Love the one youre with

'Yeah, yeah. I remember those cheapies,' she says.

I laugh and say, 'They were not cheapies.'

'Were too,' she says. 'So make it up to me and let me come to L.A.'

'Fine,' I say. 'But no autographs.'

'C'mon,' she says. 'I'm not that lame.'

'And no more griping about the gloves.'

'Deal,' she says solemnly. 'Never again.'

Over the next few days, while Andy is away on a document review in Toronto, I focus on my shoot, working out logistics and consulting several times with Platform's photo editor and art director who inform me that the focus of the feature is on Drake's humanitarian work. As such, they want two to three 'somber, visually rich, environmental color portraits.'

'Do you know what situation you're after?' I ask the photo editor, feeling my first wave of nervousness.

'That's what we have you for,' she says. 'We saw your work on your Web site. Loved it. Such stark beauty. Just do your thing.'

I feel a boost of confidence and a little rush that I always feel when someone appreciates my work. I ask if there's any way I can set up at a restaurant I found on the Internet that is only a couple of miles away from the hotel. 'It's one of those classic, retro diners with black-and-white, hexagon-tiled floors and red booths,' I say, thinking that it's not unlike the booth I last saw Leo in. 'You know, the red will be sort of symbolic of his AIDS work… I think it could look really cool.'

'Brilliant,' she says. 'I'll just call Drake's publicist and get the OK.'

'Great,' I say, as if I've heard such words a thousand times before.

A few minutes later, she phones back and says, 'Send the exact address of the diner, and Drake and his people will be there at three o'clock, sharp. Only caveat is that he's on a really tight schedule. You'll have to work fast. You'll only have about twenty to thirty minutes. That work?'

'No problem. I'll get the shots,' I say, sounding like the consummate professional-way more confident than I actually am.

I hang up and call Suzanne, asking her if twenty minutes is still worth a transcontinental flight. She is undeterred.

'Twenty minutes with greatness is still twenty minutes with greatness. And certainly more greatness than I've seen in a long time,' she says.

'Good enough,' I say. 'Just don't let ole Vince hear you saying that.'

Suzanne laughs and says, 'Oh, Vince knows he's mediocre at best.'

'At least he knows his place,' I say.

'Yeah,' she says. ' 'Cause there are very few things worse than a man who doesn't know his place.'

I laugh, memorizing this gem from Suzanne, but not appreciating the full truth of it until I arrive in L.A. three days later.

fourteen

It is five-thirty in the evening L.A. time, and I've only been in town for an hour, just long enough to check in at the Beverly Wilshire, dump my suitcase and camera bags in my room, and call Suzanne, whose flight got in earlier this afternoon. She informs me that she's window shopping on Rodeo Drive-'totally in my element,' she adds sarcastically-but will be back soon. She says that she's already scoped out the hotel bar options, suggesting that we meet at the Blvd Lounge for a drink.

I say great idea, my flight-nerve pills weren't strong enough for the heartland storms we flew through, and I could really use a glass of wine. Suzanne laughs and calls me a big sissy before I hang up and change into what feels like an L.A. outfit-dark jeans, silver platforms that put me near the six-foot mark, and a simple but chic (for me) lime green silk tank. Unfortunately, I forgot to pack the strapless bra that I bought to go with it, but I figure I'm flat-chested enough to pull it off without looking cheap. Besides, I'm in California now, where anything goes. I freshen my makeup, smoking my eyes more than usual, and finish with a spritz of perfume on the back of my hands, a trick that Margot taught me in college, saying that anyone who talks with her hands as much as I do should reap the benefits of simultaneously releasing her scent.

Then I'm down the elevator and through the posh lobby, strolling so confidently that I'm very nearly strutting into the Blvd, an intimate, modern, and very elegant lounge decorated in rich shades of amber, chocolate, and gold. As I admire the illuminated onyx bar with a large backlit wine display of at least a thousand bottles, I also find myself admiring the strong profile of a man seated alongside it, alone, drink in hand. A man who looks an awful lot like Leo. I do a squinting double take, and discover, with both amazement and something akin to horror, that he doesn't simply look like Leo-he is Leo.

Leo once again. Leo three thousand miles from home.

I freeze, and for one second, I'm actually naive or dimwitted enough to think that this is yet another coincidence. Another chance run-in. And, in that beat, my heart stops with the foolishly shameful notion, My God, what if this is fate chasing me down all the way across the country?

But as Leo glances over, spots me, and raises his drink in the air, cheekbone level, I realize what he's orchestrated. I realize that I've been set up.

I shift my weight from one heel to the other as he slowly lowers his drink-what appears to be a whiskey on the rocks, his signature drink-and gives me a small, knowing smile.

I do not smile back, but take the half-dozen steps toward him. I am no longer strutting, and a sudden chill down my spine has me wishing for a bra. Or better yet, a full-length coat.

'Hello, Leo,' I say.

'Ellen,' he says, nodding. 'Glad you could make it.'

It sounds like a line right out of an old Hollywood movie, but I am far from charmed, not even when he stands and motions toward the stool beside him.

You are no Cary Grant, I think, as I shake my head, refusing the seat. I am too stunned to be angry, but am feeling something stronger than mere indignation.

'You come all this way and won't have a seat?' he says.

Another line.

Leo was never one for lines in the past, and I'm almost disappointed that he's throwing them out now. I have no vested interest in the man he has become over the last decade, but in some odd way, I don't want my image of him tarnished by lines.

'No, thank you,' I say coolly. 'I'm meeting my sister here any minute.'

'Suzanne?' he says with a note of smugness.

I look at him, wondering whether he actually thinks that remembering her name is impressive. I am tempted to rattle off Clara, Thomas, Joseph, Paul-the names of his four siblings, in birth order, but would never give him the satisfaction of my recalling details about his family.

Instead I say, 'Yes. Suzanne. I only have one sister.'

'Right,' he says. 'Well, I'm glad she's coming. That's a nice bonus.'

'A nice bonus?' I say with what I hope is a nonplussed furrow of my brow. 'As in… two sisters for the price of one?'

He laughs. 'No. As in, I always liked Suzanne… the few times we hung out.'

'You met her once.'

'Right. And I liked her on that one occasion. Very much.'

'I'm sure she'll be so pleased to hear that,' I say flippantly. 'Now if you'll excuse me…'

Before he can protest, I walk to the end of the bar and make eye contact with the bartender, a gray-haired, ruddy-cheeked man who looks like he would be cast in the role of a bartender.

'What can I get for you?' he asks me, his scratchy baritone just as role worthy.

I forgo my wine in lieu of a vodka martini, straight up with extra olives, and then point to an uninhabited