Stirring her coffee, she said, “Well, okay—my favorite color is blue, favorite flower the calla lily, favorite time of the day sunrise. Songwriters—Cole Porter, Paul Simon. Dark chocolate, yes. Milk chocolate, no. White chocolate—you’ve got to be joking. Red wine, always. White wine, sometimes. Champagne, never, it gives me ghastly headaches. Walks on the beach. Dolphins, whales. Pelicans flying in formation. Hummingbirds. Butterflies. Driving very fast, laughing till I cry, making love. So—lunch on Sunday? Or would you first like to know my favorite textures, smells, and sounds?”

He said, “Why not dinner tomorrow instead of Sunday?”

“You’re up early tomorrow and away all day, and you’re stressed out about it, whatever it is.”

He frowned. “I said that?”

“Only that you’re up early and away all day. I inferred the stress. It’s very sweet how easy you are to read. If you were an assassin, dear, you’d never be able to get close to your target.”

“I’ll be back in time for dinner.”

“And all knotted up by whatever secret business it is that you have to deal with. I don’t know, of course, because you’re being as mysterious with me as you say I’m being with you, even though I do not know your favorite color or favorite flower or position on the issue of driving very fast. Lunch on Sunday, noon, Laguna Beach?” She named a restaurant.

“We’ll walk on the beach afterward,” he said.

She finished her coffee. “Tour some galleries, cute little shops.”

“May I pick you up? Where are you staying?”

“You can pick me up when I’m certain of your position on very fast driving and selected other matters. Sunday, I’ll drive myself and meet you there. Don’t look bereft. Smile for me. There, that’s nice. I love your smile. Especially when it’s aimed at me.”

Outside, as they waited for the valets to bring their cars, she put one hand against the back of David’s head and drew his face down to hers and kissed him warmly, more than chastely, but just once.

He did not follow her to the Island Hotel this time.

| 14 |

At home, David emailed Isaac Eisenstein two items for further investigation. Marcus Sutton, executive at Microsoft. Claire Sutton, prosecutor in the Seattle district attorney’s office.

Later, lying on his back in bed, David left one lamp on low, staring at the white-painted beam-and-shiplap ceiling, which always before he’d found pleasing to the eye and mind. Now the regularity of those lines and the expertly tight joinery of the boards seemed to mock his confusion and the disorganization that characterized his emotional life.

He could feel her lips on his as if the imprint of them would last a lifetime. The delicacy of her quick tongue. Her warm breath as the kiss ended.

The claim to be an assassin, whatever its purpose, whether to intrigue or merely tease him, did not occupy his thoughts, for he knew she would in time explain why she struck such a pose.