“Three classes, six hours a week,” Elliot said. “Not much, really, but there'll be refamiliarization and preparation to keep you busy over the next few weeks.”

“It'll help. Anything in the extension program?”

“One Saturday class, ten A.M. to noon. Twentieth-Century California History. Starts mid-September.”

“That's one of yours,” Dix said.

“It is, and I'll be glad to get shut of it. Open up my Saturdays for a change.”

“If you're sure you don't mind …”

“Absolutely,” Elliot said. “But there is a contingency: You have to take it for three semesters, not just one. Give me a full year of free Saturdays. Fair enough?”

“More than fair. Thanks, Elliot.”

“Least I can do. You'll need to get together with Lawrence before classes start next week; he has some material for you. I told him you'd call.”

“As soon as I get home.”

He was aware of the emptiness of the house the instant he walked in. The heavy silence seemed to gather around him, to take on a weight he could feel. Could he go on living here alone? It was a question he'd asked himself before and he still wasn't certain of the answer. On the one hand, it was the only place other than his parents' home that he'd ever felt comfortable living in. Too large for one person, one man alone—but so was Elliot's house, so were a lot of other people's. Money wasn't a consideration, at least not right now; and the prospect of putting the house up for sale, dealing with potential buyers trooping through and pawing possessions he'd shared with Katy, and then having to pack up and move and reacclimate elsewhere filled him with distaste. On the other hand, he saw and felt Katy in every room, every stick of furniture, as if some part of her lived on here. Maybe that ghostly quality would fade in time and he would grow used to the emptiness and the silence. And maybe not. You couldn't tell after only three weeks. How could you make any kind of long-range decision after only three weeks?

The message light on the answering machine was blinking: two blinks, two messages. No, he thought, not tonight. He went into his study and looked up Lawrence Hampton's number in his Rolodex. Four rings, and Lawrence's machine answered. He left a message, thinking: What did we do in the days before all these technological gadgets? How did we ever manage to communicate with one another?

He built himself a gin and tonic, stronger than the ones Elliot had given him, and took the drink out to the balcony off the living room. Almost dusk. He watched the last of the sunset colors fade and the sky turn a smoky lavender. Going to be hot again tomorrow. Streetlights and house lights came on, on the Ridge and across the valley and in scattered wink-points up on the eastern hills. In the new dark, crickets set up a throbbing racket. Somewhere a dog barked. In the east side rail yards a locomotive whistle sounded, thin and haunting, like a chord in a sad, lost melody.

And all at once the loneliness struck him, a sudden stabbing sensation so sharp that his flesh seemed to curl inward around it, as if it were a blade.

Katy, he thought. I'm so sorry, Katy.

Sorry she was gone, sorry for doubting her fidelity, sorry for thinking she might have taken her own life. Sorry for himself, his loss, his pain. Sorry that he had to keep on trying to find out if the accusations were true.

Sorry that he was the kind of man who always had to know.

FOUR

Six o'clock. And Amy still wasn't home yet.

Cecca was in the kitchen with Owen Gregory, making a fruit salad for supper, trying not to worry. It wasn't that late, still broad daylight—but her eyes kept straying to the wall clock. Do you know where Amy is, Francesca? Do you have any idea what's happening to that little bitch of yours this very minute? Subtle torture, without any foundation whatsoever. That was what these telephone freaks counted on, wasn't it? The victim torturing herself?

Amy said she'd be home around four. Why isn't she here yet?

Owen's presence should have helped keep her calm, but it was having the opposite effect. He'd stopped by at five-thirty, unannounced, to bring her the photos of the Andersen farm in Hamlin Valley, her newest listing. He did most of the brochure photography for Better Lands, and he'd done his usual expert job of making a property look better than it really was, focusing on the Andersen place's hilly backdrop and that impressive line of old eucalyptus that flanked the access drive. The color shots were crystal-clear, yet you couldn't tell that the house and barn were in poor repair. But he could have dropped the prints off at the office or waited to give them to her on Monday. They were an excuse, of course. To see her. To sit and make small talk and gaze at her with his big, sad, worshipful eyes.

Those eyes were what had led her to sleep with him that night last summer. It was flattering to be the object of someone's passion, even if it wasn't reciprocated; and she'd been tight and Amy had been staying at a friend's house, and it had been so long since she'd had sex, and when she looked into those worshipful eyes … bad judgment, a foolish mistake. It had given Owen false hope that it could happen again, that there could be something serious between them. The morning after, she'd told him the truth in the gentlest possible terms: She cared for him but she didn't love him, they could go on being friends but nothing more. He'd said he understood, but it didn't keep him from pursuing her in his low-key way. She liked him, she really did. He was kind, gentle, attractive. But she felt more sorry for him than anything else. And he got on her nerves sometimes, like right now —

“Cecca.”

She turned her head. He was sitting at the table, his long legs stretched out, rolling the bottle of Coors she'd given him between his hands. His dark hair was its usual mop, damp and lank now from the heat, a long wisp plastered over one eyebrow. The tail of his shirt was untucked. There was a grass stain on the knee of his cords. Thirty-seven going on twelve, she thought. It was a wonder he'd never married. God knew, he'd had opportunities; maternal women loved him to pieces. But he didn't want a mother figure. He wanted the ex-wife of Chet Bracco, and had even when she was married. Poor Owen, because the ex-wife of Chet Bracco wanted a man, not a little boy.

“What's the matter?” he asked her. “You keep looking at the clock.”

“Just wondering where Amy is. She should be home by now.”

“Where'd she go after work?”

“I'm not sure. Some errands, she said.”

“Kids. I wouldn't want to be a teenager these days.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Oh, you know, all the problems and pressures.”

“What does that have to do with her being late?”

“Nothing. I was making an observation—”

“My daughter's a good girl, Owen.”

“I know that. Lord, Cecca, I didn't mean to imply—”

“Damn!” The potato peeler she'd been using to core strawberries had slipped and nicked her finger. She sucked at the drop of blood that appeared.

Owen was on his feet, petting her arm. “Hurt yourself?”

“It's nothing,” she said. “I'm sorry I snapped at you. I'm feeling a little prickly today.”

“It's the heat.”

“Yes. The heat. Owen … I'd ask you stay for supper, but—”

“No, that's all right. Date tonight?”

“No. I just don't feel up to company.”

“I understand.”

No, you don't, she thought. “All I want to do is eat and take a long, cool bath and zone out in front of the TV.”

“Sounds good. I'll probably do the same.”

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