The Master of Seduction chapter 3 I glimpsed her inner light I need to bask in its glow The next day I call my oldest sister, haven't communicated for awhile, need to catch up. She's twelve, thirteen years my senior, was a dope smoking beatnik in San Francisco by the time she graduated from Presentation Catholic Girls School and married the shipping executive. We talk for twenty minutes, laugh alot together, a shared, warped humor, start working to a close on the conversation, when she says, Oh, by the way. Do you want the pickup truck? She means my stepfather's truck, ended up with it after his death, and following her five years of ownership, it is, indeed, a little battered. And the instant she says this, I get a flush of adrenaline and I'm thinking about what Michelle said the day before, and I don't really want the truck particularly, but it will be useful eventually, and of course I'll take the truck. I get off the phone as fast as possible, succumb to the new wave of feeling, confusion and speculation. Every time I start to detach emotionally from this woman, something turns it around, and now it happens again. After the tattooed cowboy comment, I was cutting myself loose, my bewitchment faltered, but this timely gift of the battered truck reinforced that sense of destiny, and brought to mind all the odd little coincidences that considered in unison suggested the metaphysical, some sort of psychic bond. A week or so earlier I'd mentioned that I was thinking of getting a white, '64 T'Bird. It belonged to my mother decades ago, I used to commandeer it without her knowledge in her absence, and my uncle had taken possession of it and restored the vehicle. But he was willing to sell it to me. Michelle knew none of the details, and as soon as I raised the topic she asked, You mean the one at the gas station? I was looking at that last night, I was thinking of getting it for my daughter. A white, '64 T-Bird. And before I went to Vegas, she brought deviled eggs to the stables, the one thing she "cooked," she said, and I ate one, told her it was the best deviled egg I'd had in twenty years, which was, in fact, the last time I'd eaten a deviled egg; they were not my favorites. But my first day in Vegas, my first day at the soldiers' reunion, one snack appeared at the bar. Deviled eggs. We exchanged some emails while I was there, and she offered as an aside in one that she was eating a dinner of Fruit Loops cereal. And Fruit Loops is one of those snacks I buy during road trips, an easy-going dose of sugar for long drives. Then there was the thing with the glasses. I carried my reading glasses in clear plastic snack bags, the perfect small mass containers that kept the lenses from getting scratched. She noticed one day, said I should get the holder she used for her sunglasses, a small nylon bag made for the purpose, just what I needed without knowing they existed. A little thing, but a little thing that mattered alot to me, the ideal accessory for one of my own specifically quirky requirements. The timing, too, the many notable events and anniversaries coinciding that week after I moved out. So many trivial things of that nature seemed to pervade our relationship, most of which I'd discounted or missed or ignored, but I coudn't ignore their accumulation, nor disregard them now that I began to notice what appeared to have been a proliferation of such incidents. And then there was the song. It took quite a long time to remember the fact, in itself strange to me, but it was many months into my campaign before the flash of memory. During my first stirrings of adolescent desire and romance--I was twelve or thirteen--the Beatles swept our shores with their music, and one of their hit singles, issued a few years after their American debut, was Michelle. The tune captured my mood of wistful longing for I don't know what; the idea of love, probably, since there are no memories of a great interest in any particular girl back then. I now caught myself humming it constantly, the song becoming a soundtrack for my activities off and on for months, driving me eventually to buy the Rubber Soul album on which it featured. And when I played it, listening and pacing and smoking and drinking, the song, when it came on, evoked every vague sense of yearning for love I felt as a young teenager, heightened now, and focused. I stood on the brink of achieving one of my oldest, deepest fantasies, that of having an affair with a woman to go with the song, a real Michelle. One night the song came on while I was looking at her pictures on my laptop, a slide show of Michelle at the stables displaying image after image, smiling at me with the big blue eyes, walking away from me with Lucy, regarding me from the back of a horse, Michelle, my belle, I love you I love you I love you, that's all I want to say, and fearing, knowing, somewhere in me that I'd never be able to say that, leaving me forever no closer than that brink. The juxtaposition reduced me to a turbulence of unthinking emotion, the warmth, the fast-beating heart, the good-feelings those pictures could pull forth if I even thought about them enough, combined with the resurrected angst of my early adolescence, sufficiently powerful to overwhelm me completely. I literally could not take it for the length of the song. The phenomenon fascinated me, I experimented with it as much as I could, my objectivity in observing it dueling with my ability to bear it. No drug I'd ever used made me back off short of the fear of an overdose, death, and while I had in the past become expert in gauging the maximums I could handle before self-extinction, while I could handle the high, deal with the thoughts, the feelings, the fears, I retreated before these internal manifestations derived from Michelle. One day I told her that I'd bought several Beatles albums as I helped her move some hay bales, an attempt to talk to her about the song, but inobviously. Why'd you do that? she demanded, hostility evident in voice and face. I like 'em, I said. As an apparent afterthought, I went on. Oh, yeah...one of them is Rubber Soul. It has that song Michelle on it. I hate that song, she almost snarled. My mother named me after it. Hesitation, another thought, and a question asked with a smirk. So, I asked, did guys used to try to seduce you with the song, sing it to you when they tried to get romantic? Yes, she said, exhibiting a deeply repressed anger. How perfect, I thought, just like everything else in this perfect, perfectly doomed romance. I went home that night after talking to my sister, again played the song, looked at the laptop, indulged as much as I dared before shutting down the computer, switching off the stereo. Leaving me again to pace and smoke and drink and think and get hold of myself, and contemplate the song, my feelings, the myriad omens, real and imagined. '64 T-Birds, battered pickup trucks. And considered whether I should get a tattoo. A few days later Jo called to say she was back in town. She'd left her husband, and was looking for a property to buy. Meanwhile, she was staying at the country club. When could we get together, she wanted to know, adding that her life-changing decision had nothing to do with me. We had lunch the next afternoon, and she asked if she could take me to dinner Friday night. Of course. We dined upvalley at one of the exclusive restaurants with boutique hotel attached, the whole complex tucked away in the eastern hills and affording a brilliant view of the soul-stirring mid-evening sunsets behind the mountains in which I live. Pink and apricot hues glowed against the light, blue sky, darkening. I devoured my steak, she nibbled at her fish, we sipped the most expensive champagne from the most prestigious local vintner, the latter touch her special arrangement to celebrate her rebirth. We began with a toast to her new life. Jo expressed her relief at finally having taken the step she'd fantasized for years, she was excited at the prospect of becoming the woman she knew she could be, finally free of the shadows cast by the man who dominated her existence. I couldn't take it anymore, she said. I'm tired of being his accessory, and I hate him. I have so much to offer, and it just doesn't matter to him. She was worth some millions, so money had never been a problem, she just lacked the courage. Jo found that, she said, during her last visit, after meeting me. As she'd said during that phone call I'd come to regret, I'd transformed her life, brought her back to life. I smiled as she reiterated the sentiment, flattered and resentful at the same time, the vision of Michelle walking away in the dusk precipitating a stab of pain. I reminded her that we could