Anne watches Charles as he sits at the kitchen table and reads Portia’s obituary. He looks so shocked, so solemn.
According to the New York Times Portia fell from an outdoor staircase and down a rock ledge. Her decomposing body was discovered by two hikers. Animals had been at it. Anne is fascinated by these morbid details-the ignominious ending of an illustrious life. And then there’s something about accidental death-the reminder of how short the distance is from here to there, how it can be crossed in an instant, the ultimate one-way street. The way the kitchen looks in the morning light, the taste of her coffee, seem altered somehow.
Anne reminds herself that Charles has lost the person he trusted most. “I’m sorry,” she says.
“She would have wanted to die like that, quickly, by her lake.”
“She had a long and wonderful life,” Anne says, feeling slightly idiotic, as she always does when she has to summon up dishonest emotion.
“At least now I can dedicate the new book to her. After Life and Liberty, she never let me do that again.”
Charles carries Anne’s bags down to the car. The day is tangy and bright. Charles is blinking against the sunlight, shading his eyes. Hung over. Probably thinking about Emma, his so-called inspiration. He made his bed; now he and his creepy little muse can sleep in it.
“I hope your work goes well,” Anne says.
“And yours,” Charles answers, distracted, looking around, almost as if he’s paranoid.
They cross the sidewalk, the driver takes Anne’s bags, and she and Charles look at each other.
“I am sorry about Portia,” Anne says.
“So am I.”
Anne reaches up and touches Charles’s cheek lightly and then turns and gets in the car.
Los Angeles is just a little too close to home for Anne-she can’t face her mother, not this week-but Kayla’s Spanish-style spread in Santa Monica is warm and comfortable. She takes a long swim and a short nap, and when Kayla comes home Anne makes them a salad and an omelette.
At nine on the dot the young woman arrives. She’s not what Anne expected-she wears glasses, a black turtleneck, loose jeans, and espadrilles; her hair is tucked up in a barrette. But there’s no disguising her beauty and cool cunning. The three of them sit around the oak table in the kitchen for two hours and twenty minutes, deep in discussion.
“I think I’m going to enjoy Cambridge,” the woman says finally, gathering up her notes.
Anne opens her purse and takes out an envelope filled with twenty thousand dollars in crisp hundreds. She hands it to the young woman, who shakes her hand and leaves.