The Master of Seduction chapter 1 She's as tough as she has to be As sweet as she can be It happened last Thursday, a week ago this afternoon; I shortened the lesson because I bruised my ass on a different saddle from the one I usually ride. The morning rush over, only Michelle and I remained at the barn, unusually alone. She rubbed leather treatment into her saddle as I sat opposite and smoked. We talked aimlessly at first, but I proceeded to drop outrageous conversational topics on the table, and she had little choice but to take the bait or be deliberately obtuse. She provided the opening, referring to a recent trail ride at a state park; a little scary, she said, because of the rough ups and downs. Yeah, I responded, I had a horse for four months in reform school, and I scared the hell out of myself every day riding in the mountains. Reform school? she asked. I'd hooked her again, and now had just the audience of one I wanted. I forgot the all purpose line I'd formulated for just such an opening, yeah, by the time I was 21 I'd seen the inside of 10 different lockups, and I was even taken in for a bounty reward once, but I got out the essentials in a suitably dramatic fashion. Before concluding, I'd told her about swamping the Napa Valley for years with massive amounts of LSD, informed her of my nickname, Terry Tabs, and the fact that when I was sent away the judge said I was the most sophisticated juvenile criminal they'd ever seen. Why a 53 year-old-man would think these were the words to win over his 37-year-old riding instructor is a mystery even to me, but following my instincts often paid off, as it seemed to now. When I was going to highschool, Michelle said, I was a stoner and I dropped alot of acid. I was kind of an outcast, and no one liked me very much. I hated the football players and cheerleaders, and at my senior party, I slipped acid into their drinks, and everyone got really stoned. They were climbing on the roof, and doing all kinds of crazy things. I'm lucky no one got hurt; I could've gotten into a lot of trouble. Yes, you could have, I agreed, secretly gloating at getting her to open up some more. Then I told her about the CIA program of the '50s, in which my father's colleagues tested LSD for the company by having their prostitutes slip it into the drinks of customers, then watching the victims go temporarily insane. From there I launched into tales of opium smoking in Chinatown, the gangsters my father claimed as friends, and the wonderful Chinese New Year celebrations we attended as the only round-eyes in the elaborate speakeasies in decayed alleys. She referred to her own father, whom her mother left when she was two; she had seldom seen him since. They moved to a commune somewhere in the hills, she explained, before her mother took up with another man for awhile. Before coming out as a lesbian. Then we moved to a lesbian commune, she said, full of kids and animals. But there were no males of any sort. And as I got older, I didn't know anything about men. Boys could talk me into anything. The comment reminded me of a conversation a few days earlier; she'd talked about the men in her life, and lamented that some were jealous that she'd had other lovers. You get so much from some relationships, she said, good and bad, and it all becomes part of who you are. It's too bad it bothers men so much. I talked of my ex-wife, and some of her previous lovers; the much older man that visited on holidays whom strangers assumed was our son's grandfather. And another lover, now married and living in Baja, with whom we stayed several times on vacation. And the continual business trips and conferences, at which she encountered others. But I didn't mind; I trusted her, I said. Michelle seemed impressed with my acceptance of my wife's past, just as I'd hoped. Anything not to seem like other men. But the latest revelations took me aback; I'd sensed she'd suffered some great disillusion with men, but until the last minutes I'd been unable to appreciate just how vulnerable she must have been. Beneath the casual manner, I speculated at the sadness of it all, the sweet girl turned defenseless into the world to be used. She mentioned her long-ago ex-husband, who wanted to see her in a week or two to make amends. Michelle dreaded the confrontation, but submitted to the idea since it was part of his Alcoholics Anonymous program. It might be good for me too, she said. I see him out on the horse circuit, and I feel such mixed feelings. Maybe this will help me get over some of that. He sounded as though he'd been an unpredictable drunk who may have abused her in a variety of ways. For five years. What a pity, I thought, maintaining the insouciant exterior, a cigarette dangling between my fingers as I lounged in the chair. I said something indicating that I'd assumed the man was the father of her daughter. No, that's someone else, she said. He and I get along great. I guess I didn't know anything about men, she repeated. I got used to being badly treated, and I thought that was normal. So I kept getting together with men who treated me badly. I spent alot of time in therapy, and that helped. I finally got it two or three years ago. I swallowed hard; this was getting painful. She asked if I'd started dating yet, and I explained that I didn't really date. That I approached and made friends with every attractive woman I could, tried to develop some kind of relationship, and then made the most of what might evolve. I described exactly the strategy I'd been employing on her for five months. By this point, I knew I was in sensitive territory. By-products of the survival syndrome infused my body, the parasympathetic nervous system pumping hormones throughout my body. Action slowed, and seemingly long thought processes flashed by in a split second. Ice at the back of the throat, a pleasant flutter of butterflies in my gut. I was in the zone, but there was no one to run from or attack. Just Michelle and me, and the oldest sport. The means of arriving at the next inquiry, I can't quite remember. But the question actually caught me off guard; she was going deep on me. How long has it been since you were in love? The voice was melodic and tender, a loving voice. It's been a while, I said. Tricia and I fell out of love a long time ago. We had a wonderful love affair before we got married, and then everything began to change. And there was nothing I could do about it. You must be very lonely sometimes, she cooed. Only since I met you, I think. We'd been telling love stories to each other for a month, of her romances with men who ultimately disappointed her, of my once-great love rendered wreckage. I didn't add that I was happy to be out of it, to have the chance again to live the life I really wanted. To seduce women like her, for instance, among other things. I'd sensed her mutual interest in me, was acutely aware of her beginning to call me Honey from time to time, the occasional affectionate squeeze of the shoulder, as well as the holding back, the swings between touching intimacy and mild annoyance. Early on I knew that if I suggested any romantic intentions at the wrong time in the wrong way, everything would be over. And now I knew why. The hard shell had cracked, and I discovered a soft core within. The attractive tomboy had revealed herself as an abandoned little girl who'd seldom experienced a wholesome love from any man. At the same time, I'd identified the hidden source of her growing appeal to me. We were kindred spirits at some level, both mavericks. But it didn't sound like she ever got away with anything without paying a price. I, on the other hand, got away with everything. So unfair, so sad. I sat mute, organizing the onrushing insights, planning the next move. She continued to work silently, finding yet another candidate for the saddle soap. I'd planned for us to have lunch at my place in the mountains, another strategic ploy. Let me show you my new forest, I'd said once, fully aware of the grandiose nature of the statement. I intended to dazzle her with my acreage and the most singular residence, perhaps, in all of Napa County. Ready for that lunch? I asked. As soon as you said that, I was hungry, she replied. And then, Oh, here comes Bruce. The farrier drove slowly toward us along the road, unexpectedly come to shoe Schmidt. It took half-an-hour, and the nature of the discussion, of course, changed. After the initial small talk, Bruce said, Hey, Michelle, wanna come to dinner tonight with me and a friend? He's an airline pilot. An airline pilot! She asked about time and place, and assented. Bruce immediately called the guy and set it up. He was elated. Schmidt finally done, Bruce preparing to leave, I reminded Michelle of lunch. Yeah, she said, we'll go to the deli. No, this is supposed to be on my territory this time, I said, in what I hoped was an easy but commanding manner. I don't have time now, she said with finality. I can't. This was the second time something like this had happened; I tried to hide my displeasure. Alright; whatever, I said. A few miles away, the deli sat at a crossroads near her home in the vineyard. We'd had our first, our only, lunch here six or so weeks earlier. The deli folk greeted Michelle warmly as we entered. She ordered an egg salad sandwich, I got a BLT. I grabbed some salt and vinegar potato chips, my favorite, and asked Michelle if they were okay with her. Sure, she said. They're my favorite. We sat at the same outside table we had before, where I first met Bruce. He'd seen Michelle's jeep there, and stopped to visit. A powerfully built man with sandy hair, balding, he seemed like a good, regular guy, and Michelle obviously liked and trusted him. After introductions, they fell into the code of best friends who had a history, and I could only vaguely decipher a discussion hinting at infidelities in their pasts, guilt undetermined. Across the road, a crew from a tree service cut giant eucalyptus trees, feeding the remains into a chipping machine. One of the workers crossed to the deli; Michelle left to talk to him about getting free wood chips for the stable. In her absence, Bruce turned to me to explain that his live-in girlfriend of several years had recently cheated on him with a best friend, and the fallout still accumulated. It was evident that the episode had hurt him badly, and Bruce said he'd cried on Michelle's shoulder more than once. Michelle returned, Bruce asking, Do your stuff for him? Work your magic? You bet, she said, a glint in the eye, a knowing smile. That's my Michelle, said Bruce. Over the intervening weeks, we ran into each other several times at the ranch. He seemed always to arrive at the most inconvenient time, just as he had that particular Thursday when he sabotaged my lunch on the mountain. Sitting in the shade, Michelle and I started on our sandwiches. Inconsequential talk at first, and then I found some sort of opening to tell of my little drug syndicate in the old Haight-Ashbury, heroin deals with the Mexican mafia. A rebellion in Colombia, my abduction by guerrillas there. Joining the green berets, getting kicked out. Wars in Central America, interrogations by death squads, the ever-present fear of getting a bullet in the back of the head. Is anyone looking for you? I mean, out to get you? she asked. No, that was a long time ago, I lied. Did my last drug deal in 1971; I played it pretty straight after the army and college. And, of course, in the previous months I'd made sure she knew of my significant successes since the youthful life of crime. I'd been a shameless showoff, just subtle enough to avoid being too obvious, I hoped, but unrelenting in presenting the image of a man of some means, eccentric, perhaps, but with an extraordinary background. I must sound like the biggest bullshitter you ever met, I ventured. Yeah, she acknowledged, but your details are too good for you to make it all up. We ate briefly in silence, and I decided to make my move. I just couldn't hold back anymore, and if she was considering dating Bruce's friends, I seemed to have nothing much to lose. So, I said slowly, since you raised the issue of my dating, let me ask you: Do you ever date your students? She jumped out of the chair, and headed toward her jeep. I just wish I could have one male buddy who didn't hit on me! she said, full of resentment. I haven't hit on you yet, I said to her receding back. She opened the passenger door, she wasn't leaving, as I'd feared, and got something out, yelling back at me. And I don't want you to! Then I won't, I said. She returned and sat down, cooling off, as if she'd considered that she may have overreacted. I have a boyfriend, you know. I've heard you mention Dan a dozen times over the last several months, and you never referred to him that way. Well, she said, I want to keep my private life separate from this. Alright, I said. Fair enough. But if you ever reconsider, you should keep me in mind. You're funny, Michelle responded. Bruce tries to fix me up with his friends all the time, but I'm not interested. I'd suspected a boyfriend in the background, I'd heard her talk to him on the phone, she referred to him from time to time. And I'd considered the propriety of trying to