never be more than close friends, that I had started my own new life and had certain priorites that excluded a serious relationship. She laughed that off, knew it already, suggested I shouldn't take my charms too seriously. By then we were leaning shoulder-to-shoulder against each other in the banquette, the outside darkness finally complete, the dim internal light casting only the faintest impressions on the walls of soft yellow. But I know we'll always be good friends, she says. We drink to it, looking into each other's eyes, the both of us trying to divine what that really means. After a pause, she says, Guess what. What? I return. I'm getting a Mercedes convertible. An old highschool friend owns a bunch of dealerships around here and I had lunch with him the other day. I just have to find the right one. Me too, I say. I'm getting a pickup truck, and I already found the right one. A free one. Really? she squeels. What color? Red, I tell her. I love pickup trucks, she says. Especially red pickup trucks. Tell you what. If you let me drive your truck, you can have the Mercedes whenever you want. An offer I was not inclined to refuse. Oh, by the way, she says. Do you know a good realtor? Yes, I say, I have a great realtor. Good, says Jo. I think I want to buy a horse farm. That gave me something to think about over the weekend, but Jo was far from my thoughts as I drove to the stables late one afternoon for the first time after Michelle returned from Mexico. I felt the usual physiological changes, the sense of anticipation, considered the possibilities, how it might play out. I half expected to hear she'd gotten married, fallen in love, something bizarre, unexpected. Or that she'd bristle at my appearance as an intrusion, since there was no lesson scheduled. I thought again, as I so often did, about how strange, unnatural, our friendship had become. That I had to worry about how she'd respond to a friend, me, coming out to say Hi. She nodded toward me as I drove by to park, I nodded back, trying to look, to be, casual, trying to mask the happiness and fear I'd come to feel in her presence, never knowing whether to expect warmth and intimate words or some rebuke resulting from her own mixed feelings for me. A month had passed since that day at the deli when I explored our going out together, and the shattering of the initial impressions that had formed over the first five months of knowing her had been so thorough that I couldn't re-create any integrated sense of who she really was, what was going on with her. All of this I thought as I got out and approached. She was feeding the horses, riding around on her little tractor. She stopped for me, we exchanged a hug, and I hopped onto the the vehicle, sitting to the side, legs dangling in air. How was the trip? I ask. Oh, it was fun, but Annie got kind of weird, especially at the end. Michelle goes on. One of my friends lost her purse on the last day, and it was Annie's birthday. We were calling around trying to find it, and Annie kept whining that it was the worst birthday of her life, and it's not like she'd planned to lose her purse, but Annie just wouldn't let it go. By the time we found it--everything was still in it, no one ripped her off--we were all in such a bad mood we coudn't have any fun. So that was kind of a bummer. But it was mostly pretty good. She tells the story over the rumble of the small vehicle as we bounce around between paddocks and barn, Michelle throwing the flakes of hay over the fences, filling the water barrels. I hadn't been out there for a week or so, realized again how much I missed it; not only because of Michelle, but the whole environment. The smell of hay and horses, the little routines, the surrounding vineyards turning yellow and red with autumn, the faint, sickly sweet smell of young wine carried by the Carneros breezes during the crush. The isolation, our own weird, crazily romantic world she couldn't acknowledge. While she talks, I note the normality of the conversation, the intimacy that I'd come to hope for, yearn for, when I went to the stables, but could never expect. It was as I'd hoped it would be, a mere ten minutes earlier, and I appreciate the fact as we ride around together, my speculations, calculations, all ajumble as I attempt to carry on a coherent conversation. Michelle done with the feeding, I slide off the tractor and walk up the hill to pee. On returning, I notice that her face has that set look of displeased intensity I'd come to recognize, an expression of great annoyance. What now? I think. Had she just now decided, after five minutes of separation, that I didn't belong there? Had I blown it somehow by stopping by to welcome a friend back? I felt a little sick inside, a trickle of dread. I'm walking down from the shed, she approaches at an angle on her way toward the paddocks, our paths converging in the area between the barn and the row of stalls by the picnic table. She maintains her determined pace, I merge alongside, quickening my own steps to keep up. Silent at first, it seems forever, seems forboding, I expect some kind of worst, directed at me, she finally speaks. I just got a really weird phone call, she says. I met this older guy down in Mexico in one of the bars. He wasn't hitting on me or anything like that, we were drinking and talking, he was just a nice guy who was into horses. He just called me, and said that Annie wasn't a very good friend. When I wasn't around, she was telling him that I was some kind of slut who jumped around from man to man. And that I was some kind of loser, and she was paying my way. I didn't ask her for anything, she's supposed to be my friend. She knows I don't have alot of money to throw around, and she paid for dinner or lunch a couple of times. I can't believe she said that. I can't believe what I'm hearing, either, but I can. This news, the account of the whole mini-betrayal delivered in a matter of thirty or so seconds, almost overwhelms my ability to process everything I heard and instantly felt. It seems to take forever to absorb and sort it all out, though, of course, it's only moments. My celibate Michelle, the devoted mother so loyal to the dismissive boyfriend, trying so hard to get her life in order, the Michelle who wants the tattooed cowboy in the battered pickup truck. A slut jumping from man to man. This from the friend she went drinking with and certainly knew better than I what Michelle was up to. The celibate Michelle who was so happy she didn't go home with some stranger after the concert a couple of weeks earlier. Just talking to the older guy, there was nothing going on there, but was there, and why did she say that, because there was something going on, or because she was signalling to me that I shouldn't be worried. Relief that she finally knew what a piece of trash Annie was, dismay that it would take this, and would it matter? Jealousy that this other man was able to warn her when I couldn't, a dash of shame that I'd never said anything like it even though I'd never had such an opportunity. All of it accompanied by an aching, a disgust, a revulsion that this woman I liked should suffer that betrayal, the mortification of hearing what was said about her, that she shared her humiliation with me, and did that mean she trusted me enough to tell me or or thought nothing at all about telling me because I really counted for nothing to her and she didn't give a damn about what I thought. All of that runs through my mind, hormones flooding my body, the revulsion and subtle nausea, lightheadedness, the roar in my brain that I'd come to know so well in the last month with the new, ever-surprising Michelle. We walk a hundred feet or so to the hay stacks, by the time she gets to the end of her account Michelle is rearranging the bales, I alternately stand there or ineffectualy try to help. Throughout it all, she never breaks step or hesitates, does exactly what she needs to do without pause. And only thirty seconds have passed. I respond on cue. Geez, I say, that's rather disturbing. But, you know, I never thought much of Annie myself. I can't say I'm surprised. We continue discussing the matter for a few minutes as Michelle finishes her chores, and I suggest that it's a good time never to talk to Annie again. As I get ready to leave, Michelle says, Hey, wait a minute. I got something for you. I follow her back to the jeep, and she emerges with a little bag, presenting it to me with a subdued smile, a glance that may have meant she cared, perhaps a little, anyway, and I open it, puzzled, as she watches. I had to look everywhere, she says, but I finally found it. It was a little bottle of Damiana. I could have cried. The following