Sunday morning, by all rights, I should have slept in. Instead, I woke at 6:00 and while I didn’t stir from my bed, I lay under the weight of my quilt and savored the warmth. The Plexiglas skylight above my bed showed a half dome of blue. I’d slept with my windows open to the full, and the morning air wafting in was scented with seaweed and burning leaves. Dietz was less than a mile away. He was one of those people who needs very little sleep. In the time we’d spent together, he was typically up until two, down for four hours, and up again at six. Sundays in particular, he took a long time over coffee, reading the paper section by section, even the parts I skipped.

I pushed the covers back, got up, and then turned and made the bed like a good girl. Live alone and you have two choices—be a tidy bun or a slob. I brushed my teeth, showered, and threw on the clothes I’d worn the night before. I drove to the Edgewater Hotel and left my Mustang in the hands of a parking valet. I went through the entrance to the hotel, crossed the lobby, and moved along the wide corridor with its stretches of Oriental carpets over high-gloss Saltillo tiles. To my left, windows looked out onto an enclosed patio. Ficus trees, potted palms, and birds of paradise, like stiffly crested orange cranes, were arranged throughout, separating seating areas and providing the illusion of privacy. I spotted Dietz at a table against the stretch of windows that looked out toward the ocean. He was in jeans and a gray fleece shirt with a zippered placket and long sleeves that he’d pushed up. The paper was spread across the tabletop, one edge anchored by a coffee carafe. He wore round wire-rim glasses.

The hostess moved as though to greet me. I pointed at Dietz, indicating that I’d be sitting with him. She held up a menu that I waved off. Dietz looked up as I approached. He moved a hefty section of the Los Angeles Times from the nearest chair and I sat down. I could see now that my initial take had been correct. He looked tired and the gray in his hair had given way to white. He put his hand on the table, palm up, and gave me that crooked smile of his.

I placed my hand in his. “What happened to you?”

“Naomi died.”

“Of what?”

“Cancer. It wasn’t easy, but it was mercifully brief. Six weeks from diagnosis to the end. The boys were there and so was I.”

“When was this?”