interfere, especially after discerning her as a single mom desperately trying to attain financial stability, a future. And now I knew of her scarred heart. I questioned my own intentions, mixed at best, and I couldn't lightly attempt to undermine what she had. I got the permission I needed from Bruce. Her best friend was trying to set her up at every opportunity. I'd just seen it, she'd just told me about it. And it troubled me as I thought of his motivation. Could he sense that there was something wrong in her relationship, as I did? Or was he just trying to pimp off his best friend, this tender, vulnerable creature, to score points with his buddies? She really did have man problems. Michelle started to tell me about Dan. I knew he was a veterinarian, but she made him out to be rather important, not just another vet. Traveled around the country doing difficult surgeries on horses. She described him as a little boring, but he was reliable, safe. And she had met him two or three years earlier, just about when she thought she'd worked out her issues with men. All so obvious. She said something to the effect that she was almost as good as married. No, I replied, you're still single. Yes, I am single. She said this as if she'd just realized it, trancelike, talking to herself as much as to me. The moment passed, and we were talking of innocuous things again. We departed almost as if nothing had happened, and arranged for another lesson on Tuesday. Driving off, I was exhilerated; I was in the game. The hours we'd just spent together ran through the mind's eye, as I tried to determine what exactly had happened, how I'd played it. Not badly, I decided; and her aside to herself, Yes, I am single, hinted at legitimate hope. Now, the next move. I started drafting the email in my head as I drove to someplace to write; I stopped at one of my regular cafes in Napa and went to work. Expressions of love and affection would only scare her off, put me in the category of every chump who ever lusted for her. I had to make clear that I wasn't all that interested, and if there was a misunderstanding between us, she'd contributed to it. And I had to make her question her relationship, but subtly. It all had to be written as neutrally as possible. I devoted as much care to that piece of writing as to anything I'd ever contrived. The letter completed, I considered it over night, and revised it on Friday. I reassessed the advisability of sending it on Saturday, and finally decided to risk it. Off it went that afternoon, pressing the Send key a momentous act. I had no idea what to expect, but I couldn't wait to see how she'd respond to this little piece of stimulation. Here's what I wrote: Dear Michelle, Forgive me if I offended you the other day. I always found you attractive, but didn't presume we had much in common. But you initiated some intimate conversations, and I noted the remarkable similarities in our backgrounds; so I came to find you even more appealing. I sensed the potential for a sweet, romantic adventure worth having, and pursued it. Sorry. Regardless of me, however, it would be a shame if you ended up with someone just because he was the first decent man you got to know. You have a rare, independent spirit, and deserve more than to be appreciated merely for a pretty face, nice personality and a shared interest in horses. But only you know your own heart, and it's really none of my business. If further lessons will make you uncomfortable, let me know. I can be on my way. Otherwise, I'd be pleased to continue as we were, as friends. Sincerely, Terry That night I returned my son to the home I once shared with my family. Tricia had been on a business trip, returning early that evening. It was her birthday, and I'd arranged to take them to dinner. While waiting, I checked my email. Michelle had replied. I had only seconds to peruse the communication before my ex-wife walked in the front door. I greeted her with unnatural enthusiasm, overcome with elation by Michelle's response. Here's what she wrote: Terry How very kind an email I just read. Thank you for your honesty and thoughtfulness. I will share my intimate personal details with a friend after I get comfortable, and yes, I must finally have found some comfort in you. At first I was worried about your sudden attention and curious nature, but I enjoyed talking with you and hearing all your incredible, if somewhat bizarre stories. You have lived a rich life and I crave your interesting conversations. People can be sooo boring. I too am open when comfortable and love to share, it's not fun to keep all our drama and life experience to one's self, how selfish is that! As far as decent men go, I finally did meet one, but its not without its hiccups as well. Thank god he's not perfect. I live this life day by day and hold dear to me those I love and respect, I also treasure friends and I believe that you, Terry have become dear to me as well. I hope that we can continue this relationship the way we have and let any thoughts of romance be a silent and hidden fantasy only you may covet. I am overwhelmed with men and their advances, I truly appreciate any man who does not try to sleep with me. Believe me, that's weird, eh? I am celibate Terry, and have been for a long time. It's a good thing, I promise. Ahhh, more intimate info. Can you stand this? We met under the stars one spring night near St. Helena at a winery party, lots of people having more fun than I usually observed at these things, champagne flowing, music playing. I walked onto the patio where people danced as others milled around the tables of finger food. I scanned the crowd, all darkened figures in a jumble, until I saw Michelle. In retrospect, it's easy to imagine things that did not happen, to exaggerate the import of impressions in the light of later developments. But she was, literally, the only person I saw, as if artificially illuminated. I swear to God I now think I saw her aura, though I believe in neither of those things. I remember her wearing a royal blue blazer, black woolen trousers sharply creased, and the flat, black shoes worn by Alice in Wonderland in old illustrated books. It was the only time I saw her wearing the long, brown hair down until months later, and it framed a classical face of clean lines, not quite pretty, but a good-looking face just the same. A face from a Greek or Roman sculpture, perhaps. She stood straight up, shoulders back, but anxiety suffused her being, her face tense and fearful. She was all alone, standing apart, the loneliest-looking wallflower I'd ever seen, and the most striking. Sauntering through the crowd, champagne flute held just so, I approached her in a slow, deliberate manner. She appeared to avert her eyes so as to avoid acknowledgment, but I was undeterred. I asked if I might join her for a minute; she assented without enthusiasm. She tried to be polite, but displayed hints of hostility at my questioning. But I did learn that she managed a sizable horse stable and gave riding lessons, Western-style. She doubled as a veterinary tech. But conversation never evolved, just my inquiries, her exasperated replies. I mentioned that my sister trained racehorses at her farm in Florida, and that I'd been thinking of taking riding lessons; she condescended to give me a hint as to the general location of her facility. I knew better than to ask for a phone number. An older woman and younger companion approached. Michelle introduced me to her mother and sister, and the former, bearing a forced smile, asked how I'd met Michelle. Well, I said, I just imposed on her. It was nice to have met you; I should be going. I shot a smile and a nod at the trio, turned and left, sauntering, again, the calculations already clicking away. I considered that as a professional horsewoman, Michelle had a strength of character and toughness uncommon to most women. No squeemishness with her, especially considering the vet work. Lots of details involved in running large stables, suggesting management skills. Must be reasonably intelligent and capable. Mother still slim in her late-50s, good longterm prospects for the daughter. And the sister looked presentable as well, despite a condescending manner. Seemingly decent stock. A tipsy, reasonably attractive blonde in a black, fringed dress asked for a dance, and I assented. We chatted between numbers, and I made a flip, but rather innocuous comment about the winery where she worked. I perhaps could have been more tactful, but even so, her abrupt, loud denunciations seemed slightly overboard. She stalked off, still yelling, but the music camouflaged her scene. I could only smile. Throughout the encounter, from the corner of my eye, I caught Michelle staring at me, alone again. She walked uneasily on the fringe, appearing desperately uncomfortable, but looking at me every time I glanced in her direction. I continued to ignore her, my every gesture nonetheless designed for effect. A couple of weeks passed before I turned up at the stables, claiming to be passing by on the way to Sonoma. The visit was brief, and on leaving, I stopped, with an apparent afterthought. What size shoe do you wear? I asked. An eight, she said. Why? I've got some English riding boots that might fit, I responded. Dropped those off a a week later, good fit. She seemed pleased, but mildly suspicious. Why are you giving these to me? she demanded. I collect antiques and things, I explained, and I'm always picking up new stuff and giving away the old when I find the right home. Then another quick exit effected to keep her off-balance. Soon after, my siblings came to town to discuss disposition of some of our land holdings, and I used the opportunity to run my sister out to the ranch. Kate's always looking for horse people around the country for networking. She and Michelle had much in common and lots to talk about. I'd derive a bit more credibility, become less of an unknown. It played out just as I hoped, and they walked and talked for half-an-hour as Michelle did her chores. Several weeks passed before my return. I'd gone to an antiques auction near London in the hopes of picking up a variety of curiosities from a grand estate, the biggest sale of its sort in a generation. I wanted some specific items related to San Francisco history, and lost them all. One lot of minor interest to me remained, the last pieces available with the proper historical connections. They turned out to be riding crops. Interesting coincidence. She wore boots, tight jeans, tight t-shirt, and a baseball cap, a ponytail sticking out the back, the only garb I've ever seen her in since that first night. Tall, slender, large breasts. She had a horse crosstied in the washing area at the end of a run of stalls; she seemed to be stroking his cock. "Oh, hi, she said as I approached and sat down in one of the white plastic chairs. Sorry you have to see me do this, but it's gotta be done. I'm sure, I respond; she wears a look of distaste. I try to keep my smile from turning into outloud laughter. This stuff called smegma builds up, she says, and makes them uncomfortable if I don't clean it out once in a while. They can get difficult to ride. I bet, I say, again trying not to chuckle. I arrange for my first session for a few days later, establishing my routine of driving out to talk about my next lesson rather than calling. More face time. We'd discussed my riding ability, and I explained that I'd ridden alot in my life, without ever really learning the fundamentals. I was sure to throw in the cattle drives and branding, stallions in the desert, mules in the jungle, my short stint riding bulls. Just assume I don't know anything, I told her that first day. That way I'll get started off right. Michelle introduces me to lessons with an explanation of the fight or flight syndrome, the critical importance of always remembering that the horse's survival instincts encourage it to do things unexpected, dangerous. When a horse senses danger or gets scared, she says, its first response is to run away to safety, then stop and check out the situation. You need to think like a horse, and try to anticipate situations that scare them. Avoid or mitigate them by looking up and ahead, not just in front of you, she goes on, beware that thing flapping in the breeze in the distance, the truck that's approaching. She's a good teacher, focused, observant, patient, gentle. I'm surprised at how much I didn't know, and tell her so, intending that she associate me with nothing but positive thoughts. Over the weeks, though, lessons start late or get cancelled at the last minute. She's always working hard but never catches up. Of course, I never complain, and make deferrals as easy as possible for her, meanwhile managing to spend two or three hours with her for every hour of lessons between the scheduling visits and hanging around waiting. I turn myself into a fixture, observing Michelle work, and students or boarders come and go. It's largely a women's world, and I hear girl talk foreign to most men. Some of it concerns me, as I expect. Get them talking, keep them guessing. Eventually, she tries to determine what I do such that I have so much time. She gets the writer, gentleman of leisure