Silent Partner

4

Holmby Hills is the highest-priced spread in L.A., a tiny pocket of mega-affluence sandwiched between Beverly Hills and Bel Air. Financially, light-years from my neighborhood, but only about a mile or so due south.

My map put La Mar Road in the heart of the district, a winding bit of dead-end filament terminating in the rolling hills that overlook the L.A. Country Club. Not far from the Playboy Mansion, but I didn’t imagine Hef had been invited to this bash.

At four-fifteen I put on a lightweight suit and set out on foot. Traffic was heavy on Sunset- surfers and sun-worshippers returning from the beach, gawkers headed east clutching maps to the stars’ homes. Fifty yards into Holmby Hills everything went hushed and pastoral.

The properties were immense, the houses concealed behind high walls and security gates and backed by small forests. Only the merest outline of slate gable or Spanish tile tower floating above the greenery suggested habitation. That, and the phlegmy rumble of unseen attack dogs.

La Mar appeared around a bend, an uphill strip of single-lane asphalt nicked into a wall of fifty-foot eucalyptus. In lieu of a city street sign, a varnished slab of pine had been nailed to one of the trees above the emblems of three security companies and the red-and-white badge of the Bel Air Patrol. Rustic lettering burned into the slab spelled out LA MAR. PRIVATE. NO OUTLET. Easy to miss at forty miles per, though a blue Rolls-Royce Corniche sped past me and hooked onto it without hesitation.

I followed the Rolls’s exhaust trail. Twenty feet in, twin fieldstone gateposts tacked with another PRIVATE ROAD warning fed into eight-foot stone walls topped with three feet of gold-finialed wrought iron. The iron was laced with alternating twenty-foot sections of vines- English ivy, passion fruit, honeysuckle, wisteria. Controlled profusion masquerading as something natural.

Beyond the walls was a gray-green canvas- more five-story eucalyptus. A quarter-mile later the foliage got even thicker, the road darker and cooler. Mounds of moss and lichen patched the fieldstone. The air smelled wet and menthol-clean. A bird chirped timidly, then abandoned its song.

The road curved, straightened, and revealed its end point: a towering stone arch sealed by wrought-iron gates. Scores of cars were lined up, a double file of chrome and lacquer.

As I got closer I could see that the division was purposeful: sparkling luxury cars in one queue; compacts, station wagons, and similar plebeian transport in the other. Heading the dream-mobiles was a spotless white Mercedes coupe, one of those custom jobs with a souped-up engine, bumper guards and spoilers, gold-plating- and a vanity plate that said PPK PHD.

Red-jacketed valets hopped around newly arrived vehicles like fleas on a summer pelt, throwing open car doors and pocketing keys. I made my way to the gate and found it locked. Off to one side was a speaker box on a post. Next to the speaker were a punch-pad, keyslot, and phone.

One of the red-jackets saw me, held out his palm, and said, “Keys.”

“No keys. I walked.”

His eyes narrowed. In his hand was an oversized iron key chained to a rectangle of varnished wood. On the wood was burnt lettering: FR. GATE.

“We park,” he insisted. He was dark, thick, round-faced, fuzzy-bearded, and spoke in a Mediterranean accent. His palm wavered.

“No car,” I said. “I walked.” When his face stayed blank, I pantomimed walking with my fingers.

He turned to another valet, a short, skinny black kid, and whispered something. Both of them stared at me.

I looked up at the top of the gate, saw gold letters: SKYLARK.

“This is Mrs. Blalock’s home, right?”

No response.

“The University party? Dr. Kruse?”

The bearded one shrugged and trotted over to a pearl-gray Cadillac. The black kid stepped forward. “Got an invitation, sir?”

“No. Is one necessary?”

“We-ell.” He smiled, seemed to be thinking hard. “You’all got no car, you’all got no invitation.”

“I didn’t know it was necessary to bring either.”

He clucked his tongue.

“Is a car necessary for collateral?” I asked.

The smile disappeared. “You’all walked?”

“That’s right.”

“Where d’you’all live?”

“Not far from here.”

“Neighbor?”

“Invited guest. My name is Alex Delaware. Dr. Delaware.”

