She’d urged him to join AA, but he’d balked at that. He didn’t need outside help to get his drinking under control. He had absolutely no intention of standing up at a public meeting, with god knows who present, confessing his sins, and looking for approbation. He’d always been a man who held his liquor well, and his heft actually allowed him to metabolize alcohol more efficiently than many guys his age. He had to admit that after a couple of hours at the club, if he were stopped by the CHP, he could probably pass a field sobriety test, but he’d blow a blood-alcohol level that would put him in jail.

Happily for him he’d managed to restrict his drinking the past eight months. He’d have a beer or two after working in the yard, or he’d sip the occasional glass of Champagne, celebrating an occasion such as a birthday or an anniversary. He made sure Carolyn knew and approved of these exceptions because it underscored his stance of moderation. She’d never believe it if he claimed he’d quit altogether. She knew him better than that.

Now at business lunches and dinners he bypassed hard liquor in favor of white wine, which scarcely registered on his internal alcohol meter. Going dry was really no big deal. He made do with iced tea, or soda water with lime. He slept better and he had more energy, but he noticed he was often bored. Friends and cohorts, who’d seemed so amusing when he drank, began to get on his nerves. He wasn’t as smooth or relaxed as he’d been in the past and he was aware that certain of his friends now shied away from him. And why would they not? He thought teetotalers were a tiresome bunch and he was sorry he’d been thrust into their ranks. It was also true that the temptation to drink was with him every minute of every day, like a low-grade headache he didn’t know how to shake.

With Carolyn gone, he tooled along Via Juliana, actively fantasizing about the highball he’d make for himself when he got home. He planned to sit on the back patio, which Carolyn had recently refurbished with faux wicker furniture, upholstered in a fabric impervious to the elements. Rain and sun could beat down on the cushions without ill effect. The view from the back terrace was still amazing to him, stretching across the hills and treetops all the way to the ocean. The air would be still, smelling of sage and bay laurel. He’d take his time, savoring a predinner cocktail. Then he’d have a pizza delivered and eat in front of the television set, maybe catch a golf match or a guy flick of the sort Carolyn would find tedious. He might allow himself a wee nightcap, but he’d wait and see what his mood was when the time came. He didn’t feel the same compulsion to drink as he had in the past. This was purely for the pleasure of it.