routine, and I manage to throw in the publishing background, wide travel, incredible adventures. As events and people permit, the conversations become more personal, but intrusions interfere, often just as things are getting interesting. I talk of my divorce, she of past man problems. She talks to someone named Dan on the phone from time to time, but avoids every opportunity to call him a boyfriend. She's keeping her options open, not dropping the fatal hint. Then I start bringing my son to lessons, I brief him on the situation. As a man, he should know how to ride, and here is a chance. I highlight the side benefits. Pretty girls, often with money, pervade the horse world. And I'm working on the instructor, so be on your best behavior. The latter he does not need to be told. He's a perfect young gentleman as it is, fully aware of all the cynical reasons justifying politeness besides that of simple good manners. Michelle comments later on what a nice boy he is, and when she eventually reveals she has a daughter about the same age, she mentions her good values. Alot like Jimmy, she says. Michelle goes out of her way to talk to Jimmy, to ask about school, offer advice, inquire of his feelings about things. One day, I used such an opportunity to allude to a recent adventure. It's all part of making a stand-up guy out of him, I say. Well, there are different kinds of stand-up guy, she responds. Are you the kind of guy who would go sit with a fat girl in the cafeteria? Sure, Jimmy says, adding some legitimate qualifiers. He plays the desired role perfectly. But my detachment was slipping. Merely one of many candidates for seduction and a casual relationship, Michelle was emerging as something else. The diligence, the tender nature with kids and animals, the concern with values. The musical voice she shifted into when relieved of the demands of her duties. All conspired to warm my heart. After one of Jimmy's lessons, Michelle joined her own horse in his stall, where he was lying down. She hugged his trunk and kind of slid down his side onto the sawdust-covered floor, speaking gently, lovingly to him, at the same time explaining to us that horses seldom lay down and almost never let anyone snuggle with them, as with a dog. She was completely unaffected, even childlike, in her demeanor. I started to melt. Since leaving my family and the Victorian by the water to live on the mountain, I'd been performing an inventory of my life. Not long after beginning the process without realizing it, a self-conscious awareness sets in. For almost 20 years I tried to be a good husband, then father, in a domesticated existence contrary to my past. I succeeded, we prospered as a family despite tragedy, death, career setbacks, financial disaster. Our life should have been idyllic, but my wife's discontent with me grows with her professional success. She is a vision of perfection, organization, efficiency, and everywhere she goes in her world, people defer to her in awe. There is one place, however, where she cannot have her way, where someone will thwart her will. It is in our home, and I become a source of bitter frustration. She is a brilliant workaholic, I'm a brilliant voluptuary. The epitome of stylish propriety, she plays by all the rules, does everything she's supposed to do, driven by all the life habits endemic to a self-made success. She cannot relax and enjoy herself until she has checked off every conceivable item on her lists, mental and real, and as her career takes off, the lists grow longer and more numerous. She's too proactive, so my son and I are always arguing against the plans she's made--often for our benefit, in her mind--because we have our own ideas. Her organization smothers us, her year-long schedules constant dampers on any spontaneity. As an indulgent mother, she accepts our son's reluctance to comply, while resenting my refusals; a reservoir of bad feelings slowly fills over the years. The themes of adventure and pleasure dominate my life, and I accomplish what I do with little apparent effort. I would rather work smart, not hard, in a journalism career chosen because I know I'll enjoy it. I, too, am a workaholic in my way, but no one sees me working. They don't know that the hours spent in cafes reading or visiting with people lead to byzantine strategies, bizarre plots, a web of powerful connections to be exploited in a future near or distant. They don't see the 15-hour stretches of work performed days on end between trips around the world, gallery openings, parties. Not only do I routinely do the impossible, I do it in many venues concurrently. All observers see is a child of entitlement having more fun than he deserves. My wife should know better, but she succumbs to the sentiment as well. Her career prospects increase as mine decline, she works harder, makes much more money, but it's my schemes that result in all of our modest wealth, and she can't acknowledge it. She thinks she's subsidizing me, as well as carrying the burden of chores around the house, while I lounge around. In the last five years of marriage I become well aware of her complaints, assess them. I changed twice as many diapers as she did, lost twice as much sleep raising our son, took care of him twenty, thirty weekends a year while she traveled. She faults my housekeeping inclinations, while overlooking the houses and properties I restore. And every new deal meets her resistance, another stupid idea destined for failure. As I bring them to fruition, risking my life and safety, I suffer the cold silences of her disapproval for weeks, months, on end. When we profit, a little drop of resentment trickles into that reservoir of hers even when I don't say I told you so. Every new deal repeats the cycle and refreshes the mutual hostility, mine finally matching hers as more and more of my money is required to pay for unrestrained spending, for flowers, shoes, clothes, trips, cars, furniture, toys. Efforts to talk to her all fail, the self-image of her contributions immune to any reasonable reevaluation. The attempts reinforce her disdain. Through the years, I finally detect the rivalry at play. She works more, might be smarter, she scored higher than me on the college boards. It never occurs to me that she's anything less than my equal intellectually and otherwise, and that's one reason I love her. But she goes to extraordinary lengths to prove me wrong when I'm right, especially in her fields of expertise. The fact that I've accomplished the impossible there, too, is a problem; she took to academe to avoid the messiness intrinsic to her profession, and I beat its most ruthless practitioners. She can't accept the unfairness of it all, I come to believe, and she resents me for it. All this I conclude on nights spent pacing and smoking in the house on the mountain, Grieg on the stereo, with breaks for a shot of Jack Daniels, a pipe of cannabis. It's an old story for me. My parents bought the land when I was five, the age of first real thought and awareness, the first time I detected my older sister's hatred. I was the youngest, seven years separating us. The three other siblings--children from my mother's previous marriage--were each a year or two apart from her and each other in age. Memories of the land in Napa and the big house in San Francisco started together, accompanied by initial glimmerings of suspicion. That year Kate taught me that an iron was hot by asking with a smile for me to extend my hand. She scorched it. Already an accomplished horsewoman, she took advantage of my desire to be a cavalryman by taking me for rides bareback, galloping off on her horse, leading me on mine at terrifying speeds. Hesitant expressions of appreciation she used as excuses to condemn me for ingratitude. I was convinced she wanted to kill me. I had all the benefits of being an only child without the overweening parental concern. They already had four children, and I was a mistake. Young as I was, they could indulge and satisfy me easily with toys, insignificant compared to what was expected by the teenagers in the house. I felt neglected in the whorl of attention they claimed from my parents, and once deciding that there were valid reasons for it, I accepted that reality and created my own. We lived just blocks from San Francisco's Presidio, allowing me at the ages of six and seven to play army in genuine old forts and concrete bunkers, the land they acquired in the country fulfilling every pioneer fantasy, with my own axes, knives and guns. We had a television before most families we knew, and I watched it without restraint, eschewing the childlike fare of Captain Kangaroo for the old movies the stations played. In the evening, I could watch John Wayne take out a bunker in The Sands of Iwo Jima, and the next day I could take out my own real bunker a couple of miles from home. I could watch Spencer Tracy sneak through the woods hiding from Indians in Northwest Passage, and on weekends at the mountain I could sneak along the paths of real Indians. Fantasy and reality blurred such that I never internalized the conventional limitations of life and expectations. The most consistent vehicle for this confusion was an early TV series called Life With Father, based on Clarence Day's reminiscences of a childhood in Nineteenth-Century New York City. His big family lived in a Victorian brownstone, the father always blustering about the disruptions of domestic life, but good-naturedly. It led me to believe that I lived in a perfectly typical family, mirrored as it was by what I saw on TV. We resided in a big Edwardian house full of Victorian furniture, we displayed all the equivalent serio-comic family dramas acted out every Friday night. And we, too, tip-toed around my father, who was not so good-natured. I didn't like him much, but I learned to like what he did. When his brother came to dinner once or twice a month, they would retire afterwards to the living room, close the sliding pocket doors and drink port dispensed from a cut, leaded-glass decanter. Seated in tufted easy chairs a hundred years old, they would tell stories of their adventures. Beheadings in China, knife-fights in Old Hawaii, plane crashes on the Western Front. I listened from my seat on a plush couch, sipping my own small measure of wine. One day, I told myself, I'm going to have stories like that. I envisioned a life of incredible self-created exploits without any realization that life should be any other way, as a series of movies, for which I could write the script as I acted it out. I loved my life, thought it was just as it was supposed to be, despite the strange things I observed and suspected, despite the absolute absence of tangible love and affection. I loved my life without knowing what love was. Kate made it one of her life's ambitions to insure I didn't have too much fun. I inured myself to her subtle psychological tortures, occasional beatings, and developed the ability to deal with it just in time to start Catholic school. The lessons she taught prepared me well for the nuns who came to detest me as much as she did. I was the smartest kid in the class, got by without study or homework, innocently, accidentally twisting them into philosophical knots in catechism without trying. They, too, responded with violence, one actually banging my head into a wall several times because I changed an F to an A on a test returned to the stupid, ugly little girl who sat behind me. She rewarded my attempt to cheer her up by snitching me off for it. Jesus would not approve, I remember thinking as I walked back to my desk enraged. Jesus would not approve. The Sisters of Mercy tried to use humiliation to motivate me at every opportunity, failing at both. Their collective resentment increased as I ascended through the classes, the rebukes intensifying year by year. They overreacted with such lack of control to even my smallest, most innocent indiscretions, that I early on decided that it wasn't what I did, it was me they detested. I knew I didn't deserve the treatment I received, provoking a shift in attitude that came to characterize my personality. I lost complete respect for anybody's opinion of me, except to the extent it might benefit me or not. All this I conclude in nights spent pacing and smoking in the house on the hill, Wagner on the stereo, with breaks for a shot of Jack Daniels, a pipe of cannabis. I sit on that same plush couch from my childhood, looking at Christmas pictures of my family and myself, at five, all of us seated on or around that same couch. The marble tabletop in the pictures is the same tabletop now covered with more pictures, the Jack, the pipe, the cannabis. Rizzoli's edition of Cellini, the red pocket volume celebrating Valentino, an artillery shell ashtray. The room I sit in is the entire second floor of the barn, set up like a loft; after her death, I cleared it of the ten thousand pounds of junk my mother had accumulated, replaced it with my own collections and curios. I peruse the hundreds of book spines in the library downstairs, find the Remington volume, the first book I remember, see the first picture I saw of a cavalryman, the first time I see myself as a cavalryman. And I look at that picture sitting on the same