“I assumed the same reason every other kid was: unable to jump high hurdles. I know that world, Alex. Grew up in Beverly Hills, my dad was an assistant attorney general. I thought I wanted something simple, would never return to California.”

“Larry said you went to Penn for grad school.”

“Went to Penn and loved it. Then I spent a couple of years at Ann Arbor, came back to Penn and took an assistant professorship. If it had been up to me, I’d have stayed back East. But I married a Wharton guy and he got a fantastic job offer at Union Oil here in L.A. and all of a sudden we were living in a condo on the Wilshire Corridor and I was cramming for the California boards.”

“Sounds like things have worked out,” I said.

She’d speared steak on her fork and dipped it in bearnaise. The meat remained suspended for a moment, then she placed the fork down on her plate. “Life was rolling along quite nicely, then three summers ago, my father woke up at 4 A.M. with chest pains and my mom called us in a panic. Grant—my husband—and I rushed over and the three of us took Dad to the hospital and while they were working him up, Grant wandered off. I was so caught up supporting Mom and waiting for the verdict on Dad that I didn’t pay much attention. Finally, just as they told us Dad was fine—gastric reflux—and we could take him home, Grant showed up and from the look on his face, I knew something was wrong. We didn’t talk until after we dropped Mom and Dad off. Then he told me he hadn’t been feeling well for a while—bad stomachaches. He’d figured it was job stress, kept thinking the pain would go away, was eating antacids like candy, hadn’t wanted to alarm me. But then the pain got unbearable. So while we were at the hospital, he got hold of a doctor he knew—a Penn golfing buddy—and had x rays taken. And they found spots all over. A rare bile-duct tumor that had spread. Five weeks later, I was the mourning widow, living back with Mom and Dad.”

“I’m sorry.”

She nudged her plate away. “It’s rude of me to unload like this.” Another tentative smile. “I’ll blame it on your being too good a listener.”

Without thinking, I reached out and patted her hand. She squeezed my fingers, then spider-walked away, took hold of her wineglass, drank while staring past me.

I took a healthy swallow of beer.

“Want to hear something funny?” she said. “Tonight I’m lecturing about post-traumatic stress. Listen, Alex, it’s been nice meeting you, and good luck with whatever you’re trying to do, but I’ve really got to run.”