Conversation fizzled and we covered the next few blocks in silence, pretending to window-shop. Back at our cars, Allison gave me a tentative kiss on the lips. Before I knew it, she’d gotten into her ten-year-old Jaguar and was roaring off.
Two days later, I called her and asked her out again.
She said, “I’ve got the afternoon off, was planning to relax at home. Why don’t you come over and we can eat here? That is, if you’re willing to take the risk.”
“Big risk?”
“Who cares? You’re the adrenaline-guy.”
“Good point,” I said. “Can I bring something?”
“Flowers are always appropriate. Not that I’m suggesting—I’m kidding, just bring yourself. And let’s keep it casual, okay?”
She lived in a single-story Spanish house on Fourteenth Street, just south of Montana, within walking distance of her office. The alarm sign on the lawn was conspicuous, and the black Jag convertible was parked behind an iron gate that cut the porte cochere from the street. As I approached the front door, a motion-sensing light went on. Woman-living-alone precautions. Woman-who-had-been-molested-twenty-years-ago precautions.
As I parked, I thought about Robin moving back to Venice, all by herself. Correction: not alone anymore . . . stop, fool.
I rang the bell and waited, bouquet in hand. Figuring roses would be too forward, I’d chosen a dozen white peonies. Casual had come down to an olive polo shirt and jeans and running shoes.
Allison came to the door in a lime polo shirt and jeans and running shoes.
She took one look at me, said, “Do you believe this?” Then she cracked up.
As I sat in her compact white kitchen, she cooked mushroom and chicken liver omelettes and took a chilled salad out of the fridge. Sourdough, white wine, an ice bucket and a six-pack of Diet Coke filled out the menu.
The kitchen opened to a vest-pocket backyard and we ate outside on a trellis-topped patio. The garden was used-brick pathways and a patch of grass surrounded by high privet hedges.
I tasted the omelette. “Not much risk, here.”
“It’s one of the few things I can get through without disaster. Grandma’s recipe.”
“Let’s hear it for Grandma.”
“Grandma was ornery, but she knew her way around a stove.” She talked about her family, and eventually I found myself parceling out bits of self-revelation. As the evening progressed, my shoulders loosened. Allison had relaxed, too, curling up on a couch, her feet tucked under her. Laughing a lot, blue eyes animated.
Pupils enlarged; those who study that kind of thing say it’s a good sign. But shortly before eleven, her posture stiffened and she looked at her watch, and said, “I’ve got an early patient.”
She stood and glanced at the door, and I wondered what had gone wrong.
When she walked me out, she said, “I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
“For being so abrupt.”
“Patients have their needs,” I said, sounding like a stiff.
She shrugged, as if that wasn’t it at all. But she said nothing more as she extended her hand for a shake. Her house had been warm, but her skin was cold and moist. In bare feet she was tiny and I wanted to take her in my arms.
I said, “Good to see you, again.”
“Good to see you.” I stepped out to her front porch. Her smile was painful as she began to close the door, then she came out and bussed my cheek.
I touched her hair. She turned her head and delivered another kiss, full on the lips but closed-mouthed. Hard, almost assaultive. I tried for another kiss, but she withdrew, and said, “Drive carefully,” and this time she did close the door.
She phoned me the next day, at noon. “Wouldn’t you know it, my early patient was a no-show.”
“Too bad,” I said.
“Yes . . . I . . . could we . . . would you like to . . . I’m free tonight at seven, if you’re willing.”
“Seven’s fine. Want me to cook?”
“Alex, would you mind something other than just sitting around and eating? Maybe a drive? I’ve been so cooped up. Driving helps me unwind.”
“Me, too.” How many hundreds of miles, since Robin had left, had I put on the Seville? “We could take a spin up the coast to Malibu.”