best not to try to organize my feelings ten feet away from the roaring maw of the ocean god. Besides, I was getting a chill. Slipping the pad in my pocket I came around and started up the stairs, which groaned and shuddered under me. The first twenty steps I was ready to jump away if the stairway gave, hoping I'd land in the sand and break no bones.
The wind still whipped about me, flapping my parka like a flag. Halfway up I stopped to catch my breath, slumping against the banister. Runnels and rivulets trickled on all sides, and there was a great gash where a bank of the ice plant had broken away. I climbed more slowly, scoping the beach below, for the moment loving the isolation, and more convinced than ever that I was the first explorer here.
I reached the top, gasping as usual, but as charged as the day I jumped in the water, exactly a week ago. As I tottered across the terrace, the clouds above me gaped, and a shaft of sun shot through, splashing the side of the house. It was going to be perfect tomorrow. I went in by one of the parlor doors, thinking I'd set the table now, still grappling with whether to set it for four or five, so the Indian couldn't say no. Instantly I noticed something in the air, but I couldn't place it. Sweet, like a floral air freshener out of a spray can. I walked through the archway into the dining room.
In the center of the table was a great vase of flowers, pink lilies and callas and tuberoses, drunk with the promise of spring. The vase I knew—a green Craftsman pot, with an overglaze of white seeping down the green like icing—for it usually sat on the sideboard. I could already feel my heart racing as I circled the table, knowing something had gone awry. A folded note was propped against the vase where it faced the kitchen. I picked it up and opened it.
"You must be out for a walk—or a date with Judas. I was so restless I had to get out myself, so I must be all better. Thought you'd like a centerpiece. Now don't fuss too much—Foo's even plainer and earthier than I am! See you tomorrow."
No signature. He never signed. For some reason this made me furious, and I glared at the stupid flowers, though I knew it was all frustration because I'd missed him. I turned and bolted through the kitchen and out to the yard, but of course he was long gone. I trudged across the spongy lawn to the driveway. The tracks in the mud and gravel were very clear. You didn't have to be a Chumash scout. I stamped my foot in one of the ruts, flattening the imprint of the pickup's tread. It was only when I saw bits of white paper in the mud that I realized I was ripping up the note.
Fuck this epistolary life! Stung with disappointment, I headed back into the house. I was gearing up for a real pout, sick to death of being by myself. I couldn't have said what I wanted then. Gray seemed only a symptom. Certainly I longed to talk to him again—had felt it all week, ever since the night we drove to AGORA. But the missed connection sent me back to a larger solitude, the old glum certainty that nobody knew a fraction of me. And nobody ever would now because there was no time.
I hung up the parka and felt the weight of the pad in the pocket. There was no chance at all that I'd finish the letter to Brian, not now. What I'd learned from this thing, I thought with corrosive sarcasm, was how to feel sorry for myself. I stamped upstairs and burrowed under the covers, wincing at the optimistic sun flashing among the broken clouds. And slept for want of anything better, because I was damned if I would sort out all the tempest of emotion.
Which was basically how Mona found me Monday morning. Not in bed, but stubbornly unsorted. The day was as flagrant as all its promise, gaudy cerulean, every leaf and flower craning at the sun. I set the table for five. Mona sailed in at 11:30, foxy in a white silk dress, plumping down her bags from Irvine Ranch.
"You'll be proud of me," she said, nuzzling my cheek. "I made Daphne give
The wind still whipped about me, flapping my parka like a flag. Halfway up I stopped to catch my breath, slumping against the banister. Runnels and rivulets trickled on all sides, and there was a great gash where a bank of the ice plant had broken away. I climbed more slowly, scoping the beach below, for the moment loving the isolation, and more convinced than ever that I was the first explorer here.
I reached the top, gasping as usual, but as charged as the day I jumped in the water, exactly a week ago. As I tottered across the terrace, the clouds above me gaped, and a shaft of sun shot through, splashing the side of the house. It was going to be perfect tomorrow. I went in by one of the parlor doors, thinking I'd set the table now, still grappling with whether to set it for four or five, so the Indian couldn't say no. Instantly I noticed something in the air, but I couldn't place it. Sweet, like a floral air freshener out of a spray can. I walked through the archway into the dining room.
In the center of the table was a great vase of flowers, pink lilies and callas and tuberoses, drunk with the promise of spring. The vase I knew—a green Craftsman pot, with an overglaze of white seeping down the green like icing—for it usually sat on the sideboard. I could already feel my heart racing as I circled the table, knowing something had gone awry. A folded note was propped against the vase where it faced the kitchen. I picked it up and opened it.
"You must be out for a walk—or a date with Judas. I was so restless I had to get out myself, so I must be all better. Thought you'd like a centerpiece. Now don't fuss too much—Foo's even plainer and earthier than I am! See you tomorrow."
No signature. He never signed. For some reason this made me furious, and I glared at the stupid flowers, though I knew it was all frustration because I'd missed him. I turned and bolted through the kitchen and out to the yard, but of course he was long gone. I trudged across the spongy lawn to the driveway. The tracks in the mud and gravel were very clear. You didn't have to be a Chumash scout. I stamped my foot in one of the ruts, flattening the imprint of the pickup's tread. It was only when I saw bits of white paper in the mud that I realized I was ripping up the note.
Fuck this epistolary life! Stung with disappointment, I headed back into the house. I was gearing up for a real pout, sick to death of being by myself. I couldn't have said what I wanted then. Gray seemed only a symptom. Certainly I longed to talk to him again—had felt it all week, ever since the night we drove to AGORA. But the missed connection sent me back to a larger solitude, the old glum certainty that nobody knew a fraction of me. And nobody ever would now because there was no time.
I hung up the parka and felt the weight of the pad in the pocket. There was no chance at all that I'd finish the letter to Brian, not now. What I'd learned from this thing, I thought with corrosive sarcasm, was how to feel sorry for myself. I stamped upstairs and burrowed under the covers, wincing at the optimistic sun flashing among the broken clouds. And slept for want of anything better, because I was damned if I would sort out all the tempest of emotion.
Which was basically how Mona found me Monday morning. Not in bed, but stubbornly unsorted. The day was as flagrant as all its promise, gaudy cerulean, every leaf and flower craning at the sun. I set the table for five. Mona sailed in at 11:30, foxy in a white silk dress, plumping down her bags from Irvine Ranch.
"You'll be proud of me," she said, nuzzling my cheek. "I made Daphne give
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