(7) A PLANET FOR THE MISREMEMBERED

3. (continued)

Mrs Nichols speared a sauteed shrimp with her fork. It was halfway to her mouth when Renault asked, "Are you happy?"

Her first reaction was to wish she had a dictionary handy, to look up the word 'happy.' She lowered her fork, smiling at him. The mystery of his handsome facade was back. His eyes were veiled by an invisible retaining wall. He seemed at that moment like a friendly neighbor leaning over the fence to inquire of her in a mode of politeness, but with a dark secretive motive.

She was at a loss. She defined happiness as an acceptable boredom that promised something exciting, but she knew that for everyone else in the world it meant plenty of money and an obedient, loyal lover. She had neither. She had just the promise of them that came with her boredom; the boredom she hoped would dispell her loneliness. Well, weren't the promises beginning to be fulfilled? Wasn't it true that Renault Chevrolet was feeling his way toward her heart? Hadn't he set aside his shop talk in favor of getting to know her? Certainly, she thought, lifting her glass of sparkling water. Certainly, but that wasn't proof of anything but good breeding. I had better be careful, she warned herself. Mr Nichols had fooled her. She did not intend to let herself be fooled again.

"I don't worry about whether I'm happy or not," she said cavalierly, "I just get on with things."

Renault took a pensive bite of his broiled fish. He made a gesture with his fork. "That's a practical attitude," he said with a faint hint of disapproval. "But I don't find life to be a practical proposition. The surface of life is like a sand dune. It's always shifting around. You can't build a house on it. The best we can do is carry our own shade."

Mrs Nichols felt that he agreed with her about just getting on with things, if it was true that happiness was as shifty, as unpredictable, as a sand dune. But she felt on a deeper level that he wasn't resigned to life's impracticality. And didn't this mean that he was as 'happy' as she? Her heart leaped. This nearly took her breath away. His happiness was as abstract as hers. It was based on the calculations of wind and its effect on sand. Guesswork. Life was a guessing game. Was he guessing that she liked him, that she was hoping he liked her? Two people lost in the Sahara, wanting to share their shade with each other...

"It isn't easy," he said, pausing to take a drink from his glass of white wine. Mrs Nichols opened herself up to the excitement his words suggested. "It... isn't easy to admit that I'm in the wrong profession."

Mrs Nichols acted as though she understood completely. But she was disheartened. What was he trying to tell her? She raised her brows to show her interest, scooping up a modicum of rice and pausing, as he had, before closing her lips over the fork.

"Idealism is a brain disease," he said with abrupt passion. "I was a fool to think that I could make a difference, that my set of ethics could win the day. For over twenty years I've been wearing blinders and rose-colored glasses. I needn't explain how corrupt things are in business and politics. Not to mention philosophy and religion. I hope I'm not offending you."

What! she thought. Why should he think that she might be offended? Wasn't he stating the obvious about society's grasping, clutching play for 'the good life'?

"No, I quite understand the frustration," she said. She sat back, wiped her fingertips on the cloth napkin in her lap, and impulsively reached for her cigarettes. She was aware of her actions, that they were supposed to be taboo. But Renault's bearing was undergoing a sea-change. The expected etiquette was as dispensable as her after-dinner mint. She lit up and blew smoke at a slant, flicking ash on the tile and waiting... waiting for his reaction.

"I can see that the real estate profession has introduced you to the same slick footing as mine," he said. He looked relieved. He relaxed back in his chair and smiled at her, lifting his wine glass and then glancing at the patio guests and at the boats moored in the bay. "After all, it's all about investments," he continued. "Everything's an investment. Everything's a risk."

"It's a compromise," said Mrs Nichols. They were like two old friends sitting on a porch in some austere old-fashioned neighborhood. "You take what you can get and hope for the best."

"And if everyone followed that rule, we'd all be happy," he said earnestly, as if through her he had recognized the key to contentment. He shrugged, following her example by pulling out a pack of thin cheroots. He lit one with the musing expression of a man shuffling cards in a high stakes poker game.

Mrs Nichols followed his example in looking at the sights around her. What a beautiful day it was. Here she sat on the edge of her last minute of married life, having supposed that a wide empty gulf stretched before her. But now... She watched the plume of smoke pass through the wisteria vines overhead, through the trellis and out into the sea air. It was a sigh of... yes, of happiness, that abstract thing that nobody can clearly define but everyone desires. No gulf. That was how she saw the word now. No gulf, but a bridge leading one through the transition from the last minute to the first.

She smiled at him warmly, unselfconsciously now that he was introspective. They were on the same wavelength, she thought. They were sailing on the same course. Certainly that was an element of happiness.

Renault held the cheroot between his teeth, hissing smoke in a sigh of his own. He removed it and said, in a pleasant tone of apology, "I'm afraid I've misplaced your name. Annette Nicholson?"

She breathed a laugh. "Nora," she said, "Nora Nichols."

He looked at the yachts. One was unfurling its main sail. He watched the activity on deck for a minute. Then he frowned, squaring his shoulders as he sat forward, facing her without looking at her.

"Is your husband Alfred Nichols?"

"Yes... That's right. He's divorcing me."

"Is he?" he said, as though he didn't believe her. He took out his billfold, extracted a card, and placed it beside her plate. Numb and speechless, she read it without touching it.

'New York Investment Enterprises. Benjamin Halsey, majority owner.'

There was a phone number, fax number, and email address. Renault Chevrolet stood up and put a sheaf of pound notes on the table. Without saying a word he walked away, went into the indoor dining area, and disappeared from her life.

She stared at the pound notes. There was a breeze and they fluttered. She placed a water glass on them and looked out at the sailing yacht. It luffed, but unlike the pound notes there was nothing holding it down. It glided slowly on a tack that would take it out to sea. For a moment she thought it would be "in chains," having lost the wind. But at the last minute the sails stiffened. A bow wave formed. The yacht went to sea.

Mrs Nichols gauged the broad gulf of blue sparkling water. It was very wide.

(6) A PLANET FOR THE MISREMEMBERED

3.

"Mrs Nichols, a telegram from your husband," said the concierge.

My EX husband, she said to herself. It was not a prophetic thought, just an acknowledgement that life was over. Or soon would be. Anyway, she had pushed all that aside. The concierge helped her do this as he stood there in his white coat with the red carnation in his lapel, one of those Greeks who speak with a contrived British accent. His thick black eyebrows and gun-metal eyes above the black mustache lifting in a smile was too quaint, too affected. But holding the envelope out to her was what did it, what reminded her that not all husbands are takers. The concierge lived to be of service. He could have taught her husband a thing or two.

"Thank you," Nora Nichols said to him, warm of mouth but cold of eye; tall, svelte, fashionably dressed, the American tourist standard of excellence. She took the envelope and walked out to the patio dining area. She breathed deeply of the inshore breeze. It crept in off the small boat dock that fronted the inn and the whitewashed shops.

She was right on time. There were a number of things she was good at in her profession, and being on time was one of them. The motor yacht had docked just a few minutes ago and the man she was there to meet was stepping off the boat onto the gangway with another man beside him, the yacht owner, presumably. The man of interest to her looked very much like a middle-aged Errol Flynn. He was dressed in a herringbone suit of a light beige, a color that set off his suntan and deepened the blue of his eyes. His dark hair had a touch of grey. His smile was charming. He exuded a casual confidence. He caught sight of Mrs Nichols, winked at her, and turned to the yachtsman. They shook hands. A third man appeared in the open cockpit of the yacht. He said something and all three men laughed.

Mrs Nichols thought she ought to read the telegram. She had not given Mr Nichols her new phone number and email address. He hadn't any choice but to send a telegram. It had amused her to think of the inconvenience she had caused him. But now it was tiresome. She ripped open the envelope and unfolded the yellow slip of paper.

'Will be in Athens at the Hilton Thursday morning.'

Well, good, she thought. She wouldn't have to fly to Rome to settle accounts with him. The day after tomorrow she would drive her rented Bentley to Athens and see Mr Nichols for the very last time. She was approaching the last minute of her life as Mrs Nichols. Soon she would revert back to being Nora Brandywine. A reversion back to the old life. Her real estate business would be all hers. Her three young teenage sons would live with their father. He was so indulgent with them. She would be free. But looking at the man she came to meet made the word 'free' something less than desirable. If 'free' meant 'lonely,' then of course...

She watched him take a billfold from his inside coat pocket. He selected a card and gave it to the yachtsman.

A waiter appeared beside Mrs Nichols, his hands together in the typical obsequious fashion of the Greek servant. She said to him, "Please bring me a sparkling water. I-- we-- will be ordering in a few minutes."

The waiter, who wore a black vest over his white dress shirt and looked more like a casino croupier than a waiter, bowed, smiling broadly, and turned on his heels smartly, hurrying away. Mrs Nichols sat at a table in the shade of potted ferns. Odd, but the table cloth was the same beach-sand beige as Mr Renault Chevrolet's suit.

She ran his name through her mind several times. It was music to her. She remembered when she first saw him. It was at a party in Donald Trump's penthouse suite in Manhattan. She occupied a chintz armchair for most of the time she was there, because she hated mingling. She was not the spontaneous type. She preferred living life as a carefully written script. 'All the world's a stage.' Yes. We are all actors the moment we step out of our safe domiciles, she thought while the mingling of rich business people went on around her.

She had raven black hair and eyes so dark that everyone thought they were as black as her hair. She wore dark dresses. She had a natural gothic look that tended to make women shy away from her but that drew men in a pleasantly agitated, hungry sort of way. She was 'fascinating,' more so than she was beautiful. The pageboy hairstyle, the dark smoldering eyeliner and smoky eye shadow, the blood red lips, the elegant neck and strong slender shoulders which she always kept bared; this was a magnet for men who sought  adventure in women. Excitement. Danger.

