said, "There's a fabulous view from the inside.
It's really a charmer, great bones—I think it was designed by one of Neutra's students."
"Interesting."
"It just came on the market, Doctor. We haven't even run ads—in fact, how did you find out about it?"
"I've always liked Nichols Canyon," I said. "A friend who lives nearby told me it was available."
"Oh. What kind of a doctor are you?"
"Psychologist."
"Taking a day off?"
"Half day. One of the few."
I checked my watch and tried to look busy. That seemed to reassure her. Her smile reappeared.
"My niece wants to be a psychologist. She's a very smart little girl."
"That's terrific. Good luck to her."
"Oh, I think we make our own luck, don't we, Doctor?"
She pulled keys out of her handbag and we walked to the slatted front door. It opened to a small courtyard—a few potted plants, glass wind chimes that I remembered, dangling over the lintel, silent in the hot, static air.
We went inside and she began her spiel, all well-rehearsed pep.
1 pretended to listen, nodded and said "Uh huh" at the right times, forced myself to follow, rather than lead; I knew the place better than she did.
Page 62
The interior smelled of carpet cleaning fluid and pine disinfectant. Sparkly clean, expunged of death and disorder. But to me it seemed mournful and forbidding—a black museum.
The front of the house was a single open area encompassing living room, dining area, study, and kitchen. The kitchen was early deco-massacre: avocado-green cabinetry, round-edged coral-colored Formica tops, and a coral vinyl-covered breakfast nook tucked into one corner.
The furniture was blond wood, synthetic pastel fabrics, and spidery black iron legs—the kind of postwar jet-streamed stuff that looks poised for takeoff. Walls, of textured beige plaster, were hung with portraits of harlequins and serene seascapes. Bracket bookshelves were crowded with volumes on psychology. The same books.
A bland, listless room, but the blandness projected the eye toward the east, toward a wall of glass so clean it seemed invisible. Panels of sheet glass, segmented by sliding glass doors.
On the other side was a narrow, terrazzo-tiled terrace rimmed with white iron railing; beyond the railing an eyeful—a mindful—of canyons, peaks, blue skies, summer foliage. "Isn't it something," said Mickey Mehrabian, spreading one arm, as if the panorama were a picture she'd painted.
"Really something."
We walked out on the terrace. I felt dizzy, remembered an evening of dancing, Brazilian guitars.
Something to show you, Alex.
Late September. I got back to L.A. before Sharon did, $4,000 more solvent, and lonely as hell.
She'd left without leaving an address or number; we hadn't exchanged as much as a postcard. I should have been angry, yet she was all I thought about as I drove down the coast.
I headed straight for Curtis Hall. The floor counselor told me she'd checked out of the dorm, wouldn't be returning this semester. No forwarding address, no number.
I drove away, enraged and miserable, certain I'd been right: She'd been seduced back to the Good Life, plied with rich boys, new toys. She was never coming back.
My apartment look dingier than ever. I avoided it, spent as much time as possible at the hospital, where the challenges of my new job helped distract me. I took on a full caseload from the v/aiting list, volunteered for the night shift in the Emergency Room. On the third day she showed up at my office, looking happy, almost feverish with delight.
She closed the door. Deep kisses and embraces. She made sounds about missing me, let my hands roam her curves. Then she pulled away, flushed and laughing. "Free for lunch, Doctor?"
She took me to the hospital parking lot, to a shiny red convertible—a brand new Alfa Romeo Spider.
"Like it?"
"Sure, it's great."
Page 63
She tossed me the keys. "You drive."
We had lunched at an Italian place on Los Feliz, listened to opera and ate canolli for
It's really a charmer, great bones—I think it was designed by one of Neutra's students."
"Interesting."
"It just came on the market, Doctor. We haven't even run ads—in fact, how did you find out about it?"
"I've always liked Nichols Canyon," I said. "A friend who lives nearby told me it was available."
"Oh. What kind of a doctor are you?"
"Psychologist."
"Taking a day off?"
"Half day. One of the few."
I checked my watch and tried to look busy. That seemed to reassure her. Her smile reappeared.
"My niece wants to be a psychologist. She's a very smart little girl."
"That's terrific. Good luck to her."
"Oh, I think we make our own luck, don't we, Doctor?"
She pulled keys out of her handbag and we walked to the slatted front door. It opened to a small courtyard—a few potted plants, glass wind chimes that I remembered, dangling over the lintel, silent in the hot, static air.
We went inside and she began her spiel, all well-rehearsed pep.
1 pretended to listen, nodded and said "Uh huh" at the right times, forced myself to follow, rather than lead; I knew the place better than she did.
Page 62
The interior smelled of carpet cleaning fluid and pine disinfectant. Sparkly clean, expunged of death and disorder. But to me it seemed mournful and forbidding—a black museum.
The front of the house was a single open area encompassing living room, dining area, study, and kitchen. The kitchen was early deco-massacre: avocado-green cabinetry, round-edged coral-colored Formica tops, and a coral vinyl-covered breakfast nook tucked into one corner.
The furniture was blond wood, synthetic pastel fabrics, and spidery black iron legs—the kind of postwar jet-streamed stuff that looks poised for takeoff. Walls, of textured beige plaster, were hung with portraits of harlequins and serene seascapes. Bracket bookshelves were crowded with volumes on psychology. The same books.
A bland, listless room, but the blandness projected the eye toward the east, toward a wall of glass so clean it seemed invisible. Panels of sheet glass, segmented by sliding glass doors.
On the other side was a narrow, terrazzo-tiled terrace rimmed with white iron railing; beyond the railing an eyeful—a mindful—of canyons, peaks, blue skies, summer foliage. "Isn't it something," said Mickey Mehrabian, spreading one arm, as if the panorama were a picture she'd painted.
"Really something."
We walked out on the terrace. I felt dizzy, remembered an evening of dancing, Brazilian guitars.
Something to show you, Alex.
Late September. I got back to L.A. before Sharon did, $4,000 more solvent, and lonely as hell.
She'd left without leaving an address or number; we hadn't exchanged as much as a postcard. I should have been angry, yet she was all I thought about as I drove down the coast.
I headed straight for Curtis Hall. The floor counselor told me she'd checked out of the dorm, wouldn't be returning this semester. No forwarding address, no number.
I drove away, enraged and miserable, certain I'd been right: She'd been seduced back to the Good Life, plied with rich boys, new toys. She was never coming back.
My apartment look dingier than ever. I avoided it, spent as much time as possible at the hospital, where the challenges of my new job helped distract me. I took on a full caseload from the v/aiting list, volunteered for the night shift in the Emergency Room. On the third day she showed up at my office, looking happy, almost feverish with delight.
She closed the door. Deep kisses and embraces. She made sounds about missing me, let my hands roam her curves. Then she pulled away, flushed and laughing. "Free for lunch, Doctor?"
She took me to the hospital parking lot, to a shiny red convertible—a brand new Alfa Romeo Spider.
"Like it?"
"Sure, it's great."
Page 63
She tossed me the keys. "You drive."
We had lunched at an Italian place on Los Feliz, listened to opera and ate canolli for
Similar Books