couch as when I first saw that picture. I pace and smoke some more, thinking that as much as I always wanted to ride, I avoided it. Kate ruined it for me, but I recovered my interest with the horse I had in reform school, with the round-ups in Nevada and Colombia, the jungle rides in Central America when I searched for the rebels. I see a picture of me on the table, a picture of me and a crew in El Salvador after an operation, and I think of the Mexican Cavalry I'd hoped to ride with until they disbanded that same year. My special ops buddies have told me they're using mules in Afghanistan, I start thinking about trying to ride with the Afghan cavalry if there is such a thing. I catch myself thanking Michelle for enabling another fantasy to come true. Maybe. One day she tells me about a recent panic attack, her first, and having to pull to the roadside to compose herself. She regularly seems to have an upset stomach, a headache or insomnia, but never complaining, just matter-of-factly explaining why she's running slow. Day after day, I see how hard she works, throwing hay bales around, cleaning the stalls, dragging buckets of horseshit to the manure pile. She tends dozens of horses, manages dozens of boarders and riding students, constantly juggling schedules against equine availability, the latter subject to myriad illnesses or minor disabilities. She seems never to fail, though, despite her own chronic maladies. Stress dogs her life, her face usually tight with tension. She doesn't succumb, but I see the effects. It hurts my heart as my admiration for her grows. Moving things along is difficult, though; the signals are always mixed, confused, and I suspect that just asking her to go out in a straightforward manner will be a mistake. So I'd throw casual allusions to events or places I might be going, and she'd often respond enthuiastically to an idea generally, but I can never get her to take the next step and assent to my company beyond the bounds of the ranch. Then I think of the web site, just what she might need to promote the stables, and an excuse to get together with her in another venue. I contrive a mockup on my laptop and show it to her one day after a lesson. She likes the idea, we arrange to get together one evening at her house. I drive out to the stables late one day as she finishes up her chores and then follow her home. She lives in a cute little farmhouse in a vineyard not far from the deli where we lunch. We set up in the kitchen, she offers me something to drink; lemonade perhaps. She points to the refrigerator, indicating a picture of her teenage daughter held by a magnet, others of her sister, and father. No boyfriend, I notice. Then she leaves for a second, returns with books she's currently reading. Something by Larry McMurtry, another by David Sedaris, along with more volumes, none of which is trash. With her display she means to demonstrate her intellectual interests, I figure, an attempt to appeal to me. Good sign. And it's a relief of sorts. After once asking what kind of music she listened to, her reply of country-western, especially Willie Nelson and Waylon Jennings, took me aback; I'm just a simple country girl, she added, bashful smile. She definitely disliked classical, my favorite genre. She enjoys horror movies and Nip and Tuck is her favorite TV show. I'd had to consider that despite liking her, we might have nothing in common, that we might bore each other to death if we actually did have a relationship. If only we'd have the chance to find out. But the books, at least, indicate hope. I don't cook, she informs me, we leave to pick up a pizza, drive to town. While waiting, she calls my attention to the establishment's varnished woodwork. Reminds her of stables she saw on a trip to Paris with a French boyfriend, she describes the craftsmanship, the elaborate detailing. More shared interests, another sign of promise. Yes, and she's conversant in French, another glimpse into an unexpected past I would never have guessed. As she drives us back to her house she makes a phone call, and drifts briefly out of the lane as another car pulls out, a fender-bender imminent. Instead of yelling, I calmly say, Car, just as she begins to dodge it. Wow, she says, you weren't freaked-out at all! A small test I pass. We discuss elements of our histories as we eat the pizza, me about my breakup, highlighting my generosity in the generally amicable divorce, she about old boyfriends, an ongoing spat with her mother. She's relaxed and comfortable, animated in ways I'd never seen, joking easily, flirting just a bit as I innocently flirt back. Afterwards, we tackle the website for a few hours, and I explain code to her while working, show that she can do this herself in no time. She takes notes, learns faster than anyone I ever tried to teach, and I'd instructed many by then. I write suggested copy, she tells me what she wants instead, all her judgments and decisions sound. When I argue a point or other, she defers easily when convinced, devoid of any gratuitous need to be right or have her way. Sitting side-by-side, our faces are little more than a foot apart. I really notice her eyes for the first time, of the richest blue I'd ever seen. Open, honest eyes, and we look into each other's several times, locking occasonally as we talk and work. I want to reach over and pull her towards me for a kiss, but I don't dare. I can't be sure she'll succumb, know that if I time it wrong there'll never be another opportunity. Departing by eleven, I say good-bye for awhile; the next day I'm leaving for my aunt's ranch in central Nevada for a family reunion. It's a long, empty drive, thoughts of Michelle and the evening before entertaining me with hope. The encounter revealed so much more about her, all of it good to my mind. She was smart, funny, easy to work with, and she seemed to try to impress me with her books, just as I seemed to impress her with my equanimity in the face of an accident. We'd opened up to each other, and it seemed that we both liked what we saw. The evening delighted me with what it hinted in terms of future potential. Throughout my stay at the ranch I kept thinking how much Michelle might enjoy it, a real western experience. We rode horses, shot guns, visited the abandoned mine in the mountains, listened to the decrepit cowboys tell of great cattle drives. A rich hog farmer friend from Las Vegas showed up with his large rotisserie and we feasted on a whole, roasted pig, drank beer and ended the evening with my girl cousins singing old cowboy songs in three-part harmony, shooting stars darting across the black, August sky. One early morning I went alone to Warm Springs, a long-deserted settlement, and lounged in the narrow, sand-bottom trench, head propped up, as the bath-hot water flowed over me in the chilly air. I smoked cannabis as the sun rose over the mountains, wallowing in good feelings and fantasies of hanging out with Michelle there the next year. I couldn't wait to get back for a lesson. Before heading to the stables on my return, I snagged an old cow skull from beside my place in the mountains. I would later tell Michelle that it just came from the ranch, though it had in fact made the journey decades earlier. The lesson over, I showed her pictures of the Nevada trip; as a feigned afterthought I asked if she wanted the skull. Sure, she said. Let's hang it up there. Once the task was completed, I prepared to leave. Wanna have lunch, I asked? No, she said, I don't have time. But I'd love a Snickers bar. She smiled invitingly. Within 10 or 15 minutes I was back from the deli with a couple of candybars; I stopped just long enough to put them into the little fridge next to the picnic table under the stable overhang, now graced with the skull. I zipped off without talking to Michelle, she was doing something at a far paddock, but she had her Snickers. A few days passed before my next lesson, the warm glow of that evening still palpable. Michelle busied herself around the area underneath the skull, some boarders and riders sitting at the picnic table. Hi, I said on approach. Michelle continued to work, ignoring me at first, and then, looking up, said, You got me into trouble. Her lips tightened briefly before she continued. The man who owned the stables she leased had apparently become enraged because I'd been driving too fast when I delivered the candy. He'd spewed a stream of invective concerning me, Michelle the unfortunate target. While I wasn't driving slowly, I certainly wasn't driving particularly fast; I was aware of the dangers to animals around the place, and never drove any faster than I could stop given an unforeseen circumstance. She was obviously upset, however, and I was incredulous that something so small loomed so large all of a sudden. There was no lesson, no horses available, and I left not long after arriving, feeling befuddled and angry. The small indiscretion didn't warrant the overblown response, but it didn't matter; I'd caused trouble for her, regardless of how unwittingly. The backfire really stunned me; a nice gesture would result in this? All the good feelings evoked from her that lovely evening together had apparently evaporated. In the ensuing days, the website neared completion, and Michelle needed to sign some papers in order for me to arrange hosting from a local service. We talked on the phone, the incident of a few days before seemed to be forgotten, and we planned for me to drop by later that afternoon to handle the paperwork. She was late, and I worked on the site while waiting; in order to test some links, I hooked my laptop up to the stable's phone for five or ten minutes. She arrived shortly afterward, but before getting beyond the cursory hellos, the wife of the intemperate owner drove down from the house, pulled up by the stable, turned around and drove off. That doesn't look good, said Michelle. What do you mean? I asked. She drove away because she saw you here, and if there weren't something wrong she would've stopped and talked. I wondered aloud if it could have anything to do with the phone. Yeah, she said, that's the same phone they use for the house. Damn. And then, she snapped, What're you doing here anyway? I brought those papers to sign for the web hosting, I replied. Remember? We made plans to meet a couple of hours ago. Yeah, said Michelle, resigned, her lips tight again. She tidied up around the sink by the picnic table, swept the concrete. I'm sorry, I said. It's okay, she said deflatedly. But you know, I'm on thin ice around here. She told me they were close once, like grandparents; she'd known them for years, didn't know what happened. Now they nagged at her constantly, over the smallest things, often nastily. You know, I said, good friends and relatives will pull things on you strangers wouldn't dream of. Even so, I couldn't understand how she could be in such trouble. She leased the place, and, presumably she should have been able to run it with a degree of autonomy. But complications abounded. She had long-range plans to run an emergency horse clinic to be built on the grounds. Some veterinarians comprised part of the deal, and the owners of the ranch, these petty, cranky people, were intrinsic to the partnership. The idea that such minor transgressions as mine would redound to Michelle's detriment struck me as unfathomable. She'd done nothing wrong, it was an errant student, me, who'd done the deeds. For the owners to seize on that to flog Michelle made no sense. As to the running of the stables, I never saw anybody work so hard, multitask so effectively, as Michelle. Anybody should have felt lucky to have her around. She never stopped working at the place, was hostage to it almost seven days a week. I'm really sorry, I said again, preparing to leave. Oh, don't worry. It'll work out somehow, she said unconvincingly. Driving off, I felt more dejected than I could have imagined. Only a week or so had passed since that night and the visit to the ranch, and now I was a pariah at the stables. It made me sick thinking of it. I recovered quickly, though, and began plotting again. What to do? Writing just the right letter might smooth things over with Michelle, and after buying suitable stationery and pen, work commenced. On gray linen paper, with a fountain pen, I wrote the following: Dear Michelle-- I'm very sorry to have created unnecessary problems for you at the stables. We both know I didn't mean to, but if the Donatos blame you, it doesn't matter. They're lucky to have you there, and it's a shame if they don't appreciate your efforts. When someone like you takes on a big job with lots of responsibilities, employers often take for granted all the things that go right and complain overmuch about the things that go wrong. You do a great, professional job under lots of pressure; don't let their nagging get you down. You have nothing to apologize for or feel bad about except that your ambitious plans seem to depend on a couple of grouches. Meanwhile, I'll avoid the ranch for now; God knows I don't want to cause any more trouble. Sincerely, Terry After writing it out several times so that it looked perfectly casual, yet neat, I sealed it in a matching envelope and dropped it into