But she considered her attractiveness an illusion. She defined herself as the girl next door who happened to get caught up in the business of selling property. She was very good at it, but no one can be successful at anything without the requisite luck. It was Mr Nichols who provided the luck. He had the Midas touch. He married her, took her struggling business and made it a going concern. And now look, here she was, invited to a Trump party at age 34. This meant for Mr Nichols that he had done what he had set out to do with her-- not for her-- and it was time to look elsewhere. He was a collector of companies, having holdings in several the world over. It was only because his wife had become baggage that he suggested a divorce, offering to give her back most of what he owned of Paradise South real estate. Stunned, she had agreed to it like one's leg agrees to kick when the doctor taps one's knee with a little silver hammer.

"Get yourself a good financial advisor," her friend, Jonquil, had said when she heard the news of the impending divorce. Jonquil was there at the party. She sat next to Mrs Nichols like an extroverted wallflower. She was the one who pointed out the man who Nora Nichols had been glancing at from the moment of arrival.

"He works for an investment firm in London," said Jonquil, unconsciously flipping her bottle blond hair with a hand laden with rings and clattering bracelets. "His father was a Frenchman who was killed in Algeria. His mother was an American whose family immigrated to England. She became a British subject. He-- her only child-- attended Eton, but he's talented enough to have skipped college. He went straight away into the investment firm's mail room. Getting his foot in the door was all the luck he needed. I hear that he's likely to become a partner in the firm, anytime now."

"Interesting. And his name? I heard someone call him Rennie."

"Oh, John says never call him Rennie to his face. It's Renault..."

Mrs Nichols sipped her sparkling water the waiter had brought her. He set three menus on the table. "Just two," she said quickly. He picked up one and glanced at the yachtsman. "Just... Mr Chevrolet and I," she told him. He bowed, smiling in that sly, oily way that always irritated her when she encountered it in Greek establishments. She felt she was being mocked; felt that the waiters believed she was putting on airs.

Jonquil had shone signs of agitation too, but in an excitable way, when Renault came leisurely across the expansive room talking to the Mayor. Mrs Nichols recalled being surprised when she heard Renault say, "It's Benji and Alfred behind it all, and one doesn't want to get on their bad side."

Jonquil made a move as if to grab his arm and pull him over to them. Mrs Nichols held her gin and tonic to her lips to hide a smile. She knew that her friend would never do anything so bold as that. But Jonquil did half rise from her love seat when Renault turned toward her. Her hand came off her lap and inched through the air in his direction. In the next moment she settled back. Her hand dropped in her lap. Her cheeks were flushed. Renault accompanied the Mayor into the drawing room, and that was that. The big attraction of the evening was gone. But Jonquil promised to have her husband, John, ask Renault if he would "advise you on investments, if--?"

"Certainly," Mrs Nichols had said promptly. It was one of the oft-spoken words in her script.

The yachtsman stood in the noon sun with his cap pulled low over his sunglasses, watching Renault walking toward the patio dining area, toward a very well dressed woman. She was sitting nervously at a shaded table, fussing with a pack of cigarettes while flicking shy glances at the approaching man.

The yachtsman knew only that Renault had a prospective client to meet. The man had said nothing more about it. They had spent the quiet times on the yacht discussing corruption in the business circles Renault frequented. The complications of the criminal activities at the highest level, and the risks that had to be avoided because of them, had made the man angry, but not to the point where he lost his composure. He seemed to take it good naturedly. It was only the glint in his eyes that betrayed his true feelings.

Mrs Nichols made a point of lighting her cigarette before Mr Chevrolet reached her table. He gave her a peculiar smile as he nodded to her and held out his hand to shake her delicate one. She didn't know what to make of that smile. It was like the cover of a mystery book, revealing just enough about the contents to incite an interest. But it was more than that.

She feared that he was here as a favor to his acquaintance, John, when he would much rather be somewhere else. She saw it as a patient smile, one of resignation. But again, it went deeper. As he sat down across from her and they exchanged pleasantries, the smile suggested nuances of feeling. She began to think that he was here not just as a favor to Jonquil's husband, and not just to add to his list of clients. He was curious about her. There was something... Of course she knew how most men reacted to her. Her gothic look hinted at a mischievous nature, a dark side kept on a short leash, but one that on occasion would be let loose.

What did he know about her? She wondered as he talked of investment capital, interest rates, ordered a rum and cola, detailed for her some hypotheticals, pointed out to the waiter the entree he had randomly chosen. She imagined John passing on to him the opinions of Jonquil, the anecdotes that Nora had told of herself and her company, Paradise South. The drinks and the appetizers came. Under their influence Mrs Nichols relaxed and accepted Mr Chevrolet at face value. She believed now that he was attracted to her. When the entrees were set before them, a real talk began. 

(5) A PLANET FOR THE MISREMEMBERED

2. (continued)

"I appreciate your offer, but..." She glanced aimlessly around her spacious kitchen, everything in its proper place. It seemed to say to her, 'Do something with us, or just get out.'

"If you're hungry I can whip something up. I usually don't eat dinner. But..."

She tried to look indifferent about the surprise he had brought her. She had to give him a surprise in return, a gift of her apathy toward new hires and split fees.

When he stood there on the verge of leaving, his expression an amused one, she said, "Would you like an omelet?"

"Steak and omelet sounds good."

"I haven't any steaks. I've hash browns."

"Are you a vegetarian?"

"Sort of. I don't eat meat. But I'm not a vegan. I like eggs and cheese and whole milk. I get the animal fats I need to keep my brain nourished. Do you know--" Here came the surprise-- "People who get sufficient amounts of animal fats and animal protein do better in cognitive tests than vegans. That is, people with high cholesterol levels are brainier than people with low cholesterol."

Russ nodded in mock seriousness. "Let's hope Claus Staarsmann is a vegan."

His statement had the intended shock value. There was never much doubt that the bail jumper he had referred to was Claus. But now, with all doubt removed, a light within her blazed. All the illusions went up in smoke. The man in the moon was not Claus. Not any longer.

Well, what did she care? It had never been more than an interesting possibility. It did seem a waste, though, that such a likely candidate for the moon's favors should end up being fried by the sun. Nothing had changed really. There was still the smells of coffee and warm damp streets, still the same introverted stars, and the immaculate kitchen that wanted to be used or left alone. However, that wasn't quite the picture she saw now. Russell Mott in her apartment. The bringer of bad tidings. He stood surveying her entertainment center in a pose of careless ambiguity. Nothing had changed for him, either, she thought. The wolf on the hunt. If one deer gets away there is always another, a scent of prey in a forest of evergreens. A blessing in disguise? Was he that to her? She smirked half-heartedly.

"Do you want omelets and hash browns?"

"If you'll join me."

"I'm having toast. Will that suit you? Are you going to arrest him in the office?"

She took a carton of eggs and a bottle of milk from the fridge. As she waited for his answer the stove and the wooden board next to it seemed to smirk back at her.

"That would be easiest for me," he said as she cracked an egg over a blue ceramic bowl. "But for you it might be problematic."

"Oh? How so?" She poured the milk. Her heart rate was elevated. She raised her brows at that. It was nothing to her. She would just have to call the employment service again, that was all.

"Suppose you have a prospective client or two in the office," he explained, carrying his black cup into the kitchen. "Having an employee arrested would bode ill for the reputation of Nordic Swiss."

His shadow crossed the stove as she stirred the eggs and milk with a fork.

"Yes I see what you mean. Mr Ubrecht wouldn't care for that too much. He'd have to be told what happened. I couldn't not tell him." She put a skillet on a front burner.

"Then tell me where Staarsmann lives. I'll pinch him at his residence."

She poured the mix into the hot skillet and looked at him, a spatula poised near her cheek. "That WOULD be better, definitely. Off hand I don't know his address, but I know he lives in the Chillcreek Apartments across from the mall. I think it's a gated community. He's not going to let you in, you know."

"But he'll let you in, Gina," he said.

She fancied he said it tenderly. She folded the blended egg and gave it a pat. She really must do something about her runaway heartbeat. It helped to busy herself with putting the frozen hashbrowns in the microwave. He watched her while he drank his spiked coffee. She didn't like being an actress in a play. She wanted the theater curtain to come down. She wanted things to be a normal part of her evening, but how, when normally she was alone?

"Is he intending to embezzle from us?" she asked, her hands toying with a towel.

"That's his modus operandi," Russ said. He was leaning against the bar counter. The amused expression was back. "You like him."

She stiffened. She had to put the towel back on the oven handle to unbend herself. "I did, sort of, like him. I thought he was the perfect agent. Friendly, articulate, pleasant to look at. He's done well, and if it wasn't for..."

She hurriedly removed the omelet from the skillet. "I forgot to ask if you wanted cheese in it."

He held out a plate. She slipped the omelet off the spatula onto the plate, saying, "The hashbrowns will be ready in a minute. What would you like to drink with that? Milk? Grapefruit juice?"

"Scotch."

"Ha. There's water. Or tea. Would you like iced tea? I remember you drinking a can of Arizona Iced Tea in Jimmy's office."

She immediately regretted saying that. It locked her eyes onto his. It was like a coded message. The microwave timer dinged. The curtain came down, and taking out the hash browns she felt as light as a fairy. Nothing bothered her anymore. She regretted nothing now. Nothing mattered except she wanted him to like her cooking. When he held out his plate she tipped the hash browns over the omelet to keep it warm.

He was right there smiling down at her. The moon was in his eyes.

"You're too intellectual for your profession," she said. It was what she thought would please him.

"Are you trying to tell me there isn't any Nobel Prize for Achievements in Bounty Hunting?"

She smiled, and it was genuine.

He noticed it. She couldn't tell how it effected him. He looked distracted. He set his plate on the bar counter and took a cell phone from his back jeans pocket.

He stared at the lighted screen. He had received a text message. She saw his profile's expression become lax with astonishment. Then he looked at her with a grim smile of great intensity.

"It's from Jimmy's night man," he said. "The police found Thornton."

Gina was momentarily speechless. Up went her heart rate again. "Did they? Where? How?"

"In the trunk of a stolen car. Dead. We're off the hook."

"Well, how... wonderful!"

With a grunting laugh, Russ took his plate and went around to the dining nook. "Make your toast. Add some extra butter. We're celebrating."

