Even though I had promised myself to cruise by and not stop, I felt myself braking when I got directly in front of his house. There was another car in the driveway in front of Dave’s car: a cherry-red convertible Mercedes.

This wasn’t the car of a buddy who was “down and out” and looking for his big break in television. This was a chick car. I couldn’t believe it.

But maybe I could.

Why had I felt the need to do a drive-by? I drove halfway down the block and then stopped. My hands gripped the wheel. Should I go back and pound on the door and confront Dave and his guest, perhaps interrupting some sort of intimate clinch? Probably not, I told myself—there was no dignity in embarrassing myself. And what if Isaac was really in there and he’d just borrowed the Mercedes from a friend? Also, how could I explain to Dave why, instead of being home alone not watching the show I had written, I had been driving by his house?

I slowly drove back to my place, letting my mind go wild with the possibilities.

Missing the turn from Franklin onto Highland, I found myself driving toward Beverly Hills. I don’t know why, but I just drove and thought about the conversation Dave and I had had about tonight: Isaac needed him; I should be less selfish. I passed the Beverly Center and idled at the red light. Through the intersection I saw the sign for Locanda Veneta on the corner. Because it was Saturday night, they were busy, the valet running to grab keys and give out claim tickets to impatient drivers. I flipped a quick left and slid into the small parking lot. The valet waited by my car door for me to get out.

“Hi, how are you?” I began. “I’m not parking the car, but I have a question. Do you work every Saturday night?”

“Sí, miss, I work here every weekend.”

“I was here last Saturday night with my husband, and we just discovered a dent in our car, and we’re trying to retrace our steps about when it happened . . . I’m not accusing you or anything, but do you remember? It was a special car, a cream-colored older VW Bug? Do you remember the car?”

My valet guy smiled. “Sí, señora, I remember the car. It’s a beautiful car. But when we take a car we walk around once to see if there is any damage. People like to blame the valet. It happens a lot in this neighborhood.”

He held up a claim ticket with an outline of a car on one side. I’d never noticed the drawing before. “We make an X on the picture where the dent is. If there was a dent, I’d remember. A car like that shouldn’t have anything wrong—it’s a thoroughbred, like a horse, sí?”