I closed the book. “Got a cancellation tomorrow, but it’s early. Eight thirty if you can make it.”

“I can. Sure, that’ll be fine.” She looked at the card. “There’s no address here.”

“I work from home. I’ll give it to you.”

She produced an iPhone, punched in the info. “Eight thirty it is, thank you so much, Dr. Alexander Delaware—I guess I’d better be getting back to my tribe.”

We shook hands. Her skin was cool, dry, thrumming with the faintest tremor.

She said, “I’m Preem, by the way.”

“Nice to meet you.”

Flashing a million bucks’ worth of smile, she hurried to her brood.

I pretended to read another article, slipped Blanche a Milk-Bone. “You earned caviar but this is all I’ve got.”

When she was finished nibbling, we left, passing the kids and the teachers and Prema Moon, everyone busy with an assortment of vials, slides, leaves, illustrated books.

Prema Moon gave me a small wave and held a leaf up to Kembara. “Look at this, honey. Tri-lobar.”

The girl said, “Great, Mom,” in a voice ripe with boredom.

“Pretty, no?”

“Uh-huh.”

“That means it has three lobes—three of these little roundy things.”

“Mo-om, I need to draw.”

CHAPTER
48

Hang around L.A. long enough and you’re going to spot actresses. I’ve probably seen more than the average citizen because a few famous butts have warmed the battered leather couch in my office and once in a while I tag along with Robin at the type of party most people imagine to be fascinating but typically turns out to be mind-numbing.

I’ve learned that cinematic beauty is a funny thing. Sometimes it’s limited to the screen and real life offers up a plain face that closes up like a frightened sea anemone when the camera’s not whirring. Other times, physical perfection transcends time and place.

Prema Moon sat on the couch wearing couldn’t-care-less clothes: loose jeans, brown sneakers, a shapeless V-necked sweater that had begun life as sad beige and had faded to tragic gray. Her macramé bag was one shade sootier, fraying where the fabric gathered into bamboo handles.

Like yesterday, she wore no makeup. Indoor lighting turned her hair mousier than it had been at the park. The ends were blunt and uneven, barely reached her shoulders. Homemade hack job or an exorbitant styling meant to look that way.

If she indulged in Botox, she was overdue. Fine lines scored her brow, the space between her eyes, the sides of her mouth. The skin beneath her eyes was puffy. The indigo of her irises was lovely but oddly low-watt. Warm but sad.

She was gorgeous.