her mail box. More website issues dictated a phone call some days later, and Michelle didn't sound unhappy as we began to talk. It turned out that my brief deactivation of the phone hadn't been a problem; the woman had wanted to discuss something unimportant, and she'd just decided to wait until Michelle was alone. Everything was more or less back to normal, which meant, essentially, that our evening together may as well not have happened. But I was still in the game, at least, the web site still a viable means of getting closer. It needed a picture of Michelle, she was the ranch manager, she gave the lessons, so I convinced her to have some taken. The selection consisted of several photos, from different aspects, of her leading horses around, others with her posing with horses. One stood out, however, that deviated from the rest. She was hugging her little filly Lucy around the neck, looking directly at the camera and smiling the most sweetly seductive smile. It captured the essence of that kind, nurturing woman I'd come to like so much, and it had a universal appeal. It would work for girls and women who might want lessons, and there was certainly nothing in it to discourage a man looking to board a horse. It was perfect for the page where she described the ranch and what it offered, and I said so. I don't know, she said tentatively. I don't want anyone stalking me or something. There are so many weirdos out there. And then a reference to several restraining orders against various men. That explains alot, I thought. There was a reason for the deliberate standoffishness she seemed to marshal toward me. That's why I hadn't asked her out after all those months, besides those vague indications of a boyfriend out there somewhere. Good thing. The web site was finally done within a few weeks of my starting. Michelle seemed really to appreciate it, and while restrained enough in telling me so, she mentioned it often to her clients when I was around, going out of her way to talk it up and give me credit. And she ultimately relented, allowing that photo that I came to love. At home on the mountain, I pace and smoke for hours on end each night, Buffalo Springfield, Cream, Jefferson Airplane on the stereo, thoughts and memories assaulting me at random, too much disjointed history at once. Looking out the window at the dark outline of the hill behind, I think of the party guests my mother dragged up there for sunsets. Dozens of people came from San Francisco on the weekends, half staying over, sleeping under the redwoods and stars in the old iron double beds my mother got at junk stores. One of which I sleep in now. There's the house we built down the mountain, inspired by Frank Lloyd Wright I first come to realize, next to where we had the first cabin. The thought that he was the first architect of my awareness, after my mother took me to the building on Maiden Lane. Then redwoods, the first tree I could identify, the trees I first saw the day they drove to Napa to buy the land. I'm five, I wake up in the backseat of the '56 Buick alone, disoriented. Through the rear window I see the towering trees, shafts of sunlight reaching to me from the shadows; that's what awakens me, the shifting rays. I lie still for a minute or two, trying to figure out where I am, but not afraid. I get out of the car, there's a short, raw road heading diagonally up the hillside, I hear voices, not my parents. I walk up the road to the clearing where so much of my life will go right. Or badly wrong. I start to weep in the remembering, sit down and sob on the old couch. It was such a beautiful place for so much ugliness. Living alone there with my mother, after the divorce. The day I came home to discover the sheriff had called to tell her I was dealing drugs at the highschool, the trip to the courthouse, threats of Youth Authority prison for eleven years if she wants. Bitter fights over a haircut and clothes. In despair, I pace the deck surrounding the second floor, oblivious to the ferns, redwoods, bay trees, the silver waterfall snaking down from above. I reverse direction, pace the other way, hear something, turn to see my mother coming around the corner, a two-inch-thick piece of oak, 18-inches-long, raised high. She swings at my head, I parry the blow with my left arm, grab her wrists. What're you doing, Mom, what are you doing? I'd rather see you dead than on drugs! she snarls, struggling. She tries to knee me in the balls, I block with my thigh, twist her around, my arm's around her neck, but as gently as I can manage. I hug my mother from behind, she elbows my ribs, lashes backward with her fists, hitting my face. They'll kill you! she screams, You'll go to jail forever! What're you talking about? I moan. In her mind--she takes powerful painkillers by the handful--my self-defense is an assault, I'm trying to kill her. I release her, she lunges for the chunk of wood again, I run beyond her reach, jump the railing to the hillside, climb to the thread of waterfall and collapse onto the dirt, sit with my head in my hands. Oh, my God, oh, my God, what do I do, what do I do? She goes inside, I sit rocking back and forth, Oh, my God, oh, my God. The rushing water competes with the roar in my head, I can't think, I don't know what to do. I hear the car speeding up the hillside, it's the sheriff, I run up the mountain. To the place where she built the barn, where I sit on the couch, where I sit and sob. I made that escape several times in as many years, the deputies unable to catch or track me, as I made my way through the mountains to the little-traveled back road that I take every day on the way to Michelle's. I wait until dark, diving into the irrigation ditches when headlights appear, just in case they're looking for me, until I reach the highway. I hitchhike to San Francisco, to the Haight-Ashbury, land of my birth, at Old Saint Mary's. Nothing, though, compared with that last escape, my final break from my mother's control, or what it unleashed. And then Michelle was born a couple of weeks later. I get over the remembering, compose myself, start pacing and smoking again. She's coming up tomorrow for lunch, finally, to add some pages to the web site. I clean the place up, look at the pictures she's emailed me lately. But I come to the one where she's hugging Lucy, and I can't stop looking at it. I click on it several times to enlarge it, her face grows to lifesize, the blue eyes looking into mine, the smile meant for me; or so I wish. I fall asleep in the old, iron bed, looking at that so lifelike image, Michelle looking back, as if she had just tucked me in and was leaning over to kiss me good night. She invents another reason to avoid lunch at my place the next day, we meet instead at her cottage in the vineyard to work on the site. I arrive early, loll in the hammock and drink a cocktail as I wait. She shows up, we go inside, I unpack the laptop, put it on the kitchen table while she attends to other matters. She returns briefly, hands over a sheet of paper. It's a poem she wrote, on the death of a horse, and I'm reading it, and she's talking from the other room, telling me that she writes in a journal, and I'm thinking, God, I want to read those journals, find out who you really are, and I'm reading this sweet poem about the death of a horse she loved, and she's talking and I'm afraid I might cry reading this poem, and I compose myself just in time. I am sparse in my praise because I cannot talk, all the while speculating that she really wanted me to see this poem, she's revealing something of herself to me, that's a good thing. She sits beside me, but the computer screen is canted so she can't quite see it, and she's searching for something, looking away. We're talking, I notice that I hadn't turned the computer off last night, I'd just closed the lid, the screen's blank until I jiggle the mouse. The lifesize image of Michelle appears, the one I fell asleep to, and she's just found what she was looking for and turning to the screen as I hit the off button. Her face disappears just as Michelle gets a good look at the screen. My heart's ready to blow out my chest, but I say, in the calmest voice I've ever heard come from my mouth, I must not have turned it off last night. I need to restart it. It'll take just a second. My secret is still safe. We'd met in early April, and now it was mid-August. The intervening months had slipped by almost imperceptibly as minor routines established themselves, and the days developed a certain timeless quality, punctuated by striking little vignettes. My lessons tended to fall on Tuesdays and Thursdays, and I'd often drop by on a Monday or Wednesday to make arrangements for the next day. Michelle used certain of her boarders' horses for lessons, subject to the owners' schedules and riding routines. These and her own horses suffered the occasional ailment that took them out of the rotation, so it was difficult for her to make firm plans. Additionally, it became clear that time wasn't that important to me, that I wouldn't be inconvenienced or annoyed by a missed lesson. I'd stop by on a Monday or Wednesday morning, sit in one of the chairs by the picnic table and smoke cigarettes as Michelle completed her chores, finished someone else's lesson, and wait for her to come up and talk. I'd ask about a lesson for the next day, she considered the various contingencies, we'd fix a time for the morrow's session, usually ten or eleven. She'd often sit down, smoke a cigarette or two with me, we'd shift into small talk, I'd leave. When I appeared for the lesson, she was almost always busy with an unexpected problem or issue. A new horse to be picked up, another which needed to go to the vet, a previous lesson that went long. I'd wait for an hour or more beyond the scheduled time, in the course of which we might talk a little or alot, and as often as not she'd tell me a lesson wouldn't be possible that day. I made it as easy as I could for her to cancel on me. Obviously, I relished the opportunity to hang around as a result of her own planning difficulties and the inherently chaotic nature of horses and their management. But I also wanted to avoid adding any stress to her life by complaining at all or registering the mildest annoyance, even when she cancelled my son's lessons several times. Other students claimed fixed times throughout the week, and I often wondered why she didn't do that with me, given that any regular time she might have established would have worked. But I stopped myself from raising the topic. Consciously or not, Michelle had done more to make a fixture of me at the stables than I could have managed on my own. I exploited every opportunity to try to connect with her, subtly, I hoped, and we fell into a comfortable familiarity suggesting real friendship. In my mind's eye I can see images of those oft-repeated days, so much the same, but different. They start in the mildness of late spring, with a drive along the old road between Napa and Sonoma, the gentle slopes still green, rows of vines receding into infinity. Blue skies that will pale as the hills brown when summer advances. Wineries, one of which replicates the great chateau of the owners in Europe. A unique art museum posing as a farm above a bucolic lake. Cars begin to throng the highway these days as the tourist season begins, the traffic an unwelcome reminder of modern intrusions. Turning onto the driveway that winds around the hill hiding the stables. Gates, fences corralling the horses. The barn comes into view, then the row of stalls beyond. I park my car opposite the big, covered arena where Michelle gives the lessons. I walk toward the stalls beyond, the same structure which would eventually highlight the skull. Michelle, of course, was always busy doing something; cleaning stalls, moving horses around, feeding them, hoisting hay bales, giving a lesson. If we should pass each other, she'd nod a perfunctory hello, focused on the task at hand, any distraction evaded. She carried an Ipod, and I avoided trying to talk to her while the ear-plugs were in, and paid close attention to those moments when she'd take them out on my approach. I wanted to respect her space and privacy, to give her the chance to engage me on her terms. Over time, the earplugs come out earlier and more often. I sit in one of the chairs by the picnic table, ritually smoking as I wait and watch. It takes time for this perception to occur, and it does so in small bits, but I begin to appreciate the apparent isolation we have here, the highway invisible and silent, no trace of an existence beyond the vineyard-covered hills. It's a world apart, an ethereal place that transcends the other reality. I see Michelle walking back and forth, pushing a wheelbarrow full of manure, muscling it up into the dumpster. Or riding back and forth on the little tractor loaded with hay flakes and grain. Or leading horses back and forth from stall to paddock or the reverse. I come to fixate on her arms, long, strong, tan and lean, extending from beneath the very short sleeves of her close-fitting t-shirts. The pony-tail sticking out the back of the baseball cap, the tight, lean body always in motion and displaying an elegant, feminine strength