And they sat across from each other by the tall narrow window whose drapes she had taken down because no matter how sheer the material or how tightly she tied them back from the pane they marred her view of the sky, of the sunrise at breakfast when often the ghost of the moon was there still, doggedly hanging above the rooftops. She thought now, as she jellied her toast, that she had been missing the special view of the sunset and moonrise that only a dining table perspective could give her. She must start having dinners again.

She felt a thrill watching him eat. He ate like a man. Decorum meant nothing to him. He was hungry and he ate. But he didn't neglect her. And he didn't talk with his mouth full. He listened to her as he ate, and when he had something to say he wolfed down his bite, lifted his tea glass, and said it, clear and deep. He didn't try to impress her. He was just himself, a wolf shaking the snow out of its fur and satisfied with the carcass at its paws smoking slightly in the chill air of the forest.

Russ would follow Gina to the skip's apartment tomorrow evening. How adventurous she was, after just thirty minutes at the dining table. Yes, she would ask Claus to let her through the gates, that she had some "facts and figures" to discuss with him that "really can't wait."

She took the plates into the kitchen. It was such a docile kitchen now, obedient to a fault and completely at her mercy. She sensed that Russ was wanting to think things out alone, to get back to his rooms at the Park Alley.

He admired her outfit. The snug slacks and the fuzzy pullover sweater. She was lovely in a chic way. He decided to put an arm around her waist. If she gave the slightest sign of wanting to be kissed he would oblige her. And so when he put on his black Greek fisherman's cap and she came up to him with the bashfulness of indecision, he gave her a one-arm hug.

She tilted back her head, like a reflex action, without any guile or imposture, without any demands, and received his hard weighty kiss. He felt her body tensing. Should he knudge her toward the bedroom? He thought he ought not to be too forward this first time. Give her something to think about.

"See you at lunch tomorrow," he said conspiratorially.

"Yes! Good night."

He went downstairs to the lobby and out to his Cyclone cruiser. He had only three blocks to go. He wouldn't wear his helmet. He was still celebrating. Five grand in his pocket by next week and then... Where to? Did it matter?

Gina Monteverdi crossed her arms on the sill of the open window, her coffee cup at her elbow. The moon's rounded three-quarter profile gazed at her with its bright lunatic promises. Hope rose with the damp sweetness of the street below. The bakery door was open and someone came out with a dozen glaze, it smelled like.

Well, look at that, she thought. Jimmy's neon sign had flickered like an old-time movie reel and then... it blacked out.

It was like all the other dark signs now.

(4) A PLANET FOR THE MISREMEMBERED

2.

Gina Monteverdi crossed her arms on the window sill, her cup of coffee by her right elbow, and enjoyed how the smell of the dark roasted brew mixed with the pungent smell of the street after a spring rain.

It was sunset. As if to prolong the day the street lights were lit. She looked a block down the boulevard and watched, waiting for the neon sign of her workplace to go dark. It was then that the day officially ended.

There. The sign darkened. 'Nordic Swiss Insurance' went the way of the sun, down and out. Only the dim security lights remained, like the golden twilight. But soon they would be as a cluster of stars, joining the night outside.

Next door to it 'Jimmy Kedd's Bail Bonds' stayed stubbornly on, flickering red and green like a faulty traffic light that could not make up its mind.

Gina was the office manager of Nordic Swiss. The company under wrote Jimmy Kedd's bonds. As a consequence she knew Jimmy and his secretary as well as a professional relationship demanded, but no more than that. There was some concern that her district manager might choose not to renew the contract with Jimmy. That would put him out of business, temporarily at least. Just that morning she had warned Jimmy that another large forfeiture that wasn't resolved quickly would quite likely end his arrangement with her company. It was things like this that kept her from any warm friendships with clients. Be polite. Feign sympathy. Offer empty hope. But don't get emotionally involved.

No... she musn't. Remember what happened with Ralph Simon. What a disaster THAT had been, she thought, smiling in that curiously sad way as she picked up her coffee cup and stood erect, her left hand caressing the outer edge of the sill as if to comfort it, to say to it, 'It wasn't your fault, and anyway, it's over now.' That particular sunset had refused for the longest time to go dark. The street lights had kept it burning, and like the bail bond sign it flickered, stubbornly denying the death it deserved. Thank God the night finally came. The moon promised to bring her another opportunity. Of course it did. The moon was all about romance. It was the sun that burned all the illusions away, destroying what the moon had planted.

And so Gina Monteverdi enjoyed sunsets and felt a bit of resentment toward the street lights. Who needed them? Let the stars bathe the streets.

Stars... Claus Staarsmann. The new sales agent she hired two weeks ago. It was as if he brought an end to winter when he walked into the office for his interview. He had a cold weather look about him. How appropriate, she remembered thinking, that Nordic Swiss was visited by such a prospect. A Swiss German who came of age in Sweden, Claus had the look of a finely tuned, exceptionally civilized barbarian of chiselled ice with a smoldering fire within him.

Gina sniffed the steam of her coffee. A shame the destiny of fresh coffee was to go cold, its flavor soured. Until then she liked the smell better than the taste. Considering what life had dealt her, perhaps it was better to... to sniff at life rather than taste it. You got the flavor of it without the indigestion.

Her apartment doorbell played its three-note chime.

Who could THAT be? Her best friend Hermione was still on a business trip. Her sister Lola was on a second honeymoon. Her neighbor, Mrs White, was visiting a grandson in Cedar Rapids. Seemed like everyone was going places except her. Her and... whoever was ringing her door bell.

Could it be Claus? The slight possibility took her to the oval wall-mirror by the door where she gave her rounded fine-featured face a quick looking over. A pat or two and her shortish sienna hair settled itself along her cheeks. Thank God she hadn't removed her eye makeup.

She touched the door knob and said, "Yes? Who is it?"

"Russ."

"Russ who?" she said with pronounced suspicion.

She could feel impatience radiating through the door.

"Russell Mott," said the deep masculine voice.

She had faintly thought so, though he was the last person she expected to come calling-- Jimmy Kedd's bounty hunter-- but he was the only Russ she knew.

After another glance in the mirror to see if her expression suited the occasion, she unlatched the door and opened it. Turning, she said over her shoulder, "Come in, Mr Mott," knowing he would not particularly like the formality; not coming from a female acquaintance, he wouldn't.

Russ came in. Another thing he didn't like was having to close the door for her. She was already at the window lifting her coffee to her lips, not smiling at him. Her back was to the open drapes, the blend of sunset and street lights setting fire to her hair. He had not forgotten the impression he had of her that first time they met.

Russ felt no need to have his brutal good looks confirmed by the mirror. As usual he was dressed in casual cowboy fashion, but a hybrid one, as if his parentage was a rancher and a gypsy, as seen in his choice of a black Greek fisherman's cap instead of a Stetson.

He brought his tall, lean, but muscular frame into the sitting room. "A nice place you have," he said.

"You've been here once before, with Mr Kedd."

"Did I like it the first time? I don't remember."

He's been drinking, she thought. Was that his motorcycle parked at the Wicked Ways Bar when she was walking home from the office? Gina frowned with her lips just barely forming a pucker on her cup rim. Why would she even notice? What could make her think of this mercenary?

This reminded her to ask the obvious. "Did Mr Kedd send you? Is this about a forfeiture?"

"A big one. Two hundred thousand."

"The Thornton bond? How much time before the judge calls it in?"

"A week, unless we get a second extension. And Judge Ridley is not a fan of Jimmy's."

Gina understood why. "Do you have a lead on this Thornton character?"

"Back in ancient history I did. Now I haven't a clue where he is. He vanished like a soap bubble when it pops. Have you got anything to drink?"

She knew he would ask that.

Well, let's not be unreasonable, she told herself, this DOES call for a drink.

She stepped away from the window, then stopped abruptly when he came toward her. It was his way of expressing urgency. The situation was dire for Jimmy. If the Thornton bond was called in and Nordic Swiss must pay the two hundred grand, Jimmy's contract with her company was as good as dead.

But why should this trouble Russell Mott? He would be out a twenty thousand dollar fee, yes, too bad, but there were other bail bond agencies for him to work for. She knew that he was not on a retainer. He was a lone wolf. He came, he saw, he conquered, he left.

"Of course you know that I can't myself do anything to alleviate the problem," she said and smiled in her best professional manner, walking too close past him as she went to the liquor cabinet in the kitchen. Too close. His body heat was a sunset of dispelled illusions.

"You can talk to your boss," he said. "No, Jimmy didn't send me. It's his great granddaughter's birthday." He sat on a bar stool at the kitchen counter, his arms crossed on the tile-top, looking at her, she suspected, exactly as he would look at a bail applicant.

"Mr Ubrecht knows the situation," she remarked, referring to the district manager. She took down a bottle of brandy. "Would you like coffee with some brandy in it?"

She kept her back to him.

He knew what she was hinting at. "I suppose it's time to ease off a little. But make it a brandy with some coffee in it."

She reached for a coffee cup on the lower shelf, hesitating between the pale green cup and the black one. She chose the black cup. "I can talk to him but I can't promise anything."

He said nothing. When she turned to the bar counter with the cup extended she saw that he was thinking of something satisfying. It was something that balanced the Thornton forfeiture with a weight of good fortune. She shied from asking him what it could be, just as she had shied from the pale green cup

He volunteered the information. "A bounty hunter in Boston called me while I was relaxing at Bob's place--" she knew he meant Wicked Ways-- "with an offer to split a ten grand fee. The guy he's after is here in Tamecula.  A Swede. Charged with embezzlement. Insurance business stuff. I'm to make the pinch on him, if I confirm he's here. The info looks solid."

Gina set the cup on the counter. She wiped her hands on a stove glove, then rearranged the napkin holder and toaster.

"What's the Swede's name?" she asked with a strained casualness, facing the stainless steel fridge.

She looked back at him, her brows raised.

Russell Mott grinned.

