He wanted no more wine. She nursed the last of hers as if to avoid leaving with him and being mistaken for just another meat-market matchup. He said, “Well, okay then, see you tomorrow,” and departed.

The night was pleasantly cool, the air soft rather than crisp, appealingly scented with the faint, musky odor of the invading sea that rose and fell and rose ceaselessly within the confines of the harbor.

After retrieving his SUV from the valet, David drove across Pacific Coast Highway and parked in the empty lot of a bank. He had a clear view of the restaurant.

Ten minutes passed before she appeared. At the sight of her, the valet hurried to fetch an ivory-white two-seat Mercedes 450 SL that was at least forty years old but impeccably maintained.

As she stood waiting for the car, bathed in the golden glow of the portico, she seemed to be not the subject of the light but the source of it, radiant.

The sight of her gave rise to that certain need in David, but this time also to desire.

Even though she didn’t know what car he drove, he dared to follow her only at a distance. Traffic remained light, and he was never at risk of losing her.

He expected to be led to a house, perhaps one in a gate-guarded community. She went instead to the Island Hotel.

From a distance, he watched her leave the Mercedes with another valet, who stood at the open driver’s door to watch her until she had disappeared into the lobby.

David went home, and for five hours he slept as if drugged. He dreamed of searching the Island Hotel for Emily.