I've never seen before in a lifetime of watching women. Her face is set in her work mask, jaw clenched, lips tight. Her three dogs, Ben, the alpha boxer, Gilley, the terrier mutt, Spencer, the ancient golden retriever. The three dogs, in the span of weeks, stop barking at me as an intruder, greet me as a friend. They take turns vying for my attention and scratches behind the ears. Spencer always ambles up last, putting his head onto my lap, willing to let me stroke him forever. He's deaf, and falls asleep in the most inconvenient places when he doesn't make feeble attempts to join the play with Gilley and Ben, or follow Michelle around. She ignores me almost completely, and in the early days I wonder what that means until I recognize it as a manifestation of her singlemindedness in completing the work. Because there always came a moment in the routine when, the chores done, she walked toward me with a smile and said, in that velvet-rich, melodic voice, Hi, Terry. What's up? When others were present, usually women, I'd be privy to their small talk, as if I didn't exist. Conversation concerning mares in season, winking and squirting, the words sex and vagina never spoken but implicit throughout. Or allusions to boyfriends and being horny, or girlfriends playing guys along. Once, in the arena, as I cleaned a horse's hooves before riding, I caught scraps of a discussion concerning the lack of toilets on wilderness trails. One of the women tells of the time she used poison oak to wipe with. Michelle relates the story of a cowboy she once dated who'd cut the pocket out of his pants. I avoid joining this series of stories, at the same time catching the furtive glances in my direction, as if to measure my discomfiture in the presence of self-conscious earthiness. As usual, I can top this with the most humiliating of anecdotes. Unusually, I have no trouble restraining myself from the telling. Occasionally, she makes plans with some of the girls to have a drink later at various watering holes in Sonoma, most arrayed around the square, all freshly familiar. The week after meeting Michelle, I attended a film festival, the town square its focus for five days. I immersed myself, making and working connections, was pleasantly surprised that the featured star was an old acquaintance from Los Angeles, did doubletakes whenever I'd see his face around the square, the reminder that someone was out of place. I'd been going to the square for almost fifty years, took third in an al fresco chess tournament once as an adolescent, got stoned under its trees with friends a few years later, saw my son attacked by a rooster a few decades after that. My historical research and other projects had already dictated several visits a week, and I typically made the rounds to several establishments on every visit. Landmarks, antique stores, the excellent rare books shop. I frequented a favorite cafe, stopped at the bars looking for acquaintances, likely women. A dilemma arises. I'd like to run into her some place, see if I can move things along. But the wariness intimidates me, I don't want her to think I'm following her around. For once, I'm avoiding the natural coincidences that I naturally replicate through calculation. I reconsider my habits, actually go out of my way to avoid her on sight. I stopped at the deli one late morning, not seeing her jeep, and found her having coffee with a young man. She acted pleased to see me as she introduced him, a good-looking twenty-something. Peter stood, extended his hand. Another student, European accent, works at a winery up the road, Schmidt Vineyards. What a nice kid, I can't help thinking. She invites me to join them, I decline, not wanting to impose, not wanting to seem too eager. And I was still angling for that elusive lunch alone. The first opening occurred while we all prepared to depart one afternoon. As Michelle and a student friend walked to the latter's car, she asked if I wanted to join them. It was the one time that month I had an unbreakable appointment. No, I had to say, anger in my gut that her first invitation of any sort has to be rejected. But I was puzzled as they climbed into Annie's black Jag; I once overheard Michelle talking about her to one of the boarders, just scraps discernible. Yeah, I know, she tells people she does three-day eventing, and she hasn't even started yet...But I think its kind of sleazy to live off a rich, old guy like that...I know, she does kind of bad-mouth people behind their backs... They begin to lunch together with some regularity, though, as well as go drinking around the square, with Michelle's sister. I watch Michelle do business, and see how well she adjusts her manner to the situation and parties involved. When selling a horse, she discloses its every shortcoming. With her stable hands she reminds them of the hours they worked and forgot. Regardless of whether boarding fees are paid, every horse receives the same care and feeding, the same loving concern. She helps rescue neglected animals and finds them homes, tries to arrange for care. When circumstances allow, Michelle gives me a lesson. She tells me what horse to get, I bring it into the barn containing the arena, tying it so I can pick the hooves, brush the coat, throw on a saddle and bridle. She has her own way of doing things around the stables, and I do my best to comply with her every specific without question or complaint. I lead the horse into the arena, mount, and start walking it around the perimeter. Michelle tells me to sit up straight, to keep the horse close to the wall, to squeeze the inside leg to move the horse rather than use the reins. I can stay on a horse, and I'm not intimidated by them, but I know nothing of these details of control. And my posture is horrible, annoying Michelle to no end. But I can only work at one thing at a time, especially at first, and I tell her so. She listens, adjusts to my limitations, but demands an honest effort. Riding figure-eights, or tight circles after warming up, we progress from a walk to a trot, always making sure the animal does equal numbers of drills in both directions so it doesn't overwork one side or the other. She has me break into a canter after three or four lessons, the kind of more exciting riding I want. I learn to make clucking sounds to trot, kissing sounds to run, to make the horse do what I want in a clear, consistent way. One day, riding a recent addition to the stable, I had trouble keeping him from cutting to the inside when we rode in a certain direction. Michelle kept reminding me to move him where I wanted, and I finally told her that it was the horse, not me. She was skeptical, but impressed me days later with her honesty when she went out of her way to tell me I'd been right, it was the horse. Once in a while I do something wrong, the result of an ignorance which must seem stupidity to Michelle. I let a saddled horse loose in a corral, not realizing that the animal might roll around in the dirt, ruin the saddle. She yells at me to get the horse, remove the saddle, and says why. She's as commanding as she needs to be, and quickly reverts to normal, as if the chastising never occurred. On another occasion, during a lesson with one of the women, I went outside the arena to practice cracking the whip used to control horses exercising at the end of a rope, or lunge line. The rifle-like retort startled horses all over the stables, and Michelle, the only time I heard her utter an obscenity, angrily yelled, Are you fucking nuts? What're you doing? The whip cracked often around the arena, without similar effect. I'd gone outside just so I wouldn't interfere with the lesson in an effort to be careful, but somehow the horses all knew when it was appropriate and when it wasn't. Apparently, they took exception. A fast apology, an explanation. Michelle realizes I was trying to be careful, didn't know any better. The moment passes without any residue of anger on her part. Twenty minutes later, a rider who'd been working out in a far pen walks into the arena, Michelle asks her how it went. She was thrown, didn't understand why the horse spooked. Michelle and I look at each other, suppressing smiles; she tells Becka what happened, and it ends well. Most of her clients are girls or women, many easily scared or upset when the horses act up. Michelle challenges them without threatening them, she's sensitive to their fears. She treats me the same way at first, and when a horse bucks on me or something dicey happens, she asks if I'm okay, ready to mother and reassure me if I'm scared. None of the horses' antics bother me much, and I respond casually to the solicitous approaches. It takes time for her to get over this tendency with me, and she begins to characterize me as fearless. I took my time leaving after the lessons, smoking a few more cigarettes. Michelle always joined me, we talked some more, and when an opening occurred, I'd drop some bizarre nugget from my past. Over time I told her of launching Lance Armstrong's international racing career, partying with Barry Bonds, testing race cars with Mario Andretti, driving a race car myself. Of being a paratrooper, a writer and editor, an almost dotcom millionaire. Because of my reluctance to ask her out directly, I try to make myself irresistably intriguing in the hope that when I mention some place I'm planning to go, she might hint an accompaniment on her own. Michelle never seemed much-impressed, never took that step, but she responded in kind with her adventures. Jailed in Australia with her young daughter because of a visa glitch, expelled from the country after working there for six months. Tending bar in the South, while working horses. Bad injuries; getting thrown at high speed and breaking a wrist. Getting stepped on, and an ugly compound fracture in a leg. A story about driving on a night out with the French boyfriend, when he hits a deer, not killing it. She's dressed up, gets out of the car, pulls a knife from her purse and cuts its throat to end the suffering. He's appalled by the act; I think it magnificent, knowing she did it out of kindness, knowing how much she cared. Her daughter called on an early afternoon as we repeated the rituals of this surreal companionship, to discuss an impending job interview. I don't think I ever eavesdropped on its like after generations of watching parents and children communicate. Michelle gave excellent advice about how to talk, how to act, how to strategize the different contingencies possible, with a broad awareness of the many factors involved. The performance lasted five or ten minutes, and what I heard on my side of the conversation made it evident that the daughter listened to what her mother had to say, and took it seriously, devoid of the typical teenage responses of rebellion evident even when kids know their parents are right. The way she said it moved me most of all, explaining why her daughter accepted and followed her mother's advice. Michelle used that voice, so full of love and honest concern, that even now makes my eyes water. Another incident. We're sitting at the picnic table, perhaps talking about her daughter, my son. She rises during the dialog, organizing the brushes and accessories used to wash the horses, sits down again. She's up and down throughout the exchange, but in a slow, deliberate manner as she notices things out of place. What precipitates the sentiment evades me. Sometimes I wish I could have another baby, she says, averting her eyes from mine. But I guess I'm too old now. My ex was a year or two older when we conceived my son, and she loved being pregnant, I tell Michelle. It worked out great. You can still do it. And that's what it was like with Michelle, these striking, random moments when she provided insights into a deeper self that pierced my heart. My long-developed ability to detach myself in the pursuit of romance started to slip. I was losing it, ever so slowly, and couldn't stop the slide. Later, driving one of the country roads somewhere, I caught myself daydreaming, quite unconsciously, of having a baby with Michelle. Providing a new outlet for that mother's exquisite love seemed like the most natural thing in the world, no matter how inappropriate it might be for either of us or our respective long-range plans. Lessons first commenced on a horse called Rose, a name pervading my past for decades. Rose Avenue in Venice led to the beachfront near where I once lived. The Rose Cafe, a few blocks inland, supplied dozens of friends and lovers, including my wife. Layers of memory assaulted me briefly with every ride on her, flickers of past events emerging with each utterance of her name as the tack went on. A well-trained, easy-to-ride filly, Rose was owned by a couple of amiable women so close in age and physiognomy--stocky, but trim and fit--that they might have been fraternal twins. Betty worked in marketing at the winery where I first saw Michelle, Sandy maintained a family-psychology practice in the city, leading me to certain conclusions when Michelle would later mention therapy. As Rose became unavailable with the pair's more frequent riding, Michelle tried me on Ty, one of her horses, an Appaloosa. A powerful, good-natured gelding of