A regular.

He said, “Thank you, darling,” sat down at my table, placed his cup and plate in front of him, and grasped my hand with both of his.

“Alex. So good to see you.”

“Good to see you, too, Bert.”

“What have you been up to?”

“The usual. And you?”

Soft gray eyes twinkled. “I’ve embarked on a new hobby. Ethnic instruments, the more esoteric the better. I’ve discovered eBay—how wonderful, the global economy in its finest form. I find bargains, wait like a child on Christmas Eve for the packages to arrive, then try to figure out how to play them. This week my project is a one-stringed curiosity from Cambodia. I haven’t learned its proper name, yet. The seller billed it as a ‘Southeast Asian thingamajig.’ Sounds dreadful, so far—like a cat with indigestion, but I have no neighbors, per se.”

Harrison’s home was a purple cottage, high on a hill above Ojai, bordered by olive groves and empty fields and nearly hidden by snarls of agave cactus. Bert’s old Chevy station wagon sat in a dirt driveway, always freshly waxed. Each time I’d visited, the house’s front door had been unlocked.

“Sounds like fun,” I said.

“It’s great fun.” He bit into the pastry, let loose a flow of custard, licked his lips, wiped his chin. “Delicious. What have you been doing for fun, Alex?”

Figuring out how to answer that must have done something to my face, because Harrison placed his hand atop mine and he looked like a concerned parent.

“That bad, son?”

“Is it that obvious?”

“Oh, yes, Alex. Oh, yes indeed.”

I told him about Robin. He thought a while, and said, “Sounds like small things have been amplified.”

“Not so small, Bert. She’s really had it with my risk-taking behavior.”

“I was referring to your feelings. Your anxiety about Robin.”

“I know I’m being paranoid, but I keep flashing back to the last time she left.”

“She made a mistake,” he said. “But she bore the brunt of it, and you might think about disconnecting yourself from her pain.”

“Her pain,” I said. “Think it still bothers her after all these years?”

“If she allows herself to focus on it, my guess is she feels a good deal worse about it than you do.”

He’d met Robin twice, and yet I didn’t feel him presumptuous. A few months after our house had burned down, we’d driven up to Santa Barbara for a change of scenery and had run into Bert at an antiquarian bookstore on State Street. He’d been browsing through eighteenth-century scientific treatises. In Latin. (’My current hobby, kids.’) Dust had speckled the front of his jumpsuit.