“What do you do out here all day?” he asked.

“Read, walk, eat, drink, swim, play the piano. Watch television when the rabbit ears work.”

“You’ll get fat and stupid if you keep that up, Quacker.”

Bruno, walking on the beach with the Wilburs, saw me, and dashed across the beach and up the stairs, slobbering great doggy kisses and immediately trying to befriend Jonathan too. Jonathan fought him off.

“Down, Bruno!” I pulled him away.

“God! Roxanne! How can you stand that dog!”

“I love you, don’t I, Bruno?” I crooned, and petted the setter’s happy head. I led him down the stairs, giving a halfhearted wave to the Wilburs as he ran toward them.

“Those are your only neighbors? Those two? They look like dried figs with feet.”

I laughed. “They do, don’t they?”

“How can you stand it out here with only those people and their big stupid dog?”

“I like it here.”

“It’s not Paris.”

“True, but it’s home.”

We watched the waves in companionable silence, like two old people who have shared a lifetime together, which, I suppose, we have. Jonathan’s mother had left when he was a toddler, and his much-married father, an imperious executive at MGM, was never interested in him. They too lived on Summit Drive, but Jonathan was much happier at my house, where Leon and Julia were fond of him. As kids, he and I had the run of Empire, the backlots, and any soundstage not in use; we played pirates on the studio’s ships; we sailed our toy boats in the waist-deep water of the filming pool; we had gunfights and wrangled chickens on the Western sets, played cops and robbers on the New York street. We went anywhere we damn well pleased; the studio guards could reprimand us, but we were never punished, because Leon was always willing to forgive us our childish trespasses. We were golden, and ours was a childhood like no other. We took a vow at thirteen always to tell each other the truth, and never to kiss or be boyfriend and girlfriend. We did once kiss, but it was gross. Like kissing your brother.

“Speaking of Bill Holden . . .” He grinned conspiratorially. “You wanna hear a secret? My agent got me an audition for The Bridges at Toko-Ri! Bill Holden! Grace Kelly! Jonathan Moore!”

“You Quacker! Congratulations!”

“It’s the great dramatic role I was born for; well, it’s on the way to the great dramatic role I was born for—Hamlet. I’m every bit the actor that Monty is, that James Dean is, and all I get offered are sword-and-sandal crap.”

“Not after The Bridges at Toko-Ri! The offers will come pouring in! Oh, I’m so jealous! You’ve found the thing you were born to do. You can say, ‘I’m an actor!’ Me? I’m fit for nothing.”

“You’re a girl. You just need to get married.”