Guilt

I closed the magazine. “It’s okay.”

“You’re sure? I really don’t want to bother you.”

“Of course. Her name is Blanche and she loves kids.”

Hand in hand, the two of them approached. On cue, Blanche assumed the sit-stay. Kristina reached to pet the top of her head.

I said, “Actually, she likes it better when you do it this way.” Placing my hand low, in tongue range. Kristina imitated me. I said, “Perfect.” Blanche licked. Kristina giggled and moved in for another tongue-bath.

Her mother said, “Okay, that’s fine. Thank the nice man, Boo.”

Kristina began petting Blanche. Her strokes quickened. Veered on slaps. Her mother took hold of her wrist, guided the tiny hand down.

Blanche licked pudgy fingers.

Kristina squealed.

The woman said, “Blanche. Like in Streetcar.”

I smiled. “She likes the company of strangers.”

The woman laughed. “I can see that. Great disposition. It’s a blessing.”

Kristina showed the shell to Blanche and shouted, “Smail!”

Blanche smiled.

Kristina ran off laughing.

The woman said, “Sorry for interrupting your reading.”

I said, “Talk about adorable.”

Her eyes drifted to the magazine. “You’re a psychologist?”

“I am.”

“I’m reading something kind of related-hold on.”

Her walk to her bench was languid, graceful. She returned with the toddler book.

“I know it’s pop stuff,” she said. “Would you mind telling me if it’s worth anything?”

“It is,” I said. “I know the author.”

“Really.”

“We trained at the same time. At Western Pediatric Medical Center. Your little one’s a bit past toddler.”

“I know,” she said. “I just like to learn.” The book dropped to her side. “That hospital, I actually did a- I spent some time there. Not with my kids, thank God. Just … I helped out. Years ago, before I had kids.”

“It’s a good place.”

“You bet … anyway, thanks for sharing Blanche with Kristina.”

She offered her hand. Long graceful fingers, clean nails, no polish.

I said, “Blanche lives to socialize.”

Taking a cue with the panache of Streep, Blanche wiggled her hindquarters.

The woman laughed. “I see that-um, do you happen to have a card?”

I gave her one.

She read it. Her eyes saucered.

I said, “Everything okay?”

“Oh, sure … it’s just … I almost … this is going to sound totally weird but a few years back someone actually referred me to you.”

“Small world,” I said.

“I’m sorry, this is kind of awkward … the appointment got canceled. I listened to someone else who gave me another name. It wasn’t very helpful.”

“Sometimes,” I said, “it’s a matter of fit.”

“This was a bad fit-listen, this is going to sound pushy but would you be willing to give it another try? An appointment, I mean.”

“Sure.”

“Wow,” she said, “that’s gracious of you. Um, could it be relatively soon?”

I pulled my appointment book out of my pack, knitted my brow.

She said, “You’re booked solid. Of course.”

I closed the book. “Got a cancellation tomorrow, but it’s early. Eight thirty if you can make it.”

“I can. Sure, that’ll be fine.” She looked at the card. “There’s no address here.”

“I work from home. I’ll give it to you.”

She produced an iPhone, punched in the info. “Eight thirty it is, thank you so much, Dr. Alexander Delaware-I guess I’d better be getting back to my tribe.”

We shook hands. Her skin was cool, dry, thrumming with the faintest tremor.

She said, “I’m Preem, by the way.”

“Nice to meet you.”

Flashing a million bucks’ worth of smile, she hurried to her brood.

I pretended to read another article, slipped Blanche a Milk-Bone. “You earned caviar but this is all I’ve got.”

When she was finished nibbling, we left, passing the kids and the teachers and Prema Moon, everyone busy with an assortment of vials, slides, leaves, illustrated books.

Prema Moon gave me a small wave and held a leaf up to Kembara. “Look at this, honey. Tri-lobar.”

The girl said, “Great, Mom,” in a voice ripe with boredom.

“Pretty, no?”

“Uh-huh.”

“That means it has three lobes-three of these little roundy things.”

“Mo-om, I need to draw.”

CHAPTER 48

Hang around L.A. long enough and you’re going to spot actresses. I’ve probably seen more than the average citizen because a few famous butts have warmed the battered leather couch in my office and once in a while I tag along with Robin at the type of party most people imagine to be fascinating but typically turns out to be mind- numbing.

I’ve learned that cinematic beauty is a funny thing. Sometimes it’s limited to the screen and real life offers up a plain face that closes up like a frightened sea anemone when the camera’s not whirring. Other times, physical perfection transcends time and place.

Prema Moon sat on the couch wearing couldn’t-care-less clothes: loose jeans, brown sneakers, a shapeless V-necked sweater that had begun life as sad beige and had faded to tragic gray. Her macrame bag was one shade sootier, fraying where the fabric gathered into bamboo handles.

Like yesterday, she wore no makeup. Indoor lighting turned her hair mousier than it had been at the park. The ends were blunt and uneven, barely reached her shoulders. Homemade hack job or an exorbitant styling meant to look that way.

If she indulged in Botox, she was overdue. Fine lines scored her brow, the space between her eyes, the sides of her mouth. The skin beneath her eyes was puffy. The indigo of her irises was lovely but oddly low-watt. Warm but sad.

She was gorgeous.

She’d arrived precisely on time, driving a small gray Mercedes with black windows and squeaky brakes. Blanche and I greeted her at the door. Prema stooped to pet. “Hello again, Princess.” She did the usual quick-check of the living room, offered the comment I get all the time:

“Nice place, Dr. Delaware. Kind of hidden away.”

“Thanks. This way.”