“One minute.” He walked to the box, picked up the telephone, and spoke. Replacing the receiver, he said “One minute.” again, and ran to open the doors of a white stretch Lincoln.

I waited, looked around. Something brown and familiar caught my eye: a truly pathetic vehicle pushed to the side of the road, away from the others. Quarantined.

Easy to see why: a scabrous Chevy station wagon of senile vintage, rust-pocked and clotted with lumpy patches of primer. Its tires needed air; its rear compartment was crammed with rolled clothing, shoes, cardboard cartons, fast-food containers, and crumpled paper cups. On the tailgate window was a yellow, diamond-shaped sticker: MUTANTS ON BOARD.

I smiled, then noticed that the clunker had been positioned in a way that prevented exit. A score of cars would have to be moved in order to free it.

A fashionably thin middle-aged coupled climbed out of the white Lincoln and were escorted to the gate by the bearded valet. He put the oversized key in the slot, punched a code, and one iron door swung open. Slipping through, I followed the couple onto a sloping drive paved with black bricks shaped like fish scales. As I walked past him, the valet said, “Hey,” but without enthusiasm, and made no effort to stop me.

When the gate had closed after him, I pointed to the Chevy and said, “That brown station wagon- let me tell you something about it.”

He came up next to the wrought iron. “Yes? What?”

“That car is owned by the richest guy at this party. Treat it well- he’s been known to give huge tips.”

He swiveled his head and stared at the station wagon. I began walking. When I looked back he was playing musical cars, creating a clearing around the Chevy.

A hundred yards past the gate the eucalyptus gave way to open skies above a golf course-quality lawn trimmed to stubble. The grass was flanked by ramrod columns of barbered Italian cypress and beds of perennials. The outer reaches of the grounds had been bulldozed into hillocks and valleys. The highest of the mounds were at the farthest reaches of the property, capped by solitary black pines and California junipers pruned to look windswept.

The fish-scale drive humped. From over the crest came the sound of music- a string section playing something baroque. As I neared the top I saw a tall old man dressed in butler’s livery walking toward me.

“Dr. Delaware, sir?” His accent fell somewhere between London and Boston; his features were soft, generous, and pouchy. His loose skin was the color of canned salmon. Tufts of cornsilk circled a sun-browned dome. A white carnation graced his buttonhole.

Jeeves, out of central casting.

“Yes?”

“I’m Ramey, Dr. Delaware, just coming to get you, sir. Please forgive the inconvenience, sir.”

“No problem. I guess the valets aren’t equipped to deal with pedestrians.”

We stepped over the crest. My eye was drawn toward the horizon. Toward a dozen peaks of green copper tile roof, three stories of white stucco and green shutters, columned porticoes, balustered balconies and verandas, arched doors and fanlight windows. A monumental wedding cake surrounded by acres of green icing.

Formal gardens fronted the mansion: gravel paths, more cypress, a maze of boxwood hedges, limestone fountains, reflecting pools, hundreds of beds of roses so bright they seemed fluorescent. Partygoers clutching long-stemmed glasses strolled the paths and admired the plantings. Admired themselves in the mirrored water of the pools.

The butler and I walked in silence, kicking up gravel. The sun beat down, thick and warm as melting butter. In the shadow of the tallest fountain sat a Philharmonic-sized group of grim, formally dressed musicians. Their conductor, a young, long-haired Asian, lifted his baton, and the players broke into dutiful Bach.

The strings were augmented by tinkling glass and a ground bass of conversation. To the left of the gardens a huge flagstone patio was filled with round white tables shaded by yellow canvas umbrellas. On each table was a centerpiece of tiger lilies, purple irises, and white carnations. A yellow-and-white-striped tent, large enough to house a circus, sheltered a long white-lacquered bar manned by a dozen elbow-greased bartenders. Three hundred or so people sat at the tables and drank. Half that amount crowded the bar. Waiters circulated with trays of drinks and canapés.

“Yes, sir. Can I get you a drink, sir?”

“Soda water would be fine.”

“Excuse me, sir.” Ramey widened his stride, walked ahead of me, disappeared into the bar throng, and emerged moments later with a frosty glass and a yellow linen napkin. He handed them to me just as I reached the patio.

“Here you are, sir. Sorry again for the inconvenience.”