Claus, an embezzler on the lam! She certainly didn't want to believe it. But this wasn't a rumor. Russ said the info from Boston was "solid." He needed just one more piece of confirmation: herself.

So, she thought, opening the fridge to hide her flushed face from him, this is why  he's come to see me. The icy coldness of the fridge gripped her. She smelled its various contents. Life again, coming at her like a drastic change in the weather.

"I'll take you to dinner," Russ said matter of factly, "and we'll discuss it."

She was stunned. Her heart seemed to push her lungs against her ribcage. Slowly she closed the refrigerator door, her reflection a silhouette on the steel. It stared at her exactly as--

She turned to him. In the calm strength of his stare she was utterly naked. Her feminine instincts were pulling her into his eyes like getting into bed with him. Her intellect revolted from the very idea. A lone wolf. A rootless man. I'm acting like a silly schoolgirl, she thought. Then she realized that he could read her mind. In her condition anyone could have done so.

"Nothing fancy," said Russ, standing up from the stool. "The Moon Bay Cafe. I eat there so often I'm surprised they aren't charging me rent."

Gina gazed at the window. It was the time of day when reality sets and illusions rise. The sky was almost dark. There was a faint image of a three-quarter moon.

Promises. The false sympathy and the empty hope. And nothing could stop it, not even the street lights.

(3) A PLANET FOR THE MISREMEMBERED

1. (continued)

"Is there magic in the moon?" Zelda wondered. She was standing on the pebbled stepping stones in the small plot of garden outside their motel room. She gazed enraptured at the heavens.

"Of course there's magic in it," Rhonda said from the open sliding-glass door, leaning against the frame. She sipped from her empty wine glass. "How do you suppose it could float in the sky if it had no magic? It would fall like a rock."

"Maybe it's... like a bubble."

"No it's the eye of a god."

"But it's name is Luna. A girl's name. It would be a goddess if--"

"No difference. God or goddess, all the same. Magic is magic. It's, um... gender neutral." She took another sip from her empty glass. "What did she say when you called her? Is she glad that Cleo's in town?"

Zelda lowered her hands. She had held them under her chin as if beseeching a favor from the full moon. Now the spell had been broken. Or had it? She went over to the wrought iron chair. "I don't think she cares anything at all about Cleo, one way or the other," she said, touching the chair as though to see if it would allow her to sit in it. "She didn't know his name."

"Manly's?"

"She thought it was Joseph."

"You told her that he was the new assistant professor of music, I heard you. Oh come. You DIDN'T neglect to tell her that he was with Cleo tonight, DID you? Oh Zelda, really! That was the whole reason--"

"But I just couldn't. You saw how she felt about him at the party. She was so glad to hear that he's working in her step-dad's department. She told me she's going to enroll!"

Rhonda stared into her empty wine glass. "Yes," she mused, "you informed me of that right away." She took a sip. "But she won't. She came here to work in the accounts receivable office of Apollo Glass Works. It pays good. Why would she want to saddle herself with tuition debt just to bump into Manly in the corridors?"

Zelda very slowly sat in the chair, her expression apologetic. "I think he's... very good looking."

"I won't argue that. If she wants--" Rhonda looked with amused suspicion at Zelda. "If you like him, why didn't you tell her that he was with Cleo? For God's sake, he went to her house. Her grandma's house anyway."

Zelda gave her a puzzled look. "Why would I do that?"

Rhonda rolled her eyes, twirling the stem of her wine glass. "If she wants to meet Manly, she only has to ask her step-dad to arrange it. No need to enroll."

Zelda gazed at the moon.

"Why this sudden determination?" her step-father asked her.

"I--"

"Who was that on the phone?"

"Z--"

"It's all due to my new assistant, I dare suspect," he said. He took off his tweed coat and looked around at the sitting room furniture. "Did she tell you that Professor Strong is fond of you? Well, fond of Traci."

"Who's Traci?" she asked quickly, taking her hand away from the piano as if it had burned her fingers.

"He meant you, that was quite clear. I didn't correct him. Frankly I was not sure he was entirely suitable for you. It was our third interview. How he knew I had a step-daughter I can't imagine unless one of your friends told him. Who was that on the phone?"

"It--"

"Rhonda Salsberger, no doubt."

"Zelda. Zelda Peach."

He smiled, tossing his coat on the backrest of the ottoman. "That party you went to last year. Cut your ankle."

"I didn't do it. Cleo Nelson-Chutsby did it. Mr Piedmont knows her grandfather."

"I'm well aware of who among the alumni Mr Piedmont knows. Why this sudden determination to enroll? Mind you, I've nothing against it, except that you've landed a good position at Apollo. Is it because of Professor Storm?"

She crossed her arms, her chin on her chest. "I don't know any Traci. I didn't hear any such name at the party."

"I've explained that. It's because... Look, I'm going to bed. I've a faculty meeting tomorrow morning early."

When he came up to her she dropped her arms, but she didn't lift her head when he bent down to kiss her on the cheek. This bothered him. He ran a hand down her sleek amber hair and pinched her lightly on the chin. She looked up and smiled wearily.

"Goodnight, Dad," she said.

Cleo felt a volt of sheer terror blazing in her veins the very moment the credits ended. It was good to get that over with. She looked at Manly with the comfortable calmness she felt when looking at her brother. "Well, what do you think of the score?"

She studied his noncommittal expression as he drained the bottle and held it on his knee. She knew the innuendo embedded in the word 'score.' She used it for exactly that purpose.

"I guess I know why you advised seeing this particular movie," he said. "The piano solo. It was a shade too modernist for my taste."

"You didn't like the score?" she asked in a husky whisper, her shoulder touching his. He looked at her with the faintest smile. Was he onto her game? It wasn't the theme music that prompted her to pick that movie, not entirely. It was the rather slipshod romance between the young business executive and the hippie girl, the girl whose life seemed perfectly aimless.

"Overall I wasn't impressed," he said. "It was just a noise in the background, a not too unpleasant noise, like a clutter of wind chimes. It didn't really match the mood of Bryan or Charlie. The piano started up whenever there was a lull in the dialogue. It was filler, and not much else."

"You hate the score. Honestly I hardly even noticed it. What did you think of Charlie?"

She gave up on 'score.' It was going nowhere. The hippie girl might be the key.

Manly looked straight ahead and tilted back his head. She recognized the signs. He was intrigued by the character of Charlie. A free spirit. That 'don't give a fuck' attitude. Manly was smiling crookedly, like when he first spoke to her on the sidewalk. She had a fleeting sense of guilt for not going on to the Moosehead market for granny's skim milk, but granny had forgotten about it, too. Nothing mattered if it was forgotten. How peaceful and uncomplicated the world would be if everyone just... forgot.

"I liked how she changed her name," Manly said with a floating sort of gaze. "Her real name didn't fit her idea of the hippie life. Gertrude. Too old-fashioned. Too stodgy. Too established. 'Charlie' was just right. She even referred to herself as 'Chuck' once, in the restaurant scene."

She ran her tongue over her lips. "Do you think 'Cleo' is a good name for a hippie girl?"

He gave her a pensive nod. Then after a long moment he said, looking at her with narrowed eyes, "But that's your birth name."

Somehow she lost her psychological hold on him. It was the old excuse about having to get up early for a meeting that took him away from her room, from the house after a curious lingering glance at the dying fire in the hearth. She walked with him down the porch steps to the sidewalk and watched him stare at the abandoned house next door. She felt a twinge of foreboding.

"A suitable place for a Halloween party," he said. He turned to her and asked with an unexpected seriousness, "Does anyone own it?"

She started to say who but then laughed. It was a laugh of aggravation. "Mr Piedmont. He owns everything you show an interest in."

That pensive nod again. She cringed. Had it been a mistake to watch the movie?

Then it seemed his turn to laugh. It was almost soundless, more an expression than a sound. A crow had glided down to the willow. Cleo noticed the thin branches dripping water where the crow had settled. Evidently it had rained lightly during the movie. She searched the dark grey sky for the moon. Four or five stars twinkled in a patch of blackness. Near them in the brooding grey masses was a faint silvery glow. Manly was staring at the crow. What was it about the crow that he found amusing? Was it his mention of Halloween that made the crow's appearance amusingly coincidental?

She didn't ask. He waved at her, thanking her for the "nice evening," and saying, "let's stay in touch."

"Do you need a ride? It might rain again."

He looked back at her as he was passing the chain link fence of the overgrown yard and said, "I don't mind if it rains."

There was a mist beginning to form as Manly Storm turned the corner of Main and began his walk down Almond Street. Every house had a tree in the yard. Most were elms. Looking at the water in the gutter he thought of Holland and its dikes.

Ingrid Brabant, the prodigy. A free spirit? Well, she certainly didn't give a fuck what he thought about her technique. Or was she playing him as radically as she played the piano? He smiled at that. If he only knew her better...

He knew how she performed on the keyboard. He knew about the bright golden lustre of her long hair and how she tossed it to and fro when she played; her fingers like slender white piranha darting at the keys in a feeding frenzy. He knew the fidgety concern of her mother and the silent burning envy of her little sister, Chantal. If there was one thing that Ingrid coveted besides the pianist chair in the Los Angeles Philharmonic, it was her sister's name. She thought it beautiful. 'Ingrid' was so old-fashioned, so stodgy, so... established. Too, she was in America now. No, in California. She had no intention of going back to the Netherlands, not until she had made a name for herself. In fact, he thought with a soundless laugh, she already had. She wasn't Ingrid anymore. Not in her own mind, she wasn't. She was 'Traci.'

(2) A PLANET FOR THE MISREMEMBERED

1. (continued)

The Other Girl stepped down onto the station platform. Apparently she was the only passenger getting off in Petersville.

There was just a crow-- or was it a raven?-- there to greet her. It was perched on a post of the white plastic fence at the farther end of the platform, cocking its head at her.

"On time for once," a cranky voice said, and at first she thought the crow had spoken to her. It could not be a raven, the town was just too unremarkable for ravens. But there was the reflection of the full moon in a thin puddle of water in the bricks along the fence, with the crow's beak cutting into the moon like a cake knife. It was that time of year when whatever magic there is in one's life begins to manifest.