morning I received a call from Jo. Could I look at a ranch with her that afternoon? We met at the realtor's office, and drove south of town to the hills overlooking the airport and up a road that took us a mile from the highway. Surrounded by vineyards, the ten-acre property commanded views of the upper bay and an infinity of countryside. A serious working ranch at one time, the stables could accommodate dozens of horses, numerous paddocks and riding arenas. The house was cutting-edge modern when constructed in the early forties, with stone work, built-in cupboards and bookcases, and open-beam ceilings under a soaring roof, large plate glass windows providing great vistas. One of the buildings fronting the stable area contained four apartments. The owner, a rider herself who grew up on the place, was asking two million. It was all a little rundown, however, and clearly too much for Jo to handle regardless of cost. She knew that without being told, and dismissed it from serious consideration. As was quickly becoming routine after less than a week in town, Jo tried to turn the property tour into an afternoon and evening together. When I demurred, had other things to do, we parted with her command for me to call her in the morning. I didn't until late the next afternoon, when I was already on my way to the airport to fly to Arizona to get the truck. She, of course, told me to call her when I arrived. I wouldn't do that either. I went out to the stables the next day for a lesson and found Michelle dejected. She'd received an officious letter from the stable owners informing her that she'd have to give up some of her paddocks because of erosion, limiting substantially the number of horses she could board, in turn cutting deeply into her cash flow. Since getting it, she'd concluded that something could be worked out to limit the drain on her income, but she found the cold nature of the communication, from old friends, troubling. She just couldn't get a break, I thought, as she attended to her chores, walking and talking with me. Her tone revealed a resignation to the difficult situation, demonstrating at the same time her determination to keep working toward her goals regardless of the barriers. It struck me as yet another example of the people she surrounded herself with who treated her badly or not very well. People who failed to appreciate this very nice, if confused, woman. And even though I'd come to see that other part of her that disturbed me, that raised doubts, I knew she deserved better than this, regardless of what I thought of her personal life. The musings continued when I left for the airport, driving toward San Francisco. She'd been back from Mexico just a few days, had taken a week off for a much deserved good time, relief from the unrelenting pressure of the stables, and that was cramped by Annie's selfish attitude during the vacation, topped off by the discovery that a supposed good friend spread vile stories about her. It was ugly whether or not there was any truth to them. Now her landlords, people once close to her, surrogate parents almost, went out of their way to treat her harshly and threaten her livelihood. Despite my tangled feelings, regardless of the prospects of romance, I was still committed to being the best friend I could be for her. Instinct had suggested to me that things might go badly for Michelle, and this problem with the landords validated the impressions developed, though I certainly took no pleasure in being right. I hoped it would all turn around, and Michelle always maintained a brave exterior, an admirable fortitude expressing her belief that she could make it come out okay if she tried hard enough. My doubts lingered. Attempts in the past to get her to meet some of my friends in Napa, people who were tapped into the horse circuit in ways she wasn't, never worked out, she wouldn't allow it. It was difficult to know how helpful such introductions would really be, but contingency planning and making new connections was something I did reflexively, and what successes I'd achieved were due in large part to endless networking. In any case, it was too late to do much now along those lines, presuming it would have benefitted her at all had we made the attempt. These new uncertainties in her life compounded the forebodings I'd sensed, but there was nothing I could do about it, not even try to commiserate very much because of the distance she went out of her way to establish whenever we got close. This is all so difficult, I kept thinking, why do I bother with this? I always came to the same end point. I had nothing to lose in hanging around as long as she seemed interested in me, no matter how oblique the manifestations. The feeling of powerlessness to alleviate the pressures on her nagged at me, though, and I had to do something, but what? It hit me as I approached the turnoff to her town, and I took it. I don't know what sparked the idea, but it started with the concept of stress. And the physical, masculine work she did. Then, the fact that she never seemed to indulge herself with the typical luxuries so many women took for granted, clothes, jewelry, cosmetics. Pampering. Yes, Michelle deserved some pampering, something she'd never allow me to do for her. But there was a way. The spa sat opposite the square and almost next door to the bar where the other Michelle first revealed herself. I pulled into a parking space and sat in my car for some minutes contemplating this possibly disastrous move. Any gesture of mine that showed concern or care typically resulted in a backlash, and this impulse harbored all the elements of disaster. I don't give a fuck, I said out loud to myself, angry at the situation while avoiding any negative thoughts of Michelle. Who kept me in this bizarre netherworld and made it so agonizing when it occurred to me to do the kinds of things friends do for each other. She might see this as an attempt to buy her affection, or impose on her life, or something. There was no telling. But I wasn't going to let that stop me. I was going to do something nice for Michelle regardless of the consequences, and as I had that thought I confronted again the very strangeness of this morass I'd entered, the idea that I had to worry so much about a desire to comfort a friend. My first consideration after resolving to buy her a day at the spa centered around all the most obvious things that could go wrong, and I imagined going in, buying a gift certificate for her from someone at the counter, and having it develop that whoever handled the transaction knew Michelle or a friend. Gossip flooding her small town, who's that man buying Michelle a spa treatment when she's supposed to be going with some guy, and she spends alot of time flirting at the bar next door, and isn't that interesting? I bought a massage and a facial and a body wrap, the most all-encompassing package they offered, in the form of a gift certificate in my name. I explained that I wanted it to go to whomever came in and claimed it, using my name, with the understanding that it wouldn't be me. No problem. I continued to the airport. Along the way I called Michelle, and left a message. You need a treat, I said. Just go in, claim the gift certificate in my name, and have a day at the spa, on me. She responded the next day. I was in Tucson when I heard the message. It broke my heart and pissed me off all at the same time. Gee, she said, that's the nicest thing anybody's done for me all day. Actually for the last couple of days...well, really, in a long time. She sounded a little bewildered by the gift, and about how to react, reinforcing my belief that she wasn't used to being treated as a valuable person, someone worth being pampered, not even by the boyfriend. I detested him at the thought, and despite not knowing much about him, I knew he didn't treasure Michelle in any sense of the word. A flash of hatred shocked my consciousness, along with that bit of heartbreak for her, that she wasted so much effort on people who took her for granted. Annoyance quickly followed. She explained that since someone had gotten a gift certificate for me, I should use it, not her. At least she wasn't angry, but I was back to saying to myself, I can't fucking believe it. I can't fucking believe it. This woman will find some means to deprive herself of everything nice that comes her way. But at least she wasn't angry. At least she wasn't angry. I called back, left another message, to tell her I bought it for her; included was a mangled explanation for why it was in my name, I didn't really want to go into all the calculations inherent in buying the day at the spa, but I made my point. With less exasperation in my