“No problem. Thanks.”

“Would you care for anything to eat, sir?”

“Nothing right now.”

He gave a small bow and walked off. I stood alone, sipping my soda, scanning the crowd for a friendly face.

The crowd, it soon became obvious, was divided into two discrete groups, a sociologic split that echoed the double-filed cars.

Center stage was dominated by the big rich, an assemblage of swans. Deeply tan and loose-limbed in conservative haute couture, they greeted each other with cheek-pecks, laughed softly and discreetly, drank steadily and not so discreetly, and made no notice of the ethnically diverse bunch sitting off to the side.

The University people were the magpies, intense, watchful, brimming with nervous chatter. They’d congregated, reflexively, into tight little cliques, talking behind their hands while darting their eyes. Some were conspicuously sleek-in off-the-rack suits and special-occasion party dresses; others had made a point of dressing down. A few still gaped at their surroundings, but most were content to observe the rituals of the swans with a mixture of raw hunger and analytic contempt.

I’d finished half my soda when a ripple spread through the patio- through both camps. Paul Kruse appeared in its wake, weaving his way adroitly through Town and Gown. A small, lovely-looking silver-blond woman in a strapless black dress and three-inch heels hung on his arm. She was in her early thirties but wore her hair like a prom queen- ruler-straight down to her waist, the ends puffed and curled extravagantly. The dress clung to her like a coat of pitch. Around her neck was a diamond choker. She kept her eyes fastened on Kruse as he grinned and worked his audience.

I took a good look at the new department chairman. By now he had to be close to sixty, fighting entropy with chemistry and good posture. His hair was still long, a dubious shade of corn-yellow and cut new-wave surfer-style, with a flap over one eye. Once, he’d resembled a male model, with the kind of coarse handsomeness that photographs well but loses something in the translation to reality. And his good looks were still in evidence. But his features had fallen; the jawline seemed weaker, the ruggedness dissolved into something mushy and vaguely dissolute. His tan was so deep he looked overbaked. It put him in sync with the moneyed crowd, as did his custom-tailored suit. The suit was featherweight but conspicuously tweedy and arm-patched- an almost snotty concession to academia. I watched him flash a mouthful of white caps, shake the hands of the men, kiss the ladies, and move on to the next set of well-wishers.

“Smooth, huh?” said a voice at my back.

I turned around, looked down on two hundred pounds of broken-nosed, bushy-mustached square meal packed into five feet five inches of round can, wrapped in a brown plaid suit, pink shirt, black knit tie, and scuffed brown penny loafers.

“Hello, Larry.” I started to extend my hand, then saw that both of his were occupied: a glass of beer in the left, a plate of chicken wings, egg rolls, and partially gnawed rib bones in the right.

“I was over by the roses,” said Daschoff, “trying to figure out how they get them to flower like that. Probably fertilize them with old dollar bills.” He raised his eyebrows and tilted his head toward the mansion. “Nice little cottage.”

“Cozy.”

He eyed the conductor. “That’s Narahara, the wunderkind. God knows what he cost.”

He lifted the mug to his mouth and drank. A fringe of foam coated the bottom half of his mustache.

“Budweiser,” he said. “I expected something more exotic. But at least it’s full strength.”

We sat down at an empty table. Larry crossed his legs with effort and took another, deeper swallow of beer. The movement inflated his chest and strained the buttons of his jacket. He unbuttoned it and sat back. A beeper was clipped to his belt.

Larry is almost as wide as he is tall and he waddles; the reasonable assumption is obesity. But in swim trunks he’s as firm as a frozen side of beef- a curious mixture of hypertrophied muscle marbled with suet, the only guy under six feet to have played defensive tackle for the University of Arizona. One time, back in grad school, I watched him bench-press twice his weight at the university gym without breathing hard, then top it off with one-handed push-ups.

He ran blunt fingers through steel-wool hair, wiped his mustache, and watched as Kruse charmed his way through the crowd. The new department head’s route took him closer to our table- near enough to observe the mechanics of small talk but too far to hear what was being said. It was like watching a mime show. Something entitled Party Games.

“Your mentor’s in fine form,” I said.

Larry swallowed more beer and held out his hands. “I told you I was dead busted, D. Would have worked for the devil himself- a bargain-basement Faust.”

