knew he was disreputable because various women were frequently overnight guests. Before that a disreputable musician had lived here. He too had various overnight guests. Once I convinced the Wilburs I was no squatter (did they want to see my lease?), they said they were happy to have me nearby. I personally wasn’t so happy to have them nearby, though I liked their dog, Bruno.

My place was built a long time ago, judging from the narrow-slat wooden walls. The kitchen and living room had broad windows that opened onto the wide, high porch with a glorious view of the beach, the ocean, the horizon, and all the ongoing daily interplay of light among them. In the living room there was a battered upright piano, badly out of tune, and with keys that felt almost bloated with the salt air, but it still played. I wondered if it might actually be the piano that Nelson had played in the library all those years ago. In the grate of the big stone fireplace I found ash—the writer’s drafts, no doubt. The writer left a bookshelf full of Dashiell Hammett, Raymond Chandler, and a lot of lesser authors, and assorted pencils. In the fridge there was a carton of milk, and a loaf of bread so thick with mold it looked like moss. A mousetrap sat on the kitchen counter. I had my work cut out for me.

The smaller bedroom had a narrow metal-frame bed that looked to have come from an orphanage. The bigger bedroom was more cheerful, with a big south-facing window, a double bed, a dresser, and a couple of side tables, all in the rounded style of the twenties. The place had bamboo blinds and haphazard furniture. In the living room a desk fronted the windows, and a television with rabbit ears that could be made to work (sort of), sat across from a big, threadbare, comfy chintz-covered chair. All in all, more appealing to me than Summit Drive’s antiques, reeking of the European past. Still, I know Julia would have been appalled that I was so ready to love this place. She was very much comme il faut, elegant, though not spontaneous. Me, I was ready to be spontaneous, bohemian, eclectic, my new favorite words.