voice, I hoped, than I felt. She was so much work. The apparent payoff was almost immediate. She sent an email with pictures attached. We'd discussed putting a photo gallery on her web site of her students, riding English or Western, in the arena and out in the vineyards, the idea being to show people having fun at the stables. There was already a selection available, and she'd wanted to add more to consider. These, she said, might be good candidates. Several I already had, but there were two new ones, the first most telling. All were of her, and I couldn't really believe she meant them for this photo gallery. That first one, though, sent what was to me a very clear message. Michelle was sitting on the ground in front of a woodsy backdrop, with two of her dogs. The image of her started at her loins, and ended with her face, bearing an ambiguous Mona Lisa smile. The photo said, quite unambiguously, Come and catch me. If you can. She couldn't have thought these were appropriate for the photo gallery at all unless she were more vain than I believed her to be, and this particular image was exactly the kind of picture a woman would send to a man whose attention she desired. I was stunned at what it implied, and my heart took off in an instant, the hormones kicked in along with the racing speculations. She felt something for me, and she let me know it. That unleashed all the other thoughts, too, the well-learned lesson that today's hopes would be dashed tomorrow, that her clear messages to me she would later claim were my misunderstandings. Happiness and dread alternated in my mind, rational thought again impossible. The drive back from Arizona in the slightly battered truck induced a welter of aimless daydreaming about Michelle and our shadow dance together. Me trying not to seem as desperately smitten by her as I was, her denying that she reciprocated some of my feelings despite the evidence. The knowledge that any attempts to discuss us would evoke her explicit rejection of the concept in its entirety. That I had to fear and squelch every impulse as a friend because she would use it as an opportunity to squelch me. All infused with the wistful maunderings, the glow, tweaked by that photo she sent. Come and catch me. If you can. But not really. Bait, catch, release. Bait, catch, release. I don't fucking believe it. I stopped at the sights along the way, an old fort, the house of a timber baron, and, finally, the Grand Canyon, where I spent the night. My room had a view of the great chasm at the time invisible in the dark, and I ate dinner looking forward to the first views I would have of this natural wonder I'd never before seen. How nice it would be if Michelle were here, I thought, having dinner together in the beautifully appointed lodge, seeing the Grand Canyon for the first time with her. And an experience I would have wallowed in under any other circumstances took on an air of disappointment because of her absence. A dawn awakening allowed me to watch the canyon appear in tiny increments, the cliffs and mesas becoming evident bit by bit in the creeping light, the view changing dramatically as light replaced darkness, browns and beiges morphing into oranges, whites and vivid reds. I walked the upper edge of the canyon for hours, taking the trail down only as far as I could easily walk back, the whole time wishing Michelle were with me, this wonderful spectacle diminished for me by the desire to share it. But maybe there was hope after all, there was that picture she sent, what did that mean? What did any of it mean with her, came the riposte. It meant nothing, and if it meant something, she would convince herself it wasn't so. The hotel gift shop had a plethora of souvenirs, including myriad earrings, most of them garish, tacky, touristy. Except for some studs, in simple silver, others small discs of tourquoise set in silver. They were inexpensive but elegant, and the tourquise would have complemented her eyes just right, and I wanted so badly to buy them for her, but I didn't. The spa gift hadn't led to catastrophe yet...yet...and I didn't want to press my luck. Thinking all of that set me off again, into the endless dilemma of trying to navigate a way to her affections without sinking my prospects. I don't fucking believe it. The anger at the situation--but not Michelle, never Michelle--succumbed to a shake of the head and a smile. God, this would be funny if it didn't hurt so much, I thought. Who is this woman? Why am I doing this again? I don't fucking believe it. Shaking my head. Again. Crisp, clear autumn morning, Tuesday, vineyards all reds and yellows now, in their hillside ranks. I'm following Michelle around as she mucks the stables, pitching buckets of horseshit, running the wheelbarrow up the little hill of hay and manure, dumping it. Rejecting out of hand, as usual, my attempts to help, she can't accept any help, even the help I'd offer a man, a friend, doing the same work. She acted surprised when I drove up, wondered who it was even though she knew I'd gone to get the truck, another example, I'm thinking, of her not quite knowing what to think of me, an ability to take me, my stories and exploits, seriously. I'm telling her about the trip to Tucson and back for the truck, the interlude at the Grand Canyon. How I would have gone on the mule ride down to the bottom, but got there too late. Wouldn't that be fun, though? No comment. About the splendor of the views, the walkways lined by stonework and rock walls. She's working, acts distracted, but responding, if in a tentative voice. Yeah, I spent hours looking at the views, I say, and they never stopped changing. From dawn until I left, the shifting sun kept changing what you saw. So you just walked around and looked at the view all day? she asks, trace of incredulity. From dawn till mid-afternoon. I could hardly make myself leave. She reiterates the question, more as if she's thinking out loud than making an inquiry. You spent the whole day walking around looking at the view? Well, yeah. I couldn't help myself. She's lost in thought, intent on completing her chores, my mind's racing again, I know there's something going on in her head, but what? We're still talking, just going through the motions, however. A surge of adrenaline is telling me to do something, preparing me to do something, I don't know what, but I'm trying to discern the nature of what I detect, I'm trying to talk to her as if I have any sense while trying to analyze what's happening. Seconds like hours provide what I think is the answer, small blast of mental awareness, but am I right? She finds it strange that a man would do that, never knew a man who would do that, and I know she's never met a man like me before, no one else has either. The concept interests her somehow, if only in her subconscious, this idea of a man who would spend a day looking at the view, and I think she likes the idea, is at that very moment considering what it might be like hiking with me, or going for a mule ride, in the Grand Canyon. Thinking after the fact what I was thinking a few days earlier, that very moment. Is fighting herself, and the thought, and the attraction to the idea, attraction to me, that very moment. All the time I know full well that she'll talk herself out of it at the first opportunity. At that very moment. We continue the desultory conversation, both of us lost in our separate thoughts in the talking, and I'm trying not to betray the deflated, sinking feeling I feel as we go through the motions of verbal communication, while I share this mental dialog with her, it's evidence our voices mutually querelous, but only barely. As we talk, walk, I see the views I've regarded for more than six months, the vineyards, the arena, the stalls by the picnic table, I see Michelle's arm swinging next to mine, or hand gripping the wheel barrow, her shoulder and thigh with my peripheral vision, Michelle whole, in motion, that ever intent look on her face, but now it's thoughtful, when I turn to look at her, and I feel the whole six months at once, our romantic little preserve turned into my own private hell, a hell of my own making, I'm Sysiphus rolling that boulder up the hill, forever, Tantalus, the vulture picking at my entrails, forever. But it's so pretty here, and I'm walking and talking with Michelle, it's been wonderful when it wasn't horrible, and I'm still in the game, and I can still win. We can still win. If only I can keep Michelle from destroying it somehow. Oh, I almost forgot, I say, in the breeziest voice I can manage. This time, you almost really did get me arrested. I'm trying to shift the tone, telling a showoff story, at the same time acknowledging the day