“No need to explain, doctor.”

“Why not? It still bugs me, being a party to bullshit.” More beer. “Entire semester a waste. Kruse and I had virtually nothing to do with each other- I doubt if we spoke ten sentences the entire time. I didn’t like him because I thought he was shallow and a phony. And he resented me ’cause I was male- all his other assistants were women.”

“Then why’d he hire you?”

“Because his research subjects were males and they were unlikely to relax watching dirty movies with a bunch of women around taking notes. Not likely to answer the kinds of questions he was asking, either- how often they jerked off, their most frequent masturbation fantasies. Did they do it in public toilets? How often and who they fucked, how long it took them to come. What was their deep-seated primal attitude toward liver in a can.”

“Frontiers of human sexuality,” I said.

He shook his head. “Sad thing is, it could have been valuable. Look at all the clinical data Masters and Johnson came up with. But Kruse wasn’t serious about collecting data. It was as if he was going through the motions.”

“Didn’t the granting agency care?”

“No agency. These were private suckers- rich porn freaks. He promised to make them respectable, put the academic imprimatur on their hobby.”

I turned and looked at Kruse. The blonde in the black dress was teetering on spiked heels.

“Who’s the woman with him?”

“Mrs. K. You don’t remember? Suzanne?”

I shook my head.

“Suzy Straddle? The talk of the department?”

“I must have slept through it.”

“You must have been comatose, D. She was a campus celebrity. Former porn actress, got her nickname for being… limber. Kruse met her at some Hollywood party while doing ‘research.’ She couldn’t have been more than eighteen or nineteen. He left his second wife for her… or maybe it was the third- who keeps track? Got her enrolled in the university as an English major. I think she lasted three weeks. Ring a bell yet?”

I shook my head. “When was this?”

“’74.”

“In ’74 I was up in San Francisco- at Langley Porter.”

“Oh, yeah, you double-shifted- internship and dissertation same year. Well, D., your precociousness may have dumped you in the job market one year sooner than the rest of us, but you missed out on Suzy. She was really supposed to be something. I actually worked with her- for a week. Kruse assigned her to the study, doing secretarial work. She couldn’t type, screwed up the files. Sweet kid, actually. But somewhat basic.”

The honoree and spouse had come closer. Suzanne Kruse tagged along after her husband as if bolted to a track. She looked fragile, with bony shoulders, a tight-corded neck bisected by a diamond choker, nearly flat chest, hollow cheeks, and sharply pointed chin. Her arms were shapely but sinewy, bony hands ending in long, spindly fingers. Her nails were long and red-lacquered. They clutched her husband’s sleeve, digging into the tweed.

“Must be true love,” I said. “He stuck with her all these years.”

“Don’t bet that it’s wholesome monogamy. Kruse’s got a rep as a major-league pussy hound and Suzy’s known to be tolerant.” He cleared his throat. “Submissive.”

“Literally?”

He nodded. “Remember those parties Kruse used to throw at his place in Mandeville Canyon the first year he joined the faculty? Oh, yeah, you were in Frisco.” He stopped, ate an egg roll and ruminated. “Wait, I think they were still going on in ’75. You were back by ’75, right?”

“Graduated,” I said. “Working at the hospital. I met him once. We didn’t like each other. He wouldn’t have invited me.”

“No one was invited, Alex. These were open houses. In every sense of the word.”

He chucked me under the chin. “You probably wouldn’t have gone, anyway, because you were a good boy, so serious. Actually, I never got further than the door, myself. Brenda took one look at them coating the floor with Wesson oil and hauled my ass out of there. But people who went said they were plus-four orgies, if you could stand fucking other shrinks. Oh! Calcutta! meets B. F. Skinner- what a scary idea, huh? And Suzy Straddle was one of the main attractions- tied up, harnessed, muzzled, and flogged.”

“How do you know all this?”

“Campus gossip. Everyone knew- it was no secret. Back then, no one thought it was all that weird. Pre-microbe days- sexual freedom, liberating the id, expanding the boundaries of consciousness, et cetera. Even the radical libbers in our class thought Kruse was on the cutting edge of something meaningful. Or maybe it just got their rocks off being dominant. Either way, it was philosophically acceptable to flog Suzy because she was fulfilling some need of her own.”