"Enjoy your trip?" asked her step-father. He came slowly across the brick platform in a wrinkled beige trench coat and brown fedora, a rolled up newspaper in the hand that wasn't in his coat pocket. As usual he was his dapper self, tall, slender, like a movie star from the 1940s, his hair and pencil-thin mustache as white as the moon.

Also as usual he didn't wait for her to reply. "Have you any luggage besides that little suitcase and overnight bag?" he wondered, taking the suitcase from her and turning toward the station doors.

She shook her head just as he started talking again. "It's been a week of acquisitions." They walked along together. "A new assistant in my department and a new housemaid."

"Did that piano prodigy from Holland show up?" she asked.

"Like a sunrise," he said.

He had driven over to the train depot in his Thunderbird, a 1959 model. He was very proud of it. When they reached the house and were parked in the two-car garage, she bent over in her seat to pull up her right stocking. She saw the deep scar just above her ankle bone. She sighed. It was never going to get any better. She could not wear shorts or a skirt and go barefoot or wear sandals, not ever again. People would be sure to question her if she did. She could lie and say she was bitten by a bulldog, but she hated lies. Ever since her third grade teacher lied to her about the prize in the penmanship contest she couldn't even think of lying, or put up with a liar for one second.

"Darling?" said her step father, at the connecting door to the laundry room. "Coming?"

She opened her mouth to answer, her hand on the car door handle, but as usual he interrupted. "Corrine made a dinner for you before she left. The new maid." He went in, leaving the door open.

"Something's bothering you," Cleo said, trying not to sound exasperated. They had selected a DVD and her finger was inches away from the play button when she just couldn't stand it a moment longer.

She straighted and turned to face him. He had not sat down in the love seat. He stood by the bedroom door that she had left open. Granny wouldn't hear anything, even from the stair landing, and it seemed the proper thing to do leaving open the door. Manly smiled at her, leaning his shoulders against the wall, one ankle crossed over the other. He tilted his head.

"School business," he said at last. "A student from Holland. Extremely talented pianist. Wants to be a concert pianist. Very stubborn. Set in her ways. But if she refuses to listen to me I don't think she'll be tolerated by an orchestra conductor. That was her problem in Holland. Her mother thinks a change of scenery will make a difference. I doubt it."

He saw that she wasn't satisfied with his answer. He took a chance. "It's not about what's bothering me," he said, "it's what's bothering YOU."

Cleo looked surprised and just a little offended, though she tried to hide the latter. Manly added quickly, "But it's really none of my business. Let's watch the movie. You said something about popcorn..."

"Do you remember when we met? At the party?"

It was in the patio. Plastic jack-o-lanterns hung from the eaves of the patio roof. Most of the revelers were out on the sand in their costumes, making a bonfire with presto logs. Cleo was half-sitting on the low railing in the corner by the refreshments table. He had just come back from the park restroom, after admiring the Thunderbird under the royal palms. He mentioned the car to his friend, Josephus (he insisted on the Latin version because Joe came dressed as a Roman senator). Cleo overheard him and said in a loud voice: "Mr Piedmont's car. He's the president of Ganesha College, in Petersville. He knows my grandfather. I hear he's thinking of selling it. Interested?"

Manly smiled at the appropriatness of his costume in comparison to this slightly drunk girl's. He was dressed in an 18th century suit, lace at the sleeve cuffs and collar, a pigtailed powdered wig, a fair imitation of an oversized Mozart. She was dressed as Moll Flanders. Her mild drunkenness fit the role perfectly. He went up to her.

"My name's--"

"Beethoven!" she laughed.

"Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart. And who do I have the pleasure--?"

"I don't remember! Would you sell your harpsichord to buy the Thunderbird?"

"It's a piano," he said stiffly. "Your mention of Mr Piedmont..."

The Other Girl stepped between them. She paused to stare at him, a finger and thumb on the frame of her glasses. She smiled a breathful of liquor. In the next moment she was gone. Rhonda took her arm and escorted her to the limbo pit.

Cleo watched them for a cold moment, then brightened her expression for him. "Yes, the college president."

"I was a music teacher at Golden West Community College in Huntington Beach," he said succinctly. He was still comporting himself like he imagined Mozart. "I'm looking for another college to ply my trade. Do you know Mr Piedmont personally?"

"Oh somewhat," she said, "through my grandfather. They went to school together. I'm thinking--"

The Other Girl was back. She faced him with her head down, looking up at him from under her eyelashes. He liked how her short chestnut-colored hair lay flat on her head and cheeks. She was dressed like a 1920s flapper, and so was Rhonda.

"Do you mind?" said Cleo, standing up, her hand on the refreshments table.

The Other Girl ignored her.

"----" said Rhonda, calling her name. "We're signing up for the limbo contest. There's a prize!"

The Other Girl turned and took one step toward Rhonda. "SURE there is," she said in a tone of skepticism, almost of loathing.

Cleo sighed angrily. She tried to get her happy composure back. "I'm thinking that you ought to visit my grandparents in Petersville. I can take you. And I'll have Grandad invite Mr Piedmont over for dinner. That way--"

He was taken aback by the boldness of the Other Girl. She was right there in his face, leaning forward for a kiss, her lips just slightly puckered.

Rhonda laughed. "You're pickled!" she said. "Come on."

"Yes, go on!" shouted Cleo.

The Other Girl turned around to look at her, leaning back against Manly's chest, rubbing him with her shoulders. He could tell by Cleo's furious expression that the Other Girl was giving her a superior, triumphant look.

It happened then. The 'accident.' He saw it clearly. The smashing sound, the Other Girl jumping sideways, grimacing, her eyes stunned, the blood on her ankle, Rhonda coming up to take hold of her...

"Yes, I remember," Manly said. "Shall we pop some corn?"

Alone at the dining room table, the Other Girl tapped her cell phone. "Zelda. Hello..."

She half listened while watching her step-father dusting off the piano keys in the front sitting room, closing its cover, adjusting the framed photo of his first wife, deceased, that stood on top of the upright.

"Who?" she said, intrigued. Zelda's shy voice had all her attention now. "But I don't remember a Manly Storm. It must've been someone else. Who would be likely to forget a name like that?"

She smiled at the nervous excitement urging itself into her ear.

Then she sat back in her chair, her face slack, her eyes enlarging behind her bifocals.

"Oh. Oh... Yes... I DO remember now. But I thought his name was Joseph... My God I was drunk. I must've been so..." She leaned forward with her elbows to either side of her plate, the fingers of her left hand caressing the lip of her glass of iced tea. "Oh I know. Oh for SURE. She was insanely jealous. Did you see her throw that glass pitcher at my feet? I've such an awful scar... What? Say that again?"

She straightened her back. Her hand gripped the glass of tea tightly. Her face glowed in all its rather ordinary prettiness. She looked across at her step-father. He was closing the window drapes and shaking his head at some distressful yet humorous thought.

"Well then I've made up my mind," she said in a voice that was as vindictive as it was gratefully enlightened. "Professor Storm. Dad will know all about him. And you know what, I'm going to enroll. Suddenly I'm burning up with musical ambition."

"Butter and salt?" Cleo asked him in a rhetorical manner. She was already taking the butter tray from the fridge. "The salt shaker's on the bottom shelf of the cabinet to your right."

Manly had said hardly a word during the popping corn process. She had gone on about the party, the limbo idiocy as she called it, and the arrival of the bikers that made an amusing chaos of everything. That's when they separated. Manly went off with the Roman senator to admire the Thunderbird, "didn't you?" she asked, putting the pan of hard butter on the stove fire. "I'm sure you did."

"Mr Piedmont sold it to one of the teachers, I heard. Joe told me. He doesn't know which one." But that didn't matter to him. He was seeing the Other Girl walking around in a slow circle in the palm grove by the parking lot, sipping a cup of coffee and gesturing to her heavily  bandaged ankle. Rhonda, angry, made signs of helplessness. Joe was anxious to leave. The row of motorcycles made him feel silly wearing a toga and a laurel wreath. And so they left... a year ago. Not quite a year ago. It seemed like last week.

Granny was watching TV in her bedroom and was probably asleep by now. They went hurriedly upstairs.

Manly sat in the loveseat with a paper bowl full of popcorn, a bottle of Mike's Hard Lemonade wedged between his thigh and the side of the stuffed armrest. The movie started just as Cleo sat beside him, as if she had choreographed it to happen that way. She commented on the opening strains of the theme music as she pressed her hip against his.

"You'll have to tell me what you think of the score when the credits are scrolling by," she insisted.

A PLANET FOR THE MISREMEMBERED

PART ONE
The Three Characters

1.

"Well, dumbbells and donuts!" she shouted across the street to him. "You've forgotten all about me!"

The man stopped by a lamppost on the quiet street and peered across at her. She stood with her hands on hips and one foot tapping the curb. But she was smiling. He thought poetically that her eyes had captured stars. It was a clear dry night, a Mediterranean night as someone once remarked of California's late autumn evenings. He smiled back at her, confused by his inability to remember where he had seen her before, and under what circumstances. This irked him, but in a pleasant way, because he could see how pretty she was.

"Venice Beach," she called out, as if haling a taxi. "The Halloween party. My God, have you gone senile? You ARE Manly Storm?"

Grinning at the mention of his full name, he straightened his denim jacket. With neither a glance up or down the residential street he crossed it, casually, his eyes fixed on her face. Could this be Cleo What's-her-name? He saw in his mind the shattered glass pitcher and the line of blood on the other girl's ankle. The other girl... There had been a lot of tension there. He remembered that well enough. The course of the party had changed after the accident. The other girl... No, this was undeniably Cleo. It was not a name that anyone could forget.

"I haven't changed too much, have I?" said Cleo, stepping back from the curb. "It's only been a year. Not quite a year. Well, YOU haven't changed one iota."