she announced to the world I'd crashed the party. A move to throw her off a bit, establish that I understand her games, now know she plays games, am letting her know it. What're you talking about? she demands, touch of hostility, turning her face to mine, mine turning to hers a split second behind. Look of slight outrage on hers. I tell her about pulling off the road in the desert in Southern California some time after dark to take a nap. Awakening at two in the morning, and continuing on, when I crested the top of a hill to see a flaming big rig ahead of me veering crazily as the driver slowed down, pulled over and leaped out as soon as he stopped the eighteen-wheeler, and disconnected the trailer. Jumped back in to save the tractor, driving forward out of range of blaze or explosion. I stopped ahead of him, got out, walking to where he was now standing. We were all alone on the highway, but briefly. Every vehicle that came along the all-but-deserted road stopped to watch the conflagration, and within a few minutes a half-dozen dotted the freeway, including one on the far side of the burning truck. I tried calling 911, but there's no cell reception out here, drawled the driver, a lanky man with a few days beard growth, shirt out. Not like there's anything they can do about it; when loads of hay catch fire, they just let'm burn. Not much use for a load of wet hay. Then you gotta get rid of it. The flames consumed the back of the load, having started, apparently, from brake friction that sent sparks into the dry bales; but the fire burned slowly, and the front three-fourths of the trailer were so far unscathed. Sparking in turn an idea. Hey, you mind if I try to snag some bales? I asked. I've got a friend with horses. I'd love to show up with a load of hay in my new truck. Hell, I don't care, he said. Help yourself. I loved the concept, of course--rescuing hay from a burning truck--it was exactly the kind of thing I do, and it was even better that I could give the feed to Michelle. Along with a story of minor daring. I strode to the truck with the swagger of determination that comes so naturally to me when I'm embarking on a self-dramatizing little adventure, grinning all the while and thinking, This is fucking great. I arrived at the front of the load, grabbed the tiedown strap and started to climb up the wall of hay when an angry voice yelled over the night air, Get off that load, and stand away from the truck! The shock of the command coming out of the desert darkness, as if from God, compelled me to fall off and back without thinking, provoking a slight stagger, but I recovered. The headlights pointing at me from behind the rig belonged to a highway patrol car. I briefly considered heading toward them to try to hustle the cop into letting me complete the task, but before the thought completed itself, he added to his initial dictate, the voice exploding once again across the emptiness, Turn around and keep walking! I complied, thinking as I walked, Oh, well, I still have a story for Michelle, even if I didn't get the hay. But I tried, that should count for something. She responds to the story with the obligatory uh-huhs and ohs, but she's still in that zone of hers where she seems half-hypnotized, she's thinking things, she's trying to figure out these feelings I evoke, whatever they are at this moment when I 'm getting to her somehow for good or ill, she's still doing her chores, but she's not resorting to one of her signals telling me to get lost. So I keep talking, telling her more of my short trek, and the ultimate irony of all. So, I say, you know I went out there for this free pickup truck, right? Well, the trip to Tucson and back cost a thousand bucks, that's no big deal, but guess what happened. She responds, dull voice, What happened? And I tell her how when I stopped at a Starbuck's for a cup of tea and to check my email, I returned to the truck, set the tea on the dash, laptop on the seat, when the former toppled over and dribbled the slightest amount of liquid on the latter. The next day the laptop stopped working, and I learned that I'd ruined it. I lied somewhat in the telling, however. I was, in fact, looking at that picture she'd sent. The one that so clearly said, Come and catch me. If you can. Yeah, I say, my free truck has cost me over a three grand so far, and it's going to cost a small fortune getting a California smog certificate. That's too bad, she says, still distracted. Tell me about it, I say. I feel like selling the damn thing. She jerks to life, stops short, turns to me. Don't do that, she says, hint of appeal. We'll...you'll be able to use it. She wants me to keep the pickup truck, I'm thinking as I drive away. She wants me to keep the pickup truck. Because we can use it in the future, the slip so Freudian, so quickly altered, as if in panic, that I'm heartened again at confirmation of what I believe are her subconscious desires. She sees a we in our future, fears a me in her future, and that's the whole problem, again, starkly outlined for me. Again. She wants to get together with me, can't allow herself for whatever reason, and if I raise the topic headon, she'll deny it and chase me off. I shake my head, sigh an exaggerated sigh, yell out loud, in frustration. Jesus Fucking Christ, I don't fucking believe this. It exhausts me, depresses me, exhilerates me. I've never had a drug problem, but I've experienced the comedowns from great highs from hard drugs, the aftermath of a weekend run of shooting coke or meth or heroin, something I did once every six months or so, the physical distress as the high wears off, the bad feelings, the regret, the thought in response, but damn, that was great while it lasted, and those experiences consisted of days of ecstasy followed by a day of discomfort, and it only happened once or twice a year, and this thing with Michelle is the closest to an addiction I've ever known. I've never had an issue with drugs like I have with Michelle, the highs and lows, the warmth inside, the cold desperation, all within seconds on occasion, the inability to grasp a workable model for reality, figure out a plan, an approach, when I'm dealing with someone so confused, so in denial, and, I suspect, rife with self-destructive tendencies. Not alleviated much by her best efforts. And this I'm doing two or three times a week. Then I check my messages, see Jo's left one, she asks if I'll meet her so we can look at another horse property; she'll take me to dinner afterward, she says, to compensate me for my time. This is getting weird too, but in another way altogether, I suspect she's got an elaborate plan to snare me, suspect she's left her husband for me, but she'll deny that, tell me I'm not that special, in her arch, dismissive, rich woman's way, she just wants me as a friend, and I should get a grip. I was always able to sort out reality when I used drugs, even if it took a little work, but I could always get a grip. I cannot get a grip on what's going on with Michelle, I'm completely lost when I try to determine what assumptions I can accept as settled, but she acts so irrationally, from my perspective, anyway, that I can't depend on anything as real. Jo's intentions toward me are no more clear, and she's just been back a week or so, I'd only known her for a week before that, and she's sucking me into her orbit despite my awareness of all the dangers. I just don't have a reason to escape yet, but I'm looking. I clean up, we meet in town, leave my car for hers, borrowed from one of her friends, a restored seventiess Lincoln Continental in silver blue. We drive toward the eastern hills beyond the city limits where little horse farms and ranches of every size seem to abound in an area I can't believe I've never quite known very well given my length of residence here. She takes me to a place on five acres, just perfect for her, wonderful house, tidy barn and fences, about 1.5 million. I saw it over the weekend, she says, and the realtor said I should snap it up. But I didn't want to do that until you saw it. Someone already put in a bid, but I can still make an offer. On hearing this I'm thinking, Good thing I was in Tucson, or she'd be buying this place, quickly seconded by the thought that this would be damn nice place for her to have, to be able to ride, but it's not just about her, and I'm back to the original formulation. I don't want her doing any of this unless she'd be doing it without ever having met me. We can't figure out how accessible the surrounding countryside is for riding, though, but on turning out of the driveway, we see a woman up the road a bit leading a horse. Jo drives up toward the woman in English riding gear, her mount a