“Kruse do the flogging?”

“Everyone did. It was a real gang scene- she was an equal-opportunity floggee. There, look at her, how she’s holding on to him for dear life. Doesn’t she seem submissive? Probably a passive-dependent personality, perfect symbiotic fit for a power junkie like Kruse.”

To me she looked scared. Adhering to her husband, but staying in the background. I watched her step forward and smile when spoken to, then retreat. Tossing her long hair, checking her nails. Her smile was as flat as a decal, her dark eyes unnaturally bright.

She moved so that the sun hit the diamond choker and threw off sparks. I thought of a dog collar.

Kruse turned abruptly to take someone’s hand and his wife was caught off balance. Throwing her arm out for support, she took hold of his sleeve and held on tighter, wrapping herself around him. He continued to knead her bare shoulder, but for all the attention he paid to her, she might have been a sweater.

Love. Whatever the hell that means.

“Low self-esteem,” said Larry. “You’d have to be down on yourself to fuck on film.”

“Guess so.”

He drained his mug. “Going for a refill. Can I get you something?”

I held up my half-full soda glass. “Still working on this.”

He shrugged and went to the bar.

The Kruses had circled away from our table toward one filled with magpies. A fizz of small talk; then he laughed, a deep, self-satisfied sound. He said something to a male graduate student, pumped the student’s hand while running his eyes over the young man’s pretty wife. Suzanne Kruse kept smiling.

Larry returned. “So,” he said, settling, “how’s it going with you?”

“Great.”

“Yeah, me too. That’s why we’re here without our women, right?”

I sipped soda and gazed at him. He maintained eye contact but busied himself with a chicken wing.

The therapist’s look. Gravid with concern.

Genuine concern, but I wanted no part of it. Suddenly I felt like bolting. A quick jog back to the big stone arch, farewell to Gatsbyland.

Instead, I dipped into my own bag of shrink-moves. Parried a question with a question.

“How’s Brenda doing in law school?”

He knew full well what was going on, answered anyway. “Top ten percent of the class for the second year in a row.”

“You must be proud of her.”

“Sure. Except there’s another entire year to go. Check me same time next year and see if I’m still functioning.”

I nodded. “I’ve heard it’s a rotten process.”

His grin lost its warmth. “Anything that produces lawyers would have to be, wouldn’t it? Like turning sirloin into shit. My favorite part is when she comes home and cross-examines me about the house and the kids.”

He wiped his mouth and leaned in close. “One part of me understands it- she’s bright, brighter than I am, I always expected her to go for something other than housework. She was the one who said no, her own mother had worked full time, farmed her out to babysitters, she resented it. She got pregnant on our honeymoon, nine months later we had Steven, then the rest of them, like aftershocks. Now, all of a sudden, she needs to find herself. Clara Darrow.”

He shook his head. “The problem is the timing. Here I am, finally getting to a point where I don’t have to hustle referrals. The associates are reliable, the practice is basically running itself. The baby starts first grade next year, we could take some time off, travel. Instead, she’s gone twenty hours a day while I play Mr. Mom.”

He scowled. “Be careful, my friend- though with Robin it’ll probably be different, she’s already had her career, might be ready to settle down.”

I said, “Robin and I are separated.”

He stared at me, shook his head, again. Rubbed his chin and sighed. “Shit, I’m sorry. How long’s it been?”

“Five weeks. Temporary vacation that just seemed to stretch.”

He drained his beer. “I’m really sorry. I always thought you guys were the perfect couple.”

“I thought so, too, Larry.” My throat got tight and my chest burned. I was certain that everyone was looking at me, though when I looked around, no one was. Just Larry, eyes as soft as a spaniel’s.

“Hope it works out,” he said.

I stared into my glass. The ice had melted to slush. “Think I will have something stronger.”

I elbowed my way through the crush at the bar and ordered a double gin and tonic that fell just short of single strength. On the way back to the table I came face to face with Kruse. He looked at me. His eyes were light-brown flecked with green, the irises unusually large. They widened- with recognition I was certain- then flicked away and focused somewhere over my shoulder. Simultaneously, he shot out his hand, grasped mine firmly, covered it with his other, and moved our arms up and down while exclaiming, “So nice you could come!” Before I had a chance to reply, he’d used the handshake as leverage to propel himself past me, spinning me halfway around before relinquishing his grip and moving on.