Manly looked very pensive for a moment. "Not in any way that can be seen," he said. He stood facing her in the beam of a porch light from the house whose lawn had encroached upon the sidewalk. "Yes, I remember you. It's Cleo. I'm afraid I don't recall your last name."

"Well, it hasn't changed," she said provocatively. "It's Cleo Nelson-Chutsby. Hyphenated names are dreadfully hard to remember. I'll forgive you this one time." She then put a hand to her breasts in feigned alarm. "Oh, I'm not keeping you from an engagement, am I? After all," she laughed, "it IS a Friday night."

He smiled thinly at her theatrical manner. It reminded him of the party, out on the cool hard sand in the flickering light of Tiki torches, where she held the attention of half a dozen men. "No, I was just... " He shrugged, his handsome blondish head tilted to one side. "Taking a walk. Are you headed somewhere?"

"Nowhere earth-shattering."

Shattering. He saw in slow motion the pitcher leaving her hand and striking the flagstones of the patio floor, the explosion of glass like the blossoming of a flower. A poisonous flower. The cut. The blood. The other girl jumping back with a gasp of shock and a frozen grimace.

"Something's on your mind," Cleo said accusingly, still smiling, but warily now. "I'm keeping you from... Well, I'm glad I saw you. Had no idea you were in Petersville. Really too small of a burgh for the both of us. What brings-- I'm sorry. Don't mind me. Don't let me keep you from--"

"No, really, I was going to catch a movie at the Fox, but meeting you again is much more... entertaining."

"Yes and you don't have to buy a ticket!" she said, pleased by his comment. "What movie was it?"

He looked embarrassed. "There wasn't much of an option. 'Mona Lisa Smile.' I've already seen the others. But since I had nothing... That is, I needed a break from... Well, it was something to do. What are you up to in this jerkwater town?"

Cleo looked down the street and then back at him with a dissatisfied smile. "Staying with my grandmother until she can pick up the pieces. My grandfather passed last month. I'll be here a few more... months."

She had started to say 'days,' Manly was sure of it. He smiled crookedly. "So you're not working?"

"I put in an application at the new drive-thru coffee shop. 'Espresso-- Ice cream-- Smoothies.' A cinch job and it'll get me out of the house." She looked past him at the sound of girl talk coming softly up the sidewalk from the corner. She frowned, and Manly saw the glare of annoyance in her shining eyes. Such eyes. He remembered now how taken he was by them.

"Would you like to come over to the house?" she asked him brightly; somewhat desperately, he thought.

He could see two young women approaching. That tension. He kept thinking of the shattered glass pitcher. Cleo stood there in a proud indifference, smiling at him expectantly.

"I'd like that," he said. But she knew as well as he did that he wanted to hold back. It was all about the girls.

"I brought some DVDs with me from home," Cleo said. "We can find something better than Mona Lisa. We've popcorn too. Maybe not as good as--"

She wanted to ignore them. But the one whose hair was styled just like hers, only not raven black but a glitzy purplish red, stopped with her arm extended out to the side to halt the girl beside her, a frail petite blonde. "Why it's Cleo," she said in a voice that mimicked civility.

"I'm sorry. I don't know you," Cleo said with mock politeness.

Manly did. He remembered her from the party. He had seen her with the Other Girl. Not this shrinking violet blonde. The Other Girl had short auburn hair and wore fashionable glasses. He looked at Cleo and saw that she seemed genuinely unable to remember this tall strident girl who was gazing at her with a controlled aggressiveness.

"That's a shame, but I remember YOU."

"You might tell me your name."

"Rhonda. And I beat you at the limbo contest."

Manly saw the bamboo crossbar knocked loose by Cleo's chin. Rhonda jumped, clapping her hands and whooping. He could almost smell the barbecue.

"Congratulations," Cleo said.

"Hello, Manly Storm," Rhonda said. He supposed she meant it. She certainly acted like it. But he was irritated by her tactic. She wanted to annoy Cleo. The short blonde looked uncomfortable. She stood a little back from them, twisting her fingers.

"Hello, Rhonda," he said. "I wasn't expecting a beach party reunion."

"Oh I live in Santa Barbara. I'm here to take classes at Ganesha College. This is my roommate, Zelda. You wouldn't be attending Ganesha, would you? Say yes!"

Manly straightened his jacket. He had to say something. They were all staring at him as if a divine revelation was coming.

"Yes. Actually, I'm the assistant professor in the music department. Just got the position last week."

He heard Cleo snort her surprise. Rhonda raised her eyebrows and showed all her teeth. She was on the good side of plain. The more animated her face, the more attractive she was. She smiled at Zelda, then said to him: "I'm taking Commercial Art, but, you know, I play piano."

"That's nice."

There was a long insufferable moment of silence. They listened to the distant clanging of a railroad crossing. An Amtrak went slowly across Main. This meant it would be stopping at the Petersville station. Not that any of them cared, but it was a blessed distraction from the sudden awkwardness.

"How do you like the town?" Manly asked Rhonda. He realized that his attention to her was not winning him any points with Cleo.

"It's... okay," Rhonda said dubiously. She flipped back her bruise-colored hair. "Zelda and I are staying at the Cheshire Cat motel, the monthly rate. It's across the park from the college, you know. My uncle's paying our living expenses."

"They're not forcing you to stay in the dorm?"

"Trying to, but we're stalling."

Cleo made an impatient gesture. But then Zelda spoke. Her voice startled them. "It's such a lovely..." She was gazing up at the moon. "How odd it is, but a full moon is only half as bright as the half moon. It's like when it shows its complete face it steps back..." She blushed, smiling bashfully at her twisting fingers.

Rhonda gave a laugh. Manly couldn't help doing the same. The train whistle echoed over the roof tops.

"Well," said Cleo questioningly.

"Yes, I would like that," Manly said to her. "Nice meeting you two," he said to the freshman students. "Perhaps I'll see you in the corridors."

"Goodnight," Rhonda said, flicking a glance at Cleo. She and Zelda crossed the street.

"Thank God," Cleo whispered. "Limbo..."

Her grandmother's house stood next to an abandoned house that was in an advanced state of decay, its lawns choked with high weeds over which a drooping willow reigned resignedly. On the other side of Mrs Chutsby's house was a narrow orchard of grapefruit trees. Manly thought the setting was both picturesque and spooky.

It was an old fashioned two-story with a swing chair on the porch, a patch of outdoor carpet for a doormat, and a string-pull doorbell. Inside, in the Edwardian style living room, a discreet fire licked the smoke in a rounded hearth. A portrait of old Mr Chutsby hung above the mantelpiece. He glared through a monocle at infinity, his other eye squinting suspiciously.

The grandmother was in the kitchen.

"She's nearly deaf," Cleo said. "Always afraid of draining her hearing-aid battery. Hardly ever wears it. Let me introduce you. Then we'll go up to my room, if you like."

Manly didn't look at her when she said that. He was seeing the shattered pitcher burning in the hearth flames.

THE SPIRIT LAMP (3)

"I'm prepared to write you a check for one hundred and twenty-five dollars," Arthur said. He stood behind his desk chair, his hands massaging the top of its backrest. "No let's make it one hundred and fifty."

Muriel looked up at him just as she was about to pick up the lamp for a closer look at its stained glass shade. Her hands hovered around the spiralled metal stem. "I should like to know..." she began, and hesitated. She could feel that Arthur did not want to explain why he was so keen to buy it. She brought her hands together at her cloth belt, standing straight and giving him quick inquisitive glances. "Should like to know why..."

"It's a charming Victorian piece. I've grown fond of it."

But his grey eyes told a different story, a secretive one. She picked up the lamp impulsively, said, "Excuse me," in an irritable tone and carried the lamp over to the window. The afternoon light shone directly on the variegated color of the shade. It reminded her of the light off the back porch at her mother's house. And there, exactly as before, were the shadowy but strangely distinct figures in the squares of glass. Were they moving? She couldn't be sure.

"Be careful," Arthur said tensely. "It's old and the silver caulking is brittle. Don't move it around too much or a pane of glass might fall out. It couldn't be replaced if it broke."

Muriel detected an odd fear in Arthur's voice.

"Why not?" she asked, intrigued. "Is there something special about--"

"It would lose value if a pane had to be replaced. Yes it's a special... a very unigue glass."

"What are these figures? Have you noticed them?"

Arthur smiled painfully. He patted the backrest. "Illusions caused by the texture of the glass," he said.

Muriel doubted this. "What, just a coincidence? Isn't it obvious that the texture was made to... to... invoke these images? And there's something very... interesting about the colors of the shade. The warmer colors have the male figures and the cooler colors have the female figures. I just now discovered this! And there's more. Look how the male figures seem to be, to be, I don't know, to be in an agony, in some... distress. But the females look like they're dancing in awkward poses like... like they too are in pain, but of a different kind."

Arthur laughed without mirth. "How you do get a lot out of emulsifiers!"

Muriel lowered the lamp. She looked over at him quizzically. "Emulsifiers?" she said through a puzzled frown. "The chemicals that develop photographic negatives?"

Arthur opened his mouth to speak but seemed to have second thoughts. Muriel waited with as stern a look as she could manage, furious inside at the prospect of Arthur changing the subject. She could see he wanted to.

Again there was that resigned manner. He made light of his explanation, though, speaking cavalierly. "It's Victorian, an age when photographic plates were glass. I'm no expert on this subject, but... your father was. Those squares of glass were coated with... dark room chemicals, yes, for developing negatives."

Muriel gasped. "Do you mean that these figures are photographic negatives? Photos my father took?"

Arthur shrugged. "So he told me. A strange hobby of his. I'm not surprised that he never mentioned it to you, you being so young and all. You do see, don't you," he said with a sudden urgency, leaning toward her, gripping the backrest, "it's a very unigue thing, quite extraordinary really, and I'm offering you serious money for it because-- not just because it's an odd piece of artwork, but because it's a part of my... my friendship... with Rex. I've nothing of him left to me, except... that. Muriel? What are you thinking? Don't drop it. Better sit down."