big, good-looking gelding. We stop, get out, and I see she's an Asian girl, mid-twenties, and I'm walking around the hood of the car when I realize I know her, it's Debra, one of Michelle's students with whom I've spoken at length, and my hearts falling into a pit inside, and the adrenaline's pumping again, and I'm thinking, Oh my God, this is just what I needed, and I say, Hi, Debra, remember me? Of course she does. I introduce her to Jo, tell her about the place we're looking at, inquire as to the possibility of riding on the hillside trails. She's new out there, doesn't know. Jo's prattling on, rich woman being sociable, all smiles and broad gestures, Debra's responding amiably, as people always do to Jo when she lays it on, and my mind's racing as I stand there saying uh-huh, participating as appropriate, trying to be cool, casual, not guilty, not caught doing something, but my head's ready to explode again. As the chatter continues I imagine how we must look to Debra, decked out for an expensive dinner, leaning against the vintage car, and we look like one of those full page illustrated car ads from a sixtiess Holiday magazine, the attractive, well-healed couple out in horse country, and Debra's dressed perfectly for her part in it as well, English rig, magnificent horse, imposing brick pillars and gate behind her. We finish with Debra and drive upvalley to dinner, Jo going on about how great it would be to get that place, the Mercedes she's going to buy, the car dealer and old friend who asked her out, and how betrayed and offended she felt. She tells of the turmoil back home over her leaving Dan, several extended famiies, his and hers, in an uproar, her church congregation's combined efforts to save her from this shameful act, all the myriad dramas resulting from her breakup, and she clearly glories in all the attention, people taking sides, married friends arguing with each other over whether she should do this or not, her delight at the chaos almost shameful. I'm thinking about the encounter with Debra instead, even as I hold up my end of the conversation, and what she thought of it if anything at all. She knew nothing about the growing relationship with Michelle, but all the women out at the stable certainly had their suspicions, and I couldn't imagine how much or little I may have figured in conversations between Michelle and Debra, but, another coincidence, I'd worked with her boyfriend on a newspaper, and Michelle picked up on that and may have asked Debra what they knew of me. As usual, Jo eats almost nothing of her dinner, I realize she seems never to eat, but she's sure to drain every drop of wine from the glass, from the bottle, and we drink more than I prefer. It's beginning to trouble me, all this drinking, she's really out of control, and while the woman I knew for the week or so a month earlier was flamboyant, the one I'm getting to know better seems possibly crazy. I know I'm going to have to say something about Jo to Michelle sooner than later, had already been thinking of of it before running into Debra. Michelle had horses to sell, knew of others, and Jo would be buying some if she got a place, and wouldn't it be nice if Michelle could make some money off this, but I'd have to be very careful, and maybe it wasn't such a good idea. But finessing things like that had been one of my strengths, I loved the intrigue, loved pulling off difficult stunts, but this wasn't just a game, I really did want to have a romance with Michelle, would drop any of my other campaigns and women for her if she gave me the slightest indication, no, she already gave me that, I needed her to express her interest clearly, somehow, devoid of the reaching out and pulling back. Regardless of any of that, however, Jo's manic approach to life, her love of gratuitous turmoil, herself at the center, suggested problems no matter what. I pace and smoke and drink once I return to the barn on the mountain, midnight approaches, and I'm overwhelmed with relief at the ability to think about one thing at a time, the ability to stop absorbing new information, new shocks and minor crises. I'd started with Michelle late that morning, had lunch with her, spent the entire time, as usual, trying to handle the adrenaline, the conversation, analyze what she was thinking, how to respond. Then Jo and Debra, and just Jo again. I'm exhausted, spent, can't really think clearly, the day's events and words and possible consequences bouncing around inside my head. I'm smoking cannabis, listening to Cream, and I feel the exhileration I felt when I was sixteen, seventeen, and fearless, and ready for anything, the crazier the better, and if I get killed it doesn't matter, and if I come out of it alive, it's worth the experience as long as I'm not crippled or maimed, and that was my life till I got married, and I'm back there again, and this is another adventure, and I'll be able to figure out how to deal with these women one way or another, and God, this is a great fucking story, you can't make this stuff up, the chance meeting of Debra and Jo, my separate lives spilling over into each other, and I'm reminded of Trollope's stories of romance so often on the verge of disaster, misunderstanding and infelicitous coincidence threatening to drive the lovers apart, but it all comes together in the last pages and they live happily ever after. Five, six weeks earlier, was it really just five or six weeks, we'd had that lunch when I asked about asking her out, and the intervening period revealed those many new faces of Michelle, her own craziness, my own inability to rationally deal with it. Within a week of that lunch I started writing about us, the stables, this growing relationship, and within the next few weeks I met bar Michelle, mean Michelle, flakey Michelle, Michelle maybe interested in me. I had no idea where the story would go when I started writing it, but nothing in my life's experience quite prepared me for what had already transpired, and I'd seen everything. But perhaps not. In the beginning, of the writing of the story, I mean, a compulsion to capture the sweet nature of this welling relationship drove my labors. The general outline alone suggested a romance novel. The eccentric rogue writer who lives on a mountaintop overlooking the sweeping valley casually pursuing the independent but vulnerable single mom who lives in a cottage amidst the vineyards. A woman with a past, trying not to repeat it, the man of the world trying to open her heart. The growing knowledge of each other, evolving intimacies, shared experiences in the animal environment of dogs, stables, horses. A private haven known only by us. All beset by intrusions from the outer world, and its people. In the wake of that lunch, in the tender, candid emails we exchanged right after, I saw for the first time signs of hope for us, if only I could chart the right course. And at some point in that following week, as I sat smoking in one of the plastic chairs under the overhang marked by the skull, watching Michelle recede and approach, cross my line of sight from one side to another and back again, as I sat smoking, I thought again, as so many times before, I thought, damn, this is nice. I'd never worked so hard to get to know someone, never ended up with such pleasant surprises. God, I hope I can make this work, I thought. But I'd made progess, gotten closer, gotten her thinking about a relationship with me, in general, anyway, with a measure of fondness. I noted the extent to which my pursuit had become an exercise in self control, how I'd developed a hypersensitivity to Michelle, her needs, desires, my determination to behave as well toward her as I could no matter what happened. The suppression of the effects of frustration in the months I'd dealt with her changing moods and manner, the avoidance of anger, resentment at her rebuffs, subtle and not. She was, in some way, bringing out the best in me, and I appreciated that as much as I'd come to admire her. It's so sweet, I kept thinking, and finally, said to myself, outloud, but not thinking about it consciously, Geez, this is just like a romance novel. But it's all true, it's all real. I've got to write this. I couldn't know how it would end, though, but then it didn't matter at some level. If we became lovers, of course, I would have that happy ending. Even if we didn't, however, it looked like we had every possibility of becoming good, longstanding friends. And that was almost as nice a story, if less satisfying personally, but even in that there was still hope for a romance. As long as we were engaged with each other, around each other, there was hope for some kind of happy ending. Unless she drove me