Politician’s hustle. I’d been expertly manipulated.

Again.

I turned, saw his tailored back retreating, followed by the shimmering silver sheet of his wife’s hair swaying in counterpoint to her narrow, tight derrière.

The two of them walked several steps before being taken in hand by a tall, handsome middle-aged woman.

Slim and impeccably assembled in a custard-yellow silk cocktail dress, white rose corsage, and strategically placed diamonds, she could have been any President’s First Lady. Her hair was chestnut accented with pewter, combed back and tied in a chignon that crowned a long, full-jawed face. Her lips were thin, molded in a half-smile.

Finishing-school smile. Genetic poise.

I heard Kruse say, “Hello, Hope. Everything’s just beautiful.”

“Thank you, Paul. If you’ve a moment, there are some people I’d like you to meet.”

“Of course, dear.”

The exchange sounded rehearsed, lacking in warmth, and had excluded Suzanne Kruse. The three of them left the patio, Kruse and the First Lady side by side, the former Suzy Straddle following like a servant. They headed for a group of swans basking in the reflected light of one of the pools. Their arrival was heralded by the cessation of chatter and the lowering of glasses. A lot of flesh was pressed. Within seconds the swans were all listening raptly to Kruse. But the woman in yellow seemed bored. Even resentful.

I returned to the table, took a deep drink of gin. Larry raised his glass and touched it to mine.

“Here’s to old-fashioned girls, D. Long may they fucking live.”

I tossed back what was left of my gin and sucked on the ice. I hadn’t eaten all day, felt a light buzz coming on and shook my head to clear it. The movement brought a swatch of custard-yellow into view.

The First Lady had left Kruse’s side. She scanned the grounds, took a few steps, stopped and flicked her head toward a yellow spot on the lawn. Discarded napkin. A waiter rushed to pick it up. Like a captain on the bow of a frigate, the chestnut-haired woman shaded her eyes with her hand and continued to scan the grounds. She glided to one of the rosebeds, lifted a blossom and inspected it. Another waiter bearing shears was at her side immediately. A moment later the flower was in her hair and she was moving on.

“That’s our hostess?” I said. “In the pale-yellow dress?”

“No idea, D. Not exactly my social circle.”

“Kruse called her Hope.”

“Then that’s her. Hope Blalock. Springs eternal.”

A moment later, he said, “Some hostess. Notice how we’re all kept outside, no one gets into the house?”

“Like dogs that haven’t been housebroken.”

He laughed, lifted one leg off the chair and made a rude sound with his lips. Then he cocked his head at a nearby table. “Speaking of animal training, observe the maze-and-electrode crowd.”

Eight or nine grad students sat surrounding a man in his late fifties. The students favored corduroy, jeans, and plain cotton shifts, lank hair and wire-rims. Their mentor was stoop-shouldered, bald, and wore a clipped white beard. His suit was mud-colored hopsacking, a couple of sizes too large. It shrouded him like a monk’s habit. He talked nonstop and jabbed his finger a lot. The students looked glassy-eyed.

“The Ratman himself,” said Larry. “And his merry band of Ratkateers. Probably going on about something sexy like the correlation between electroshock-induced defecation and stimulation voltage following experimentally induced frustration of a partially reinforced escape response acquired under widely spaced trials. In fucking squirrels.”

I laughed. “Looks like he lost weight. Maybe he’s doing weight-loss tapes, too.”

“Nope. Heart attack last year- it’s why he gave up being department head and passed it along to Kruse. The tapes started right after that. Fucking hypocrite. Remember how he used to put down the clinical students, say we shouldn’t consider our doctorates a union card for private practice? What an asshole. You should see the ads he’s been running for his little no-smoking racket.”

“Where’ve they run?”