In a sense she was already sitting down, on the upstairs landing of the house, peering down secretively at the living room where Arthur and a very tipsy redhead sat together on the sofa. It was at a right angle to the fireplace. There was just one light on, the standing lamp next to the lavender leather armchair where her mother sat. The firelight played on everyone's faces except her father's. He was pacing the room with one hand in his pocket, gesturing with the other as he spoke.

"I know where those girls have gone off to," he was saying in a light-hearted tone, "to the TV studios. That's where it's at these days. Television. Arthur, you're right about that. And we've got to meet the challenge. Look at Hugh Hefner. He started his Playboy magazine with photos of Marilyn Monroe. Well, there's not much shock value in that anymore. If we want to keep our market share we need to do what Hefner's done, and that's to expose more female flesh. Get more provocative in our articles and features. And so I've been thinking that the shoots should have more sexual content, more interplay between the models and the sort of men that our readers would love to emulate."

Muriel looked at her mother. Jane had turned her face away from her husband. Her eyes were round and staring at nothing. Her cheeks were flushed, her lips pinched together in a tight line of disapproval. Something Rex had said disturbed her. She was both worried and angry. Exasperated, annoyed, stressed, this is how Muriel saw her.

Arthur was nodding like one of those bobblehead dolls, his expression vacuous. The drunken redhead was ever on the verge of laughing. She held her wine glass like a crossing guard holding up a stop sign. She made a brief, slurred comment about the models who had deserted the adult magazine business to try their luck in Studio City. The conversation centered around the disappearance of these young women. Rex was making it seem that the solution to the mystery was the lure of television. Nothing more than that. But Jane's posture and the cold wrath churning in her staring eyes told Muriel that there was more to the disappearances than a simple change of profession.

"Two hundred even," Arthur said with blunt finality, like an auctioneer. "You won't do better than that, I'm sure," he added, coming around from behind his desk, his tongue lying exhausted on his lower lip.

"No I don't want to sell it," Muriel said, holding the lamp possessively, guardedly, against her bosom. "I'm taking it home with me."

"To the motel?" he asked in a rather sneering manner.

"No, to my apartment. I'll call you tomorrow." She wasn't sure why she said that about calling. She certainly had no intention of doing so. She gave him a smile that had no light in it. He looked solemn and depressed when she glanced at him over her shoulder. The door knob felt cold.

The fresh paint smell reminded her of her father's remark. She went straight to her bedroom and set the lamp on her dresser. On an impulse to called her boss and asked if she could have the day off. She worked the swing shift. He put her on hold. She stared at the lamp shade. Somehow it seemed almost empty, as if the photographic negatives had dimmed away and the figures were hiding, or resting somewhere secret. The boss came back on and said that Carol would cover for her. Carol. The new girl with the gimpy leg who compensated for it by swinging her hips like a hula dancer. Muriel thanked him and hung up.

She showered and put on her terrycloth bathrobe. Standing in front of the dresser mirror she tilted her head from side to side. Marilyn Monroe... Not so much, with her make-up down the drain and her golden hair damp and straggly. But still...

She untied the cloth belt and let the robe part, exposing her body to the soft afternoon light. She looked at the lampshade, feeling that it was gazing at her. This amused her at first. But the longer she stared at it the stronger the feeling became. She shook back her hair and examined her reflection in the mirror.

Just suppose it was treated with dark room chemicals? Would her image remain on the glass? She parted her lips in a smile that at once began to tremble. Yes, she looked very much like Marilyn Monroe. Hefner would approve. He would drive up and say, "Fill 'er up with regular. And check my tire pressure, will you, please?"

She would lean over as she cleaned his windshield. He would admire her cleavage. Instead of a credit card he would hand her his business card. "Come see me at my LA office." But her smile still faltered, her eyes dripped and with an almost vicious resolve she pulled the bathrobe from her body and threw it on the floor at her feet. She turned to the lamp.

She stared down at it until her back ached. She got down on her knees, crossed her arms on the dresser, and put her chin on the back of her left hand, staring up at the shade. The figures were all there now. And in the square of glass that bordered the edge of the shade nearest her she saw him. It surprised her only for a second. Then her heart swelled and she wept without a sound, until finally she could speak.

"I want to live with you," she said.

The manager knocked on the apartment door a week later. A key turned and the door opened. The manager, who was bent with age, stepped cautiously into the living room. Impatient, Arthur passed him and with darting glances at the plain furniture and bare walls he went into the bedroom.

The bed had not been slept in. Muriel's purse lay on one of the pillows. A terrycloth bathrobe was a small pile on the floor by the dresser. Arthur stared at the lamp.

"She's not here?" asked the manager from the bedroom doorway.

"No, but it's all right," Arthur said. "I know where she's gone to. I'll take this lamp, if that's alright with you. She'll want me to have it for safe-keeping."

THE SPIRIT LAMP (2)

Arthur set the lamp on his desk blotter. It was smaller than Muriel remembered it, but then, she wasn't quite eleven the last time she saw it.

It had been in a packing case back then. She had seen only the stained glass shade and the gold-plated screw that held the shade in place. Her imagination must've pictured the stem of the lamp and its base as bigger than it was. It had fascinated her: the irregular squares of different colored glass held together by squibbles of polished silver. They reflected the light from the open back door, her face seen in each square of glass, each in its own bright hue. But what had amazed her beyond the fascination were the many miniature figures of people seen in the glass. She got down on her knees and looked closely, trying not to blink or to block the light. She could have sworn that the figures were moving. She glanced around, but there was no one else in the room.

"Jane, I do hope it wasn't--" said Grendel, out on the broad back porch, her voice straining to deny what she knew to be true, and faltering. But she didn't give up, not even when Jane turned away from her and came through the door into the living room.

"I hope it wasn't me," Grendel went on, standing in the doorway. She smiled at Muriel with a mix of contrition and delight. It came across like an insincere apology. Muriel smiled back at her in much the same way, but without knowing why.

"It's everything," Jane said, fingering her collar as she looked around at the cardboard boxes, each labelled with Rex's flamboyant cursive: Bedroom, Den, Kitchen, Office... and so on, all meticulously packed and arranged. Muriel on her knees ruined the effect.

Jane frowned, glancing at her. Muriel felt guilty. She thought she must be to blame for her parents separating. She must be. Didn't it always seem that her mother was pushing her away with her eyes, with her frown, while her father's breathing drew her toward him? Yes, his breathing, like the life-giving air, like the spirit of spring, drawing her to him as if to make a barrier between him and the iciness of Mother.

"It's everything," Jane repeated, turning with a swish of her pleated skirt, her fingers letting go of her high pointy collar and touching her jade earring. She gave Grendel a fierce smile. "These things don't happen when it's only money, or an argument about a piece of furniture or something." She made a harsh laugh, as though her throat had exploded. "Everything has to be wrong and THEN it happens."

Grendel smiled very tenderly at Muriel, too tenderly, and then looked with too much sympathy at Jane. "I can't escape it," she said, "I can't not be included in 'everything.' I shouldn't have posed..."

Muriel noticed the hot blush on both women. They stiffened as if each had been slapped. Grendel looked at the line of boxes like she had crawled out of one of them, unhappy to be free of it. Her beauty was of the fragile sort. Her figure was not quite what it used to be. Muriel saw her mother examining the fading beauty with narrowed eyes and with a smile that was both spiteful and triumphant. Her mother was the prettier of the two. Her beauty was more resilient. She could still catch a man's attention. But Grendel was at that stage where her looks prompted a curiosity about what she had once looked like, not admiration for how she looked now. Muriel sensed this intuitively.

"It isn't the beholden," Jane said, "it's the beholder who's responsible. It isn't the fault of the cake when one eats too much of it and gains weight."

Grendel drew a sharp breath and turned to the back door. She seemed to be measuring its width. How had she managed to...

"I think it's the nature of the business," she said, blowing her nose with a large rose-patterned handkerchief that Muriel thought was the most beautiful cloth she had ever seen.

"Oh that's true enough," Jane said without a trace of disgust in her voice. "When a man spends all day around naked women..." She frowned at the box at which her daughter knelt. She had not meant to speak so frankly, and did not look at the surprised face of Muriel, but went over to the box and read the handwriting. "The Studio, it says. 'Studio' he calls it. An atmospheric trinket for the nasty room where..." She grabbed Muriel's arm and pulled her to her feet. "Go make lunch for your dad. You know how much he loves pulled pork sandwiches and onion soup. And he simply MUST eat the very MINUTE he gets home."

Muriel hurried into the kitchen and washed her hands. There were no clean towels to dry her hands on. She wrung them out over the sink, considering the apron hanging on the pantry door. She loved wearing aprons anyway. She put it on and tied a neat bow at the back of her waist.

"Hello... Honey... Grendel," said her father's distinctive voice. She heard the front door closing and the sound of his shoes on the linoleum tile of the entryway.

"And I was just..." said Grendel.

"Oh stay for lunch," Jane said. "I'm having the curried rice from last night. There's enough for both of us."

Muriel opened the fridge and took out the covered glass bowl of rice.

"I know what I'M having," said Rex.

Muriel reached for a Tupperware container full of pulled pork.

"I hope you're getting rid of these boxes, they're making marks on the carpet."

"Immediately I finish lunch, Jane." There was a pause in the conversation. It seemed to Muriel that her preparations were making an awful amount of noise. She put the soup on the fire, bread in the toaster. Using a wooden spoon she very quietly scraped the curried rice into a skillet.

"How's Arthur these days?" her father asked.

"He's... starting up a new magazine."

"Is he? Well that's splendid. It wouldn't be that my French Bunnies has inspired him? The circulation doubled this last quarter."

"Is something wrong?" Jane asked urgently.

"No, no, just a little heartburn."

"I'm glad to hear it, Rex. I mean the increase in circulation. Arthur's net sales have dropped twelve percent. It's the growing popularity of television, he thinks. The new magazine will feature cowgirls. You know how popular the TV westerns are."

"Yes, it's all gunslingers and private eyes. Myself I prefer the radio dramas. Is that the rice I'm smelling? Darling, don't burn the toast," he called out. She heard him coming into the kitchen.