away, or I did something rash. Whatever that might be. It had seemed risky to ask her out, but it had worked. That would be the hard part, making the moves I had to make without wrecking everything. And while all along I'd been trying to manipulate events so we could become lovers, it was in the process that I'd refined my behavior, had come to realize how difficult this could be for her if I did anything wrong. If I wasn't willing to accept her affections seriously if she ever returned mine. Thereby inciting the first flickerings of a commitment on my part, if only to do the right thing by her. Now I had reason to manipulate events for the story as well. That didn't change things much, but it did emphasize the importance of behaving properly even as I hoped to seduce her. Further, it made the achievement of that ideal ending more important than ever, I wanted the story to follow the arc that had been established by events. So far, it had been a classic love story, and it would be a shame if it didn't end just as it was supposed to. And whatever happened after we became lovers would be beside the point. Either we would stick together or we wouldn't, but wherever events took us, I would do my best by her. So I started writing this story, beginning with the description of that lunch, her question asking when I was last in love, my query about going out together. And I wrote, and I wrote, and whenever I wasn't with Michelle, I thought about her, about the story, and I wrote some more. It became almost too much to bear, I needed to think about Michelle less, not more, but I coudn't stop writing the story. Initially, I fooled myself into believing that the writing gave me some control over events, that by externalizing my feelings, I was somehow expelling them or managing them. No matter what happened in the romance, I had a story to tell, my way. Writing supplied the detachment I would need to put this into perspective, which in turn would allow me to manipulate events, manipulate Michelle, toward the ending I desired with less sense of urgency, without the complications of raging hormones, pumping adrenaline. It was not that way. It overwhelmed me almost from the start, and weeks into the writing I came to dread it, the combination of trying to work Michelle on a daily basis, now, then, while I'm reliving all the emotionally difficult moments of our history to that point, adrenaline surges and all. I wouldn't let myself stop, I kept writing, and as it went on, the time I spent with her became more difficult, more fraught with turbulence in my mind, because every moment of our time together for the last months flowed though my memory even as I was creating new ones in any instant I was interacting with her. Revelations provided by the new Michelle solved that particular problem. After the day at the bar, the day at the concert, I was finally overcome by the inability to process it all, to think about it anymore than necessary. Thoughts of Michelle tormented me always, no matter what I was doing, who I was with, and I could not go out of my way to think about her in the writing of the story. I could write of it no more, I was completely incapable of sitting down and thinking and writing, incapable of thinking about her any more than my subconscious demanded. And even as I stopped writing, acknowledged to myself the reason, I realized how much bigger, better, the story had become, how much more important, if less likely, the happy ending--any kind of happy ending--would be to achieve. Oh my God, I thought, I don't fucking believe it, I don't fucking believe it. What a helluva a story this is, what a great story. If only I can stand to see how it ends, if only I can stand the wonder, the pain, the addiction. The innocent hope of five, six weeks ago, now a hurricane of even more thoughts and emotions that cannot be absorbed, let alone resolved. And I'm pacing and smoking and thinking, listening to Cream, thinking of all those changes in Michelle, me, the situation in those five, six, weeks, and the last two or three weeks with the new Michelle, and the events of the day, and independent of any of my feelings and desires, I'm thinking, What a great fucking story this has become, and now here's this encounter between Jo and Debra, and how was I going to raise this issue with Michelle without it turning out badly, how could I manipulate it to my--our--benefit, how to move the romance along, the story, even if at the time I knew there was no way I could sit down and write even as I wrote it in my head, the beginning, the middle, the end, and I feel unmoored from reality, I don't know reality anymore, and I'm pacing fast, Cream is reaching a crescendo, Free, I feel free, I'm smoking, and drinking now too, and I'm stoned, but aware, in a transcendent state, and I know that whatever happens I'll be able to deal with it somehow, but I'll never be the same after this, if only because at this late stage of my so-jaded life I can still be so thoroughly surprised, so thoroughly adrift. And I realize that I like this new Michelle even more than my original image of her, the woman committed to domestic security, replaced by this barely restrained wild woman at war with herself and the good and bad angels of her nature, this is a woman I could thrive on, a woman who could thrive on me, and I'm thinking of the adventures we could have, the sex we could have, the strengths we could share, the weaknesses we could overcome and I'm energized by the prospects, and I'm thinking of the Coyote Ugly Bar, and I'd discussed opening a bar in Cambodia with a buddy just before I discovered Michelle's dubious little fantasy, and I'm thinking we could work something out, if only she let it happen, and if she let it happen I believe we, she, could possibly fulfill some of our fantasies together no matter how it turned out in the long run, that it would be good, good for us, worth the chance. Very good for her. If only she'll take the chance. If only I can figure out how to explain away how it was I ran into Debra while in the company of another woman. Yes, the story had started to write itself. But it was not immune to my interventions. The solution to this new dilemma concerning the meeting between Debra and Jo is obvious enough. Saying, as casually, as innocently, as possible, saying I ran into Debra while looking at ranches with a friend. A married friend of a friend. Just happens to be a woman. And why would Michelle care, she's got a boyfriend, she hangs herself out like bait in front of me, talks about how happy she was going home alone from a concert where she doesn't know any of the men she was happy she didn't go home with, and I'm worrying about what she'll think because I ran into Debra while in the company of another woman. And if it should excite a slight amount of jealousy in her, make her consider me a little more seriously if only because I may not be on the shelf, waiting for her, forever, that wouldn't be a bad thing, would it? Thinking about it, thinking I have it figured out, helps little. The execution will be everything, I'll be dealing with that natural hormonal high, suppressing the effects, the sense of exhileration tempered by fear, and I could blow this completely if I'm not careful, and this is all I think about in the days before I see her again, and it nags at me, and I discern something else going on in my head, but I can't identify it, but it'll come to me, and while going around in mental circles, something else emerges. We never talked about the day at the spa I'd bought for her, the phone messages we exchanged, or the pictures she sent me. That picture that said Come and catch me. If you can, that picture in which she looks directly at the camera, her blue eyes looking directly into mine, that smile that says so clearly that she wants me, wants my attention, but I'll never catch her because she wants me, and I want her back. But that's not it, either, it has something to do with Jo, and I don't know what, and I don't want to think of Jo, try as I might to keep her at a distance from my life she's worked her way between Michelle and me twice now, first with the call at the park, now with this incident concerning Debra, a little thing, like the call, that seems to threaten large consequences, and I see Michelle walking away from me all over again, into the twilight, into the dark, at the edge of the park, a month ago, the first time she engineered a get together between us, and I missed out on it because of Jo. It's the ranch, dammit, that first ranch we looked at. It comprised everything Michelle could want for a large commercial stable, with more than enough room for the thirty horses she has, with