“Trashy magazines. One square inch of black-and-white in the back along with pitches for military schools, stuff-envelopes-and-make-a-fortune schemes, and Oriental pen pals. Only reason I found out is, one of my patients sent away for it and brought the cassette in to show me. ‘Use the Behavioral Approach to Quit Smoking,’ the Ratman’s name right there on the plastic, along with this tacky mimeographed brochure listing his academic credentials. He actually narrates the damned thing, D., in that pompous monotone. Trying to sound compassionate, as if he’d been working with people instead of rodents all these years.” He gave a disgusted look. “Union cards.”

“Is he making any money?”

“If he is, he sure ain’t spending it on clothes.”

Larry’s beeper went off. He pulled it off his belt, held it to his ear for a moment. “The service. ’Scuse me, D.”

He stopped a waiter, asked for the nearest phone, and was directed to the big white house. I watched him duck-walk through the formal gardens, then got up, ordered another gin and tonic, and stood there at the bar drinking it, enjoying the anonymity. I was starting to feel comfortably fuzzy when I heard something that set off an internal alarm.

Familiar tones, inflections.

A voice from the past.

I told myself it was imagination. Then I heard the voice again and searched the crowd.

I saw her, over several sets of shoulders.

A time-machine jolt. I tried to look away, couldn’t.

Sharon exquisite as ever.

I knew her age without calculating. Thirty-four. A birthday in May. May 15- how strange to still remember…

I stepped closer, got a better look: maturity but no diminution of beauty.

A face out of a cameo.

Oval, fine-boned, clean-jawed. The hair thick, wavy, black and glossy as caviar, brushed back from a high, flawless forehead, spilling over square shoulders. Milkwhite complexion, unfashionably sun-shy. High cheekbones gently defined, rouged naturally with coins of dusty rose. Small, close-set ears, a single pearl in each. Black eyebrows arching above wide-set deep-blue eyes. A thin, straight nose, gently flaring nostrils.

I remembered the feel of her skin… pale as porcelain but warm, always warm. I craned to get a better view.

She had on a knee-length navy-blue linen dress, short-sleeved and loose-fitting. Unsuccessful camouflage: the contours of her body fought the confines of the dress and won. Full, soft breasts, wasp waist, rich flare of hip tapering to long legs and sculpted ankles. Her arms were smooth white stalks. She wore no rings or bracelets, only the pearl studs and a matching string of opera-length pearls that rode the swell of her bosom. Blue pumps with medium heels added an inch to her five and a half feet. In one hand was a matching blue purse. The other hand caressed it.

No wedding ring.

So what?

With Robin at my side, I would have taken brief notice.

Or so I tried to convince myself.

I couldn’t keep my eyes off her.

She had her eyes on a man- one of the swans, old enough to be her father. Big square bronze face corrugated with deep seams. Narrow, pale eyes, brush-cut hair the color of iron filings. Well-built, despite his age, and perfectly turned out in double-breasted blue blazer and gray flannel slacks.

Oddly boyish- one of those youthful older men who populate the better clubs and resorts and are able to bed younger women without incurring snickers.

Her lover?

What business was that of mine?

I kept staring. Romance didn’t seem to be what was fueling her attention. The two of them were off in one corner and she was arguing with him, trying to convince him of something. Barely moving her lips and straining to look casual. He just stood there, listening.

Sharon at a party; it didn’t fit. She’d hated them as much as I had.

But that had been a long time ago. People change. Lord knew that applied to her.

I raised my glass to my lips, watched her tug on one earlobe- some things stayed the same.

I edged closer, bumped into a matron’s padded haunch and received a glare. Mumbling apologies, I pressed forward. The crush of drinkers was unyielding. I wedged my way through, seeking a voyeur’s vantage- deliciously close but safely out of view. Telling myself it was just curiosity.

Suddenly she turned her head and saw me. She pinkened with recognition and her lips parted. We locked in on each other. As if dancing.

Dancing on a terrace. A nest of lights in the distance. Weightless, formless…

I felt dizzy, bumped into someone else. More apologies.

Sharon kept looking straight at me. The brush-cut man was facing the other way, looking contemplative.

I retreated further, was swallowed by the crowd, and returned to the table short of breath, clutching my glass so tightly my fingers hurt. I counted blades of grass until Larry returned.

“The call was about the baby,” he said. “She and her little playmate got into a fight. She’s tantrumming and insisting on being taken home. The other girl’s mother says they’re both hysterical- overtired. I’ve got to go pick her up, D. Sorry.”