Muriel turned with the wooden spoon and was in his arms, hugged, the top of her head kissed. She was determined not to cry, but when she said, "I want to live with you," the tears came. Her voice was muffled by his coat.

"There now," he whispered, "your birthday is coming up. Then you'll be able to live with me. But for now--" He held her at arms' length, squeezing her shoulders affectionately. She started to wipe her eyes but the spoon got in the way. They both laughed.

"The toast is ready," he said. "You needn't heat the pork."

Her mother came in. She brought a chill with her. Muriel stirred the rice.

"Grendel left, out the back way," Jane said. "You ought to know how uncomfortable she is around you."

"That was a decade ago. Well it's too bad. I wanted to hear more about Arthur's new mag."

"I expect you will. You look piqued. Are you sure you're all right?"

"I could use a vacation. My apartment's being painted. The fumes... they give me a headache. Darling, put a bit of rice on my plate."

"Aren't you being silly about that lamp?"

"No, professional. It gives off a unique light," Rex said enthusiastically. "You know what I mean."

"Don't drag me into this."

The silence was suffocating. Muriel busied herself making the pork sandwich, her hands trembling.

"Just... don't," her mother said.

THE SPIRIT LAMP (1 of 3)

"Muriel," he said, "how surprising. I expected Christ to come along before you. You've changed-- grown up-- but still the same eyes. Come in, come over here and let me have a proper look at--- you needn't shut the-- doesn't matter. Just the two of us, then. Come, come. How lovely you are and still so child-like in your graceful... No need for tears! All's forgiven. Stand here by the window. Isn't that your mother's dress? The one she was married in?"

"Grandmother's," said Muriel, blinking in the light from the curtainless window. "Mother borrowed it for the wedding."

He winced at seeing that those were not tears in her eyes. They were the gleam of some hard emotion. He didn't want to think about it.

"I was best man at the wedding," he said, just as though the marriage was yesterday and not twenty years ago. "I held you during the ceremony. Jane wanted everyone to see what a lovely thing her man could produce."

Arthur came around from behind his desk in the cramped little office, one hand fingering his tie, his tongue on his lower lip, his brows creased, all the mannerisms that Muriel remembered about him.

She didn't mean to give the impression of being frightened by his approach. She saw in his grey eyes that he believed she was. He stopped a few paces from her to make those familiar gestures of innocence misunderstood, as if he was puzzled and frustrated by the idea that anyone should be wary of him, especially women.

"I was very fond of your mother," he remarked, smiling now, his hands in the pockets of his grey flannel coat.

"I've come for Father's lamp."

Arthur opened his mouth to say something in response, but, as she expected, he only stared at her a moment, then closed his mouth and moved away. He went to the other window and peered down at the street. You could hear a tinny transistor radio playing the newest recording by Elvis Presley. He shook his head, but why he did Muriel wasn't sure.

She watched him suspiciously. He was going to change the subject; that much she was sure of.

He turned to give her a knowing smile. "Do people tell you that you look like Marilyn Monroe?"

She didn't really want to breathe a laugh, but she couldn't help it. "The silly ones do," she said.

He nodded. "I'm a silly old man, then."

He was fifty, but he had looked fifty fifteen years ago when Muriel was old enough to notice things like that. He was born old, she thought, and was ageless.

"You aren't an old man," she told him severely. "Now, about Father's lamp..."

It was the way he walked over to his desk and pretended to consult a schedule that warned her that not all had been forgiven.

Muriel took a pack of Chesterfields from her skirt pocket, a flounced skirt that accentuated her slim waist. Too aware of her allure she rather bashfully lit a cigarette, looking around for a place to sit. Sitting would root her to the office, emphasize her determination to stay until Arthur brought out the lamp. It was here, somewhere in this clutter. She was quite convinced of that.

She sat in a cushioned wooden chair with scrolled armrests. It was like sinking down into a room that had been stirred up and disordered. Everything seemed to be out of place, or just tossed aside and forgotten. The desk was the one thing that had kept its sanity, its bearing, like a life raft in a stormy sea. Arthur stood beside it as though clutching it with his spirit. If he let go he would drown.

"Your father," he began. Yes, he is going to start on Father, Muriel knew, and it irritated her. That hard emotion sat in her eyes like a steel ball too heavy to roll away. Arthur winced at it. He went behind the desk intending to sit in his swivel rocker, but he didn't. He picked up the schedule, fiddled with it, and put it in a drawer. Now there was nothing to do... except change the subject.

"If it's a job you need, I can use a sales manager's assistant. Mrs Ralston has given her two week notice. It isn't a bad salary. Four hundred a month. And there will be a bonus if--"

"I think Father would have wanted me to have the lamp," said Muriel, calmly. She reached out to flick ash in a metal seashell on a counter. Here there were stacks of magazines with half nude women on the covers. The stacks leaned in opposing directions, as if it were by chance that tossed away magazines just happened to land on top of one another.

"You act as if it were a family heirloom," Arthur said and smiled wonderingly. "It's not the sort of... It's just a Victorian lamp. Worth a little something to a collector, I suppose."

He straightened his shoulders and came back around to the front of the desk. "If you're just going to sell it, I'll give you a hundred dollars for it, right here today. Now, that bonus. If the sales exceed our quarterly projection..."

Muriel let him explain about the job that she wasn't the least interested in. She smoked self-consciously. She hoped he saw that she wasn't interested in selling the lamp either. She tried not to rudely radiate impatience, but she didn't like him changing the subject. She wasn't here to visit him. His sister didn't pretend that Muriel's appearance at the Santa Monica house where she-- Grendel-- and Arthur grew up was anything other than an inquiry into the whereabouts of the lamp. But Arthur wasn't like his sister.

Grendel never changed the subject. She would talk it to death. She wasn't afraid of things that put her on the spot. She wasn't afraid of implied accusations. And she had said that the lamp, the mysterious 'spirit lamp,' was in Arthur's office, "Probably hidden away," Grendel believed, smiling grimly as she brushed the mantelpiece with her feather duster. "Muriel, you look like Marilyn Monroe."

Staring at the old maid, Muriel herself changed the subject. 'Muriel Minkrose.' Even her name was similar to the actress. For a moment she was in Hollywood, in the popping glare of flashbulbs, holding an Oscar and thanking all the people who had helped to make her a star. In THAT situation, rich and famous, she wouldn't care a flip for Father's lamp. But she was a college dropout and a working girl tied to her deadend job, tied to it as securely as the gasoline hoses were tied to their pumps.

She liked the smell of gasoline and she liked flirting with the men who drove expensive cars, remembering at that moment the man with some grey in his hair who drove up to the gas pumps in a new $2000 Cadillac. She had felt his eyes on her bare legs and arms as she inserted the nozzle and went around cleaning his windshield and side mirrors. She dressed provocatively, like a carhop at a burger stand. In the summer she wore shorts and a halter top. Her boss encouraged it. It was certainly good for business. Too bad there was a child in the backseat of the Cadillac. Her hopes were dashed. But then, maybe he was the daring type who wanted a girl on the side.

"You know why Arthur was angry at your father," Grendel said and shook the feather duster on the back porch, the door wide open, looking back at her. "Rex took the best models with him when he left to start his own skin mag. The best. Those two blondes and the redhead. Well, it's a free country. But Arthur and Rex were pals since childhood. They had a business agreement. More than an agreement, really. They had trust in each other. A bond. Or at least that's how Arthur felt. He was so hurt when your father broke their friendship to pieces and became a competitor. An enemy, in a way. You see that, don't you?"

Muriel would go on walks with her father when she was a little girl, holding his hand as they strolled along the Sunset Strip in the exciting evenings.

Rex Minkrose was tall and handsome, nattily dressed, but with a careless go-to-hell look. The women who passed them smiled at him with their eyes devouring him. They all did. Muriel was jealous and wished she was grown up, wished she could convey to the women that Rex belonged to her, that not one of them could compare to her in his estimation. And now, how funny that she grew up to look like Marilyn Monroe. How sad, though, that he was sleeping forever in Rose Hills, under a marble gravestone: 1901-1954.

"Think about my offer," Arthur said, glancing at his watch. "There's no hurry."

Muriel shook her head. "No, it's not about a job, it's the lamp. Grendel says it's here in your office. I should like to see it. It still belongs to Father."

Arthur stared at the rug, lifting a leg and sitting on a corner of his desk, his brows creased, his tongue on his lower lip like a piece of bacon. It was an ugly expression. It particularly galled Muriel to see it now, knowing that he was going to change--

"I talked to Grendel earlier today," he said, "evidently before you visited her. She knew you were back and that according to your cousin Julia you're staying at a motel in Inglewood. I can get you in to the Goldstone Suites in West Hollywood. The first month is free."

He grinned at her. The grin made it plain that he really couldn't afford to proffer such a favor. Television had decreased magazine sales just enough to worry him.

Muriel got up to crush out her stub in the metal seashell. "My work is in San Pedro near the harbor and I've already put down the first and last months rent in an apartment just a block down from the gas-- from where I work. I'm moving in this afternoon and I should like to have Father's lamp. I even bought a little endtable for it."

She turned a bright cheerful face to him. She thought this might be effective. Her lie about the endtable was a clever touch, and she was thinking of other lies that might nudge Arthur into finally giving in, when he stood away from the desk. He looked resigned. It did appear that he would bring out the lamp from wherever it was.

Muriel widened her smile, stepping toward him. She came closer to him than she had ever voluntarily come before.

"I see you are quite determined--" he began in a laughing manner that meant he was too angry to show his true feelings. "--to separate me from the one thing left that connects me to my dear old friend Rex Minkrose. Well, he's your dad. Was--" He winced. "Was your dad, and a more likeable man I've never..."

Arthur looked war-wearied. He took out a set of keys from a pocket of his grey flannel trousers. Slowly he went around to the bottom desk drawer. With every indication of reluctance he unlocked it.

Muriel was going to hold the lamp in her hands for the first time in her life.