'I was, I was sure of it.'
'You're about to lose part of your life, and there's nothing you can do but stand back and watch. Five years up in smoke.'
Robin waited.
'What you do then is part acceptance and part a farewell gesture to the years you spent here with Sid.'
'Yeah . . . ?'
'You light the Wall Street Journal. '
He watched her nodding her head, thoughtful now. She looked up at him and said, 'You're not putting that in your report, are you?'
Canavan shook his head. 'I have no evidence to prove it, or disprove what you said. The house was burning when you got here.'
'What about the lady fire warden?'
'Mrs. Montaigne? She must've been mistaken.'
Robin paused and said, 'How do I pay you the hundred thousand?'
'You don't,' Canavan said, getting up from the sofa. 'I was playing with you, that's all. Seeing what I could score if I did that sort of thing. You should hear some of the offers I get, I come across a fraud situation and I can prove it. Some bozo in a neck brace looking for a million bucks, says he'll split it with me.'
'You turn them in?'
'If they're pros, like the ones that stage car accidents and people are injured. Or if they get ugly about it. Otherwise I tell 'em, forget the claim and don't try it again.'
'You're not turning me in?'
'I told you, I believe your story.'
'So what should I do?'
'If I were you?' Canavan said. 'I'd keep after the insurance company. Make 'em pay.' He turned to leave, saying, 'It was nice talking to you, Robin.'
And saw her raccoon eyes staring at him.
'You can't stay a while, Joe?'
If he didn't stay, he could always come back.
Hanging Out at the Buena Vista
They lived in a retirement village of cottages set among palm trees and bougainvillea, maids driving golf carts. The woman, Natalie, wore silk scarves to cover what was left of her hair, a lavender scarf the afternoon Vincent appeared at her door. He told her through the screen he thought it was time they met. She said from the chair she sat in most of the day, 'It's open,' closed the book she was reading, a finger inside holding the page, and watched him come in in his khaki shorts and T-shirt.
'You didn't have to get dressed up on my account.'
She liked his smile and the way he said, 'I was right. I've found someone I can talk to.'
'About what?'
'Anything you want, except golf.'
'You're in luck. I don't play golf.'
'I know you don't. I checked.'
She liked his weathered look, his cap of white hair, uncombed. 'You're here by yourself?'
'On my own, the first time in fifty-seven years.'
She laid the book on the table next to her. 'So now you're what, dating?'
He liked the way she said it, with a straight face.
'If you're interested, Jerry Vale's coming next week.'
'I can hardly wait.'
He said, 'I like the way you wear your scarves. You've got style, kiddo.'
'For an old broad? You should see me in a blond wig.'
'A woman can get away with a good one. But you see a rug on a guy, every hair in place? You can always tell.'
'That's why you don't comb your hair?'
Again with the straight face. He shook his head.
'I made a decision,' Vincent said. 'No chemo, no surgery.
Why bother? I'm eighty years old. You hang around too long, you end up with Alzheimer's, like Howard. You know Howard? He puts on a suit and tie every day and calls on the ladies. Has no idea where he is.'
'Howard's been here. But now I think he and Pauline are going steady. Pauline's the one with all the Barbie dolls.' Natalie paused and said, 'I'll be eighty-two next month.'
'You sure don't look it.'
'Not a day over, what, seventy-five?'
'I'll tell you something,' Vincent said. 'You're the bestlooking woman here, and that's counting the maids and the ones that pass for nurses. Some are okay, but they all have big butts. You notice that? Hospitals, the same thing. I've made a study: The majority of women who work in health care are seriously overweight.'
'You've spent a lot of time in hospitals?'
'Now and then. No, this is the closest I've come, this assisted living. Or as it says in the literature, 'The gracious and dignified living you deserve.' As long as you can afford it, live in your own prefab cottage. I did all right with prefab, built terraces, row housing. Some, it turned out, in the wrong place. Andrew came along and blew 'em off the lot.'
He said, 'I know you were married. What'd your husband do?'
'Commercial real estate.'
'I might've known him.'
'In New York City.'
There was a lull. Vincent glanced around the room, at furnishings from another life, expensive-looking pieces.
'You're happy here?'
'Am I happy?'
'I mean, do you like living here?'
'It's all right.'
He waited before saying, 'Are you in pain?'
'I have my pills.'
Vincent nodded. 'Back 'em up with a cocktail in the evening, against orders.'
She said, 'Do you always wait till evening?'
'Hardly ever.'
Natalie stirred, pulling herself up. 'You can have whatever you like as long as it's Polish vodka.'
'You want me to get it?'
She said, 'Sit still,' up and moving now: slim brown legs in a white shirtdress that barely reached her knees. He could see her fifty years ago, taller, not as frail, dark hair in place of the lavender scarf, a confident, good-looking woman. She returned with drinks in crystal glasses, handed him one and settled back into her chair with a groan. Now she was looking at him again.
'Don't you have drinking buddies?'
'The guys here,' Vincent said, 'the ones who know where they are, either play golf and talk about it on and on, or they sit and watch CNN all day. I get the feeling they miss Ronald Reagan.'
She sipped her drink. 'Is it a matter of time with you?'
'I'm given maybe six months. What about you?'
'Anywhere from a few months to 'who knows?' '
'Are you afraid?'