“No problem. I’m ready to leave myself.”

“Yeah, turned out to be pretty turgid, didn’t it? But at least I got a look at La Grande Maison ’s entry hall- big enough to skate in. We’re in the wrong business, D.”

“What’s the right business?”

“Marry it young, spend the rest of your life pissing it away.”

He looked back at the mansion, cast his eyes over the grounds. “Listen, Alex, it was good seeing you- little male pair-bonding, hostility release. How about we get together in a couple of weeks, shoot some pool at the Faculty Club, ingest some cholesterol?”

“Sounds great.”

“Terrific. I’ll call you.”

“Look forward to it, Larry.”

Buttressed by our lies, we left the party.

He was eager to get going but offered to drive me home. I said I’d rather walk, waited with him while the bearded valet fetched his keys. The Chevy station wagon had been repositioned for quick exit. And washed. The valet held the door open and expectorated a mouthful of “sirs” as he waited for Larry to get comfortable. When Larry put the key in the ignition, the valet shut the door gently and held his palm out, smiling.

Larry looked over at me. I winked. Larry grinned, rolled up the window, and started the engine. I strolled past the cars, heard the wheeze of the Chevy’s engine followed by curses muttered in some Mediterranean language. Then, a clatter and squeal as the wagon accelerated. Larry zipped past, stuck out his left hand and waved.

I’d walked several yards when I heard someone calling. Thinking nothing of it, I didn’t break step.

Then the call took on volume and clarity.

“Alex!”

I looked over my shoulder. Navy-blue dress. Swirl of black hair. Long white legs running.

She caught up with me, breasts heaving, upper lip pearled with sweat.

“Alex! It really is you. I can’t believe it!”

“Hello, Sharon. How’ve you been?” Dr. Witty.

“Just fine.” She touched her ear, shook her head. “No, you’re one person to whom I don’t have to pretend. No, I haven’t been fine, not at all.”

The ease with which she’d slipped into familiarity, the effortless erasure of all that had passed between us, raised my defenses.

She stepped closer. I smelled her perfume- soap and water tinged with fresh grass and spring flowers.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” I said.

“Oh, Alex.” She placed two fingers on my wrist. Let them rest there.

I felt her heat, was jolted by a rush of energy below my waist. All at once I was rock-hard. And furious about it. But alive, for the first time in a long while.

“It’s so good to see you, Alex.” That voice, sweet and creamy. The midnight eyes sparkled.

“Good to see you too.” It came out thick and intense, nothing like the indifference I’d aimed for. Her fingers were burning a hole in my wrist. I dislodged her, put my hands in my pockets.

If she sensed rejection, she didn’t show it, just let her arm fall to her side and kept smiling.

“Alex, it’s so funny we should run into each other like this- pure ESP. I’ve been wanting to call you.”

“About what?”

A triangle of tongue tip moved between her lips and licked away the sweat I’d coveted. “Some issues that have… come up. Now’s not a good time, but if you could find some time to talk, I’d appreciate it.”

“What issues would we have to talk about after all these years?”

Her smile was a quarter-moon of white light. Too immediate. Too wide.

“I was hoping you wouldn’t be angry after all these years.”

“I’m not angry, Sharon. Just puzzled.”

She worried her earlobe. Her fingers flew forward and grazed my cheek before dropping. “You’re a good guy, Delaware. You always were. Be well.”

She turned to leave. I took hold of her hand and she stopped.

“Sharon, I’m sorry things aren’t going well for you.”

She laughed, bit her lip. “No, they really aren’t. But that’s not your problem.”

Even as she said it, she came closer, kept coming. I realized I was pulling her toward me, but with only the faintest pressure; she was allowing herself to be reeled in.

I knew at that moment that she’d do anything I wanted, and her passivity touched off a strange meélange of feelings within me. Pity. Gratitude. The joy of being needed, at last.

The weight between my legs grew oppressive. I dropped her hand.

Our faces were inches apart. My tongue strained against my teeth like a snake in a jar.

A stranger using my voice said, “If it means that much to you, we can get together and talk.”

“It means a lot to me,” she said.

We made a lunch date for Monday.