own time trying to stop the stuff from percolating up.”
The snarl of traffic began to loosen, but Jim did not take full
advantage of opportunities to change lanes and swing around
slower-moving vehicles.
He was more interested in her answers than in making better time.
He said, “And in the dream, when you got to the top of the stairs-or
when this woman got to the top of the stairs-you saw a ten-year-old boy
standing there, and somehow you knew he was me.”
“Yes.”
“I don’t look much like I looked when I was ten, so how’d you recognize
me?”
“Mostly it was your eyes,” Holly said. “They haven’t changed much in
all these years. They’re unmistakable.”
“Lots of people have blue eyes.”
“Are you serious? Honey, your blue eyes are to other blue eyes what
Sinatra’s voice is to Donald Duck’s.”
“You’re prejudiced. What did you see in the wall?”
She described it again.
“Alive in the stone? This just gets stranger and stranger.”
“I haven’t been bored in days,” she agreed.
Beyond the junction with Interstate 10, traffic on the San Diego Freeway
became even lighter, and finally Jim began to put some of his driving
skills to use. He handled the car the way a first-rate jockey handled a
thoroughbred horse, finessing from it that extra degree of performance
that won races. The Ford was only a stock model with no modification,
but it responded to him as if it wanted to be a Porsche.
After a while Holly began to ask questions of her own. “How come you’re
a millionaire but you live relatively cheap?”
“Bought a house, moved out of my apartment. Quit my job.”
“Yeah, but a modest house. And your furniture’s falling apart.”
“I needed the privacy of my own house to meditate and rest between. . .
assignments. But I didn’t need fancy furniture.”
Following a few minutes of mutual silence, she said, “Did I catch your
eye the way you caught mine, right off the bat, up in Portland?”
He smiled but didn’t look away from the highway.” So are you, Miss
Thorne.'”
“So you admit it!” Holly said, pleased. “It was a come-on line.”
They made excellent time from the west side of Los Angeles all the way
to Ventura, but then Jim began to slack off again. Mile by mile, he
drove with less aggression.
Initially Holly thought he was lulled by the view. Past Ventura, Route
101 hugged beautiful stretches of coastline. They passed Pitas Point,
then Rincon Point, and the beaches of Carpinteria. The blue sea rose,
the blue sky fell, the golden land wedged itself between them, and the
only visible turbulence in the serene summer day was the white-capped
surf, which slipped to the shore in low combers and broke with a light,
foamy spray.
But there was a turbulence in Jim Ironheart, too, and Holly only became
aware of his new edginess when she realized that he was not paying any
attention to the scenery. He had slowed down not to enjoy the view but,
she suspected, to delay their arrival at the farm By the time they left
the superhighway, turned inland at Santa Barbara, crossed the city, and
headed into the Santa Ynez Mountains, Jim’s mood was undeniably darker.
His responses to her conversational sallies grew shorter, more
distracted.
State Route 154 led out of the mountains into an appealing land of low
hills and fields painted gold by dry summer grass, clusters of
California live oaks, and horse ranches with neat white fencing. This
was not the farming-intense, agribusiness atmosphere of the San Joaquin
and certain other valleys; there were serious vineyards here and there,
but the occasional farms appeared to be, as often as not, gentlemen’s
operations maintained as getaways for rich men in Los Angeles, more
concerned with cultivating a picturesque alternate lifestyle than with
real crops.
“We’ll need to stop in New Svenborg to get a few things before we head
out to the farm,” Jim said.
“What things?”
“I don’t know. But when we stop. . . I’ll know what we need.”
Lake Cachuma came and went to the east. They passed the road to Solvang
on the west, then skirted Santa Ynez itself Before Los Olivos, they