four years, he hadn't been trained yet to neck rein. You couldn't hold the leather straps in just one hand, guiding him with a turn of the wrist. It was necessary to pull on one rein or the other in such a way that he'd ultimately learn neck reining, making lessons on him doubly difficult for Michelle. She had to teach me to ride while teaching me how to train him. She never said so, but seemed to fear that my riding him too much might retard his progress. Really desperate one day, Michelle put me on Marcel, a horse she not only owned but loved, her forever, as-long-as-he-lived horse. A seven-year-old, Marcel trotted smoothly, cantered predictably, responded to the cluck or the kiss with precision. Riding Marcel encouraged false notions of your own competence so well had Michelle trained him, and in this instance, she didn't want me to ride him because of the bad habits he might develop given my limitations. She settled on Schmidt, a veteran trail horse she acquired for free from a man whose granddaughter had lost interest in the animal. Not his original name, Michelle christened him after the winery that produced her favorite red. Plagued by minor aches and mild arthritis, Schmidt still performed to his abilities, a natural instinct to do the job. The infirmities altered his gait, though, making the ride inconsistent lesson to lesson. Adjusting to his eccentricities taxed me constantly. A pattern emerged, and I'd get the difficult horses because Michelle knew I could handle them. Or she wanted to see if I could handle them. Or so I began to think. But they were all honest horses, an expression Michelle used to describe animals who played it straight. They didn't attempt to hurt you out of malignance, they tested you only enough to see what they could get away with, and came around for a rider willing to assert himself. They had their moods, but accompanied by a willingness to trust people and try to cooperate. She wouldn't tolerate any other kind of horse. Too dangerous, too much trouble. I tried to become buddies with the four horses, going out of my way to pet a nose, pat a flank, give up a carrot. More than twenty others lived on the property, and I generally disregarded them. I could barely tell one from another. Then Lucy came home, and a new challenge emerged. Michelle had bred her, and she was big enough for weaning. Only four or five months old, Lucy pranced warily at the end of the lead line as she regarded her new surroundings that fall morning. Over the course of a week, Michelle introduced her to the routines slowly, taking Lucy to a different part of the stable complex each day so as not to overwhelm the delicate white horse, only belly high at the back. She baby-talked Lucy, hugged her often, and shielded the skittish thing from any potential fright. When I attempted an approach during our initial encounter, Michelle reflexively warned me off. Watch out, she insisted, in a low, firm voice. She's afraid of men. Lucy moved into a stall inside the big barn, where she could look out onto the passageway where we saddled up, the arena just beyond. She'd get used to all the activities intrinsic to living in a busy stable, people and horses coming and going. Just as with the other horses, I befriended Lucy, but on the sly, when Michelle wasn't around. She'd advance fearfully, curiosity getting the best of her when I appeared at the stall door, top half open. Little by little, with carrots, apples and sweet talk, her reluctance faded, but she always demanded coaxing. It was never easy, but after letting herself get close, she allowed me to rub her nose, run my fingers through her mane, stroke her neck. But I avoided those displays in Michelle's presence, even when helping her with Lucy. Be careful, she'd say. Lucy doesn't trust men. Those events transpired during the half-year preceeding that lunch in September when I first asked Michelle if she ever went out with students. Another half-year has passed since I wrote of the encounter. We met almost a year ago. I've never before sustained such a determined campaign to win a woman's heart. The email exchange worked, I think, but I can't quite believe what I'm reading. Ahhh more intimate info. Can you stand this? she asks at the end of her missive. I don't know if I can stand it, I'm in low-level shock. She's so traumatized by past events she's celibate, so defensive sexually she's shut down because of men exploiting her? She's getting ready to marry this guy she can't have sex with? My instincts suggested something odd going on, but this exceeds any speculations. But the most telling line asked me to keep thoughts of romance a silent fantasy to covet on my own. She doesn't discourage any fantasies, just says keep them to myself? Very interesting. Michelle also invites me to the realm of Dear Friend, and we're emotionally engaged, at least, a breakthrough. How to exploit the situation? I reassess previous assumptions in light of the new data. I'd presumed she was a woman with a past, a good, independent girl whose wild inclinations took her down some unfortunate dead ends. That she dedicated herself now to playing it straight, creating a stable life for herself and daughter. That she'd linked up with the first, reliable guy she'd met, who shared her interest in horses and animal medicine. They planned to open a vet clinic in conjunction with the stables, she'd manage the operations. Sounds good, superficially makes sense, but my intuition objects. I've been around alot, and from the earliest awareness of this scenario, I perceive more dead ends for Michelle. Even if it plays out as she hopes, stables with clinic, marriage to the vet, Michelle will be consigned to living her life in this man's stifling shadow. He'll dominate her life professionally and domestically. The partners are vets. Everyone outranks her in terms of credentials, and they'll never take her seriously as an equal, no matter what she does. She's already getting grief from the property owners, her hard work no defense. Despite the manifest desire to play by the rules, build a solid future, her wild side will demand healthy outlets unlikely to be available. Even if it plays out as she hopes, I figure she'll go crazy with frustration in five, ten years. Same outcome if she marries and there is no clinic. If the stable and clinic plan evolves without the marriage, she loses the guy's clout with the other vets involved. Whatever successes she achieves will be discounted, and they'll see her as dispensible whenever there's a conflict over management. Another scenario I've seen play out often. She ends up with frustration and professional failure. And if none of it goes according to plan, she's back where she started. Struggling single mom trying to get by. Any reluctance to see her relationship with this guy end disappears. For her sake, as much as mine. I replied with the following email: Dearest Michelle, My astonishment continues. You have no idea how deeply affected I've been by these communications of the last week. It might surprise you to know that whatever fantasies I've had run along the lines of riding through my hills with you; or taking you and our kids to San Francisco at Christmas for dinner and a play. Much to my own surprise, I can't imagine having sex with you. I think I must have detected that pure, wounded heart of yours the moment I cast eyes on you. You were the only person I saw on the patio at Mumm's; you just glowed in that blue blazer, your hair down. And you looked terrified, with the face and body language of a little girl standing outside the principal's office the first time she got in trouble. I made you so uncomfortable I left as soon as I knew what I needed to find you later. The other day, you asked me about dating, and I outlined for you how I work. I was a master of seduction before I met Tricia, and that's how I got her. I lived on Venice Beach during a very exciting time, and came to know and love many beautiful girls. A large part of my success was due to the fact that I really like women, and did everything possible to be kind, honest and forthright. I certainly indulged myself in sex, but did everything possible not to exploit anyone. Along the way I discovered how hard life can be on nice, pretty girls who are unprepared for an often vicious world. One of my greatest regrets is that I did not understand then what I do now. I can't imagine what you experienced at the hands of men, nor do I want to. I do know what it's like to be targeted by predators; they started on me when I was twelve. As a streetwise kid, I avoided the worst that can happen, but I understand your ambivalence toward, men, sex and relationships. As for me, what I wanted for us--after I got to know and observe you--was a meaningful relationship. We seem to have achieved that rather unexpectedly. Things have evolved in a way I never could have imagined, and this has already been one of the most touching experiences of my life. My only desire concerning you now is that I never disappoint you in our friendship. Sincerely, Terry Every word is literally true, sincerely meant, even if it is the most calculated, manipulative piece of writing I ever produced. That line about the fantasies, for instance. Even though I can mentally strip a woman bare in an instant and envision the nude body behind the clothes and camouflage of high heels, butt-shaping jeans or whatever other packaging female's use, I cannot visualize Michelle naked. Nor can I imagine sex with her, though I've never suffered from such an inability before with an attractive woman. It puzzled me to no end until she revealed she was celibate, and then I found myself marveling that I'd honored her chastity in my imagination. I really did detect something when we met, subconscious currents flowing between us. By this time I didn't know what I felt for Michelle beyond a deep affection, feelings different from anything I'd previously experienced. My fantasies really did revolve around having innocent fun with her. As for sex, I surely wanted to make love with her, but it had less to do with sheer lust than a desire to bond with someone I genuinely cared about. After an impressive pre-marriage career as a sexual player, I had to confront an entirely new range of emotions. I threw in the part about previous lovers for several reasons. She became aware that I might be working on other women, exciting, perhaps, a little jealousy. Nothing makes a man more attractive to women as much as an ability to surround himself with pretty girls. Additionally, women like Michelle--women who take men's attentions for granted--inure themselves to compliments. They're always hearing how wonderful they are, how beautiful they are, how special they are, from strangers. It's the white noise flattery of dating, and in provincial areas with real beauties at a premium, men are easily impressed. I want her to sense that when I tell her she's special, I know what I'm talking about as a result of wide experience. My intent is to establish that I know just how she feels, not only to be pursued by women, but men as well; I really understand. And, in fact, I do. And I really don't ever want to disappoint her. Honest. Michelle was now aware of the pursuit, however, so she had all the control, and several reasons to exercise it. Women accustomed to being chased by men immediately discount them when they fall into certain patterns. Asking for a phone number, asking them out, acting too interested. As soon as those signs emerge, the woman knows she's got him when she wants him, and she doesn't have to do any work. Just sit back and wait for endless invitations while they turn their attention elsewhere. There's nothing more pathetic to a woman than some guy begging for a date. No matter how compatible he might be, she'll ignore him for some lothario who can turn the tables on her. That was me before I got married. I moved to Los Angeles in the late-seventies for a start in publishing, a three-month internship at Playgirl Magazine. Chrome, tinted glass and mirrors dominated the Century City offices in a penthouse suite covering an entire floor of the 25-story building. I met the editor the day I arrived in Southern California, hard pressed to pay attention to her because of the view extending to the Santa Monica beaches and Pacific horizon. At lunch on the plaza, I saw more beautiful women in an hour than I'd ever seen in Northern California over thirty years. During the first week, I met a PR guy with a film festival then underway. We had mutual friends up north, they were all homosexuals, he made some unwarrented assumptions. He gave me passes to everything, I went to premieres with the red carpets, had dinner with Henry Fonda, cocktails with Frank Capra. The second week I met a gorgeous young woman from Dallas and an old German woman who ran a salon from her house in West Hollywood. The third week I joined the Playboy Club and discovered Beverly Hills. Within a month I was living the high-life, courting the girl from Texas, chatting with Los Angeles literati at the septuagenarian's Sunday gatherings, partying with the bunnies on the side. The San Francisco chauvinism deserted me, and I sold the house up north to relocate. I