“Is the dream about Shwandt?”
“No, that’s the thing; it’s got nothing to do with him. That’s why I didn’t want to get into it. And then, when it went away, I figured . . .”
I looked over at Robin, alone at the table, powdering her nose. “Would you like to tell me about it?”
“Um, this is going to sound terribly rude, but I’d really rather not get into it over the phone.”
“Is someone there with you?”
“No, why?”
“Just wondering if it was an awkward time.”
“No. No, I’m alone.”
“Peter doesn’t live with you?”
“Peter? Oh, the machine.” Soft laugh. “No, he’s got his own place. He made the tape for me—for safety. So people wouldn’t know I was a woman living by myself.”
“Because of the trial?”
“No, before. He tries to look out for me—really, Dr. Delaware, I’m okay. I’m sorry they called you. We can talk about it next session.”
“Next session isn’t for a week. Would you like to come in sooner?”
“Sooner. . . . Okay, thanks.”
“How about tomorrow morning?”
“Could I impose on you to meet early again? If it’s a problem, just tell me, but work’s still piling up and the drive from the Valley—”
“Same time. I’m an early riser.”
“Thank you very much, Dr. Delaware. Good night.”
I returned to Robin as she was putting away her compact.
“Emergency?”
“No.”
“You’re free?”
“Nah, but I’m cheap.”
“Good,” she said, touching my cheek. “I was thinking of a walk on the sand and who-knows-what later.”
“I don’t know, you’re a little clean for my taste.”
“We’ll roll in mud, first.”
When we got back, MTV was broadcasting the Headbangers Ball and Spike had lost interest. We changed into sweats and took him with us down to the beach.
The sand was frosty, the breakers rising, with just enough space for a stroll up to the tide pools and back. Lights from some of the other houses cast gray stripes across the dunes; the rest was black.
“Pretty cinematic,” said Robin. “I feel like I’m in one of those dreadful Movies of the Week.”
“Me, too. Let’s talk earnestly about our relationship.”
“I’d rather talk about what I’m going to do to you when we get back.”
She leaned in and did.
I laughed.
“What, it’s funny?” she said.
“No, it’s great.”
The next morning, she was late leaving and Lucy met her coming through the gate.
“Your wife’s really gorgeous,” she told me, when we were alone. “And your dog is adorable—what is he, a pug?”
“French Bulldog.”
“Like a miniature bulldog?”
“Exactly.”
“I’ve never seen one before.”
“They’re pretty rare.”
“Adorable.” She turned toward the water and smiled.
I waited for a few moments to pass, then said, “Do you want to talk about the dream?”
“Guess I’d better.”
“It’s not an assignment, Lucy.”
She chuckled and shook her head.
“What is it?” I said.
“This is a pretty good deal, Dr. Delaware. You cut your fee in half for me, and I still get to call the shots. Did you know there are quack hotlines on TV—dial-a-psychic-pal—that cost more than this?”
“Sure, but I don’t claim to tell the future.”
“Only the past, right?”
“If I’m lucky.”
She turned serious. “Well, maybe the dream is coming from my past, because it has nothing to do with what’s going on with me now. And in it I’m a little kid.”
“How little?”
“Three or four, I guess.”
Her fingers moved nervously.
I waited.
“Okay,” she said. “Better start from the beginning: I’m somewhere out in the woods—in a cabin. Your basic log cabin.”
More fidgeting.
“Is the cabin somewhere you’ve been before?”
“Not that I know of.”
She shrugged and put her hands in her lap.
“A log cabin,” I said.
“Yes. . . . It must be at night, because it’s dark inside. Then all of a sudden I’m outside . . . walking. And it’s even darker. I can hear people. Shouting—or maybe they’re laughing. It’s hard to tell.”
Closing her eyes, she tucked her legs under her. Her head began to sway; then she was still.
“People shouting or laughing,” I said.
She kept her eyes closed. “Yes . . . and lights. Like fireflies—like stars on the ground—but in colors. And then . . .”