landed at Venice Beach eventually, in a brick building right on the boardwalk. Dallas moved in, eventually moved on. I replaced her with a blonde living next door, a grown up version of the little girl in the Coppertone ads, dog pulling her briefs down. She couldn't get the commitment she wanted from her longterm boyfriend, a Malibu yachtsman, and after dallying with me for a month she asked about the nature of our affair. Are we in a relationship or not? she demanded after showing up at two in the morning. We had the conversation I would go on to have many more times in the future. We were good friends who happened to be lovers. I wasn't ready for a commitment, and if she wanted to stop being lovers, that was okay with me. But I also made the case that having a trusted, no-fault, no-commitment lover like me allowed her to look for her dream guy without any confusion derived from sexual frustration. She'd have more control over her other relationships, and if she fell in love with somebody, she could leave with my blessing, just be friends again. I had the same options if I fell in love with another. She'd never heard a similar a proposition before, caught her off-guard. Coppertone departed tentatively, indicating her approval with renewed visits. Over the next several years she often availed herself of the situation while working the yachtsman, until meeting a prospective husband; she shared her love and disappointments with me through her ups and downs with both. Then Dallas came to regret her departure for another man, but couldn't bring herself to break free. She, too, returned for sex and consolation. The Rose Cafe coincidentally opened as I remodeled my modest studio apartment on the beach. I painted the walls a stark white, a strong complement to the varnished hardwood floors, furnished it with folding beach chairs in blue canvas, and a simple, natural wood table. A sleeping loft to one side raised the bed to within a few feet of the high ceiling, a thick futon rolled up on the floor underneath functioned as a low settee. Clear shower curtains which obscured vision served as window coverings, admitting a bright but diffuse light, an impressionistic, aqeous quality. Mornings and evenings at the Rose bracketed the day, this public living room providing a steady stream of targets from within the area and without. I habitually tried not to ask girls for a phone number, preferring to discover where they worked and calling them there to arrange another meeting at the Rose for morning coffee or brunch--much less threatening than dinner and nightgames. Walks on the beach after late breakfasts ended at my place, just when they were ready to sit down and have a glass of wine and a snack. Two or three hours into our first date we were making love in my apartment. An awareness of the phenomenon dawned slowly, but my apartment performed a subtle, psychological magic. It's starkness, and the nature of the light, disoriented my guests. They'd never been in a place quite like it. After a pleasant walk, conversation and repast, their defenses were down, and the strange nature of the environment ultimately unmoored them from usual habits of conduct. I made love with artists, architects, actresses, athletes, designers, fitness celebrities, investment analysts, lawyers, models, news anchors, shopkeepers, haircutters, writers, women in business, women on trust funds, girls with an allowance, students with loans. I made love with married women, divorced women, widowed women, women with girlfriends, women with boyfriends, women soon to be married, even unattached women. Lying together on the futon in the middle of my floor in a state of post-coital exhaustion, many would ask what had happened, how had they ended up making love with a virtual stranger? The explanation I offered emphasized the idea of two people thrown together briefly by fate who liked each other and sensed a mutual trust. A beautiful day, innocent activities, attractive people, it was natural I said, it was a good thing. It seemed so, and the white room of filtered daylight suggested a kind of purity. It seemed not only natural, but almost sacramental. The fact that I was a considerate, tender lover reinforced the story. I meant every word, actually, but only women who became veteran regulars discovered how calculating I was, how manipulative in my approach, or that the random encounters derived from planning, not coincidence. From the time we moved to the boardwalk, Dallas assured me a measure of notoriety. Men I'd meet around the neighborhood in bars or at the beach would ask if the brunette was my girlfriend, exhibiting unalloyed admiration on hearing the Yes. It was a high visibility world between the beach and the Rose, and everyone who resided in the area lived a life on display unless taking precautions. After Dallas left and subsequently returned for sex, after Coppertone made me part of her routine, after other women fell into similar habits, I was regarded with awe as people saw me strolling along the beach with a succession of women, any one of whom was inaccessible to most men. I appeared to have them by the dozens. Beautiful women noticed and propositioned me, especially friends or roommates of current lovers. My demurrals, I was loyal in my way, disturbed them, shook confidence in their sense of of sexual power. I took pleasure in that realization in direct proportion to the extent they thought themselves irresistable. I'd come to resent women who thoughtlessly manipulated men just for the sport, I enjoyed being the one man they knew who would look them in the eye and say Not interested. Especially when they were trying to betray a friend. If I should follow up after the conflict of interest had dissipated, they usually declined. Within a few years I'd established myself in the community and my career. An array of friends included a circle of solvent women intimately connected to the Venice cultural scene who consorted with the men who owned the restaurants and galleries, made the art or the movies. They'd accepted the fact that we wouldn't be bedmates, but used me as a presentable escort for openings and dinner parties, a reliable housesitter when they traveled. My jobs involved travel as well, usually to exotic destinations, especially after rebellions broke out in Central America. Before long, in addition to my regular job, I was working for others on the side. Modeling for photographers. Freelancing articles that didn't fit the publication I edited. Drafting papers for a national political insider. Then I became a protege of the world's preeminent terrorist expert. My existence took on a fantastical hue, and rumors began to circulate around the Rose that I worked for the CIA, was an international assassin, was an outrageous liar. One feverish week, I received three death threats. One resulted from an article published about Arnold Shwartzenegger. The other two came from irate boyfriends. The women stopped seeing me. In reality, I'd become an unaffiliated intelligence operative, consulted by people consulted by the government. But when friends asked for details they'd confront unconvincing denials. It was the same with inquiries about my sexual escapades. Someone once quipped, not kindly,You must think you're a real Don Juan. No, I said slowly, I'm a lot more discriminating. With a sharp look. But I refused to admit to sleeping with anyone, so they presumed I slept with everyone. I became the international man of mystery. From my earliest childhood I'd imagined such a life, and I exceeded any expectations. But I'd prepared myself from the beginning, seizing every opportunity to live large. I abused the freedom I had growing up in San Francisco, cheating death on a daily basis, unknown to my parents. As a teenage drug dealer in the Haight-Ashbury, I honed my survival skills and developed a comfort with intrigue. I studied histories of crime in my father's library, learning of every scam recorded, every hiding place used by smugglers, every interrogation trick used by authorities. I studied gun and knife fighting in the Old West, employing the lessons on the street. Before reaching eighteen I'd stuck a couple of guys, survived several attempts on my life, evaded most attempts to jail me. Indirectly, I precipitated a shooting, a throat-cutting, several beatings, several crime waves. In the same milieu I developed my skills with women, the days of hippies and free love a rich training ground. My all time record was 90 seconds from the time of meeting a girl to getting my hands in her panties, in another instance, 10 minutes from introduction to full penetration. I did several under 15 minutes, and more than I can count within an hour. As the later successes multiplied in Venice, a bizarre, sunny afternoon dictated a reconsideration of my sexual habits. Hanging with buddies in front of the building on the boardwalk, I was approached by one of my lovers. We have to talk, she said with authority. Let's go inside. On entering my apartment, she sat down and ordered my approach. Then she unzipped me and opened her mouth for sex. She declined a reciprocal service, and I walked her downstairs and out the back exit of the building. Seeya later, she said, grinning. Twenty minutes had passed. I returned content to the front of the building, and before I could reclaim my previous spot, another lover appeared. We need to talk, she said sweetly. Let's go inside. On entering my apartment, she kissed me and moved her hand to my groin. We made love on the futon, in the fullest spirit of reciprocity. I walked her downstairs and out the back exit of the building. Seeya later, she said, grinning. An hour had passed. I returned confused to the front of the building, my remaining friends staring in unison at my reappearance. What the hell..? somebody started to say. Don't even ask, I said, grinning. That day precipitated an epiphany when further on in the afternoon another lover materialized, and I deferred until another time. After sorting my thoughts, I concluded that sex was becoming too routine, less special. I couldn't fully appreciate these nice women in these numbers, and it bothered me. I didn't want to become calloused, and miss The One. And keeping the names straight threatened embarrassment. I resolved to take the high road regardless of the opportunities, and limit myself to no more than two lovers a day. That's how things stood when I first saw Tricia sitting at the Rose one Saturday morning reading the paper. I asked if I might join her, she agreed reluctantly. Making introductions, I discovered she shared a name with another lover, a woman I was considering for a commitment. At least I'd avoid the awkwardness of mixed up monikers. I'd long since given up looking for a preconceived notion of my ideal, noting the tendency to ascribe desired qualities to women who only roughly fit the template. After wasting time chasing illusions rather than getting to know the real woman I was dealing with, I learned to take women as I found them. In this Tricia I discovered the great love of my life so far, and within a month I knew I wanted her as long as I could have her. A beautiful blonde, she was brilliant, unaffected, kind, successful. And she had one of those voices, accompanied by a nurturing quality she would eventually lavish on me with all the feminine affection I never knew as a child. During that month I maneuvered her into bed with the most refined tactics I'd ever employed. She'd just moved to Venice, and we began a four-year affair against the backdrop of my established life. I disengaged from the others, and we became one of the most visible couples in the community, strangers stopping at our table in restaurants to ask when we were getting married. Strange men proposed to her in my presence, offering their apologies. She became best friends with my women friends, and we all attended the parties and openings together. Her beach-close cottage hosted weekend open houses. We married, started to live happiliy ever after, had a baby. It lasted eighteen years, and by the end, we added a dog. We were so photogenic, our family snapshots looked like the pictures you get in those cheap frames you buy. Not that long ago, we walked into a charity auction, and the man with the microphone stopped the bidding to say, My God, what an attractive couple! But the years and a few tragedies ground us down so that we could not speak at the end, and I hadn't heard that voice in a decade. She asked me to leave, finally, and I was by then ready. But I couldn't get over the fact that she so easily killed off the marriage, despite any real problems, despite an absence of infidelity or any sordidness whatsoever. Especially after all we'd been through together. Only later did I wonder if we'd been through too much, if all the intensity in itself could weaken a relationship rather than strengthen it. Had we come to remind each other of more pain than happiness? I moved out a week after our eighteenth anniversary, Michelle the first woman I would meet, a few days later. About the time of her birthday. About the time Lucy was born. And today is the nineteenth anniversary of my wedding to Tricia. But I just now realize all of that.