room to grow as well. Surge of adrenaline, ice at the back of my throat, down to my gut, a variation of that feeling I get when confronted by a great insight, the feeling when you might have to kill, might have to die, might have to get rich, might have to lose everything. In this case I regarded stunning possibilities, and as soon as the thoughts started, from the instant I thought of the ranch for Michelle I knew it was a good idea, a fantastic idea, and I knew it could happen. Within the split second of that thought I knew all the numbers would pencil out, I knew we could do a deal, knew Michelle could own her own place, knew she could make a small fortune for herself, while making someone else richer as well. It was so simple, so perfect for her, and she could be set for life. If only she would let it happen, and, as usual, I felt that familiar stab of pain, again, remembered, again, that she'd fight it, felt, again, that familiar bolt of helpless desperation derived from her fear of success, happiness, her fear of disappointment and dreams failed. Again. The certain knowledge that she would behave in a manner designed to thwart me, but ultimately thwarting herself instead. Jesus Fucking Christ, Jesus Fucking Christ, I repeated to myself outloud. What a great plot twist this could be. The idea percolated for a day or two, hovering always in my consciousness, somewhere, while I sorted out, little by little, the issues, my approach, the solution. One morning, at the cafe at First and Main, I lingered long after my friends had left, sat there through the late morning while running the numbers. I paced and smoked out front, went back inside, wrote some more, went back outside to pace and smoke some more. Watched the girls go by, flirted when it was worth it, visited with friends who strolled along, the lawyers with cases at the nearby courthouse, the city and county employees I knew, the whole while working elements of the deal in my head before putting it on paper. I had an idea of Michelle's cash flow because I knew her boarding rates, how many horses she had, a vague idea of at least some students and lessons. I came up with a conservative number, ten, twelve grand a month from the stables, and she attended at horse surgeries four or five times a month, providing something more in income. The big house could rent for three grand a month, the other four rentals 800. Sixteen to eighteen thousand dollars a month. I figured she could live on three or four, figured that her overhead in feed and help might cost an equivalent amount. Leaving about ten thousand for the mortgage. With the right size down payment, with the right interest rate, it could happen. Coming up with the down payment was the hard part, but she had hopes of this deal with her boyfriend and his vet partners for the horse clinic. This was a better location, a better property, and they could own it, disregarding the curmudgeons who owned Michelle's stables. Best of all, it worked purely as a real estate deal. The ranch was situated on the main highway into the valley, near the confluence of several major roads, making it an easy drive for horse people from three different counties. A major resort was under construction across the highway from the ranch, and the airport was a short distance away. The ranch also abutted a trail leading to a park just outside of town, a wilderness area where horsemen went to ride. Michelle could own and manage the biggest stables for miles in a wealthy area where boarding space and riding trails had all but disappreared. But the real beauty of the deal existed in its value as land, a ten-acre parcel adjacent to a corridor destined for development, a ten-acre parcel that could easily double in price in five years. If Michelle could make the mortgage payments, if Michelle just kept doing what she was doing, but at this other place, her success would be assured barring disaster. If Michelle could make the payments, she could land an investor with the down payment, with or without her boyfriend, Dan, and his partners. By then, I'd become intimately aware of a certain good old-boy network in town, consisting of people who knew and trusted each other, and regularly sought investments in which they could park a hundred thousand dollars, or a million, and make better than usual interest rates. They gravitated toward real estate and construction projects, and there were more of them around than there were good deals. I wasn't too far removed from the network, and this was a great deal. Within not too many years, Michelle and the financier could cash out and clear a million apiece. Or so it seemed to me. I called the realtor, and made an appoitment for a few hours later to discuss my assumptions. In the next hours I ran over all the contingencies in my head again, changed from the worn khakis and sweatshirt into my preppy uniform of crisp khakis, buttondown shirt, loafers. I had to look the part I intended to play, even though the realtor knew something of my other guises. I would look businesslike for business. The realtor's a former wine professional, wise to all the games of pretension common to the valley, adept at catering to his audience of wealthy clients. He's also as down to earth as a bartender, ever willing to cut through artifice, be candid and forthright. We weren't good friends, but we shared good friends, knew we could trust each other. No sooner had I sat down in his office, got the preliminary hellos out of the way, than he alluded to Jo, a woman who'd discovered the love of her life, she told him, who was intent on taking him home with her. I responded with raised eyebrows, his riposte a smirk. Yes, I said, I'm going to have to deal with that pretty soon. But I want to talk about a deal for someone else. And I don't want Jo to know anything about this. No problem, he said. I told him I wanted his advice, that I needed to know if my numbers and calculations made sense. I admitted my ignorance, that's why I needed his professional opinion. I told him about Michelle, her stable operation, no mention, of course, of my romantic interest, and ran the numbers by him. His enthusiasm for the idea took hold almost immediately, he confirmed my belief in the deal's feasibility, and within minutes I'd sold him. He knew much more about the parcel and planned developent in the area than I did, suggested it was as close to a sure thing as any deal in the county. If Michelle could make the payments, if she could come close to making the payments, it could happen. A phone call interrupted the flow of enthusiasm. It was one of his clients, a successful man from the Bay Area. He needed a good real estate deal to invest in. Yes, I knew we could find an investor for Michelle. I finished up with the realtor, more energized than before, bordering almost on a manic high. The next step was to talk to my partner, Billy Cash. One morning, ten years ago, I sat and talked with an old friend at the table near the corner window of the coffeehouse on First and Main. Pontificating about the damage wrought by developers in the town, I castigated the breed mercilessly as a a tall man in his fifties joined us, nodding to my friend. I'd recently returned to the area after two decades in Los Angeles, and though from my previous residence there I knew many of the people who met for coffee, new faces appeared. But we were all friends of friends, and acceptance at this round table constituted a tacit character reference. The man caught the tail end of my declamation, just before my old friend introduced us, half-laughing. This is Billy Cash, he said, chuckling, and you should probably know that he's a real estate developer. How do you do? I said, extending my hand. Sorry about the rant. I don't really think all you guys are evil. I just get so annoyed every time I look down the street and see parking lots where there used to be all those great old buildings. They destroyed the downtown in that stupid scheme to save the commercial district, they just wiped it out. Yeah, I know, he drawled in a soft, resigned voice. I couldn't agree with you more. But that's not the kind of development I do. I came to learn that by then he'd spent ten years rebuilding a riverside feed and grain warehouse into a luxury hotel. One of many projects, none concerned him more. He was saving old buildings. Over the following months and years we became better acquainted with each other over the round table, where every morning a dozen or so people joined and left the circle during a steady stream of coversation, debate and bad puns. The Old Man, scion of an influential family of lawyers and press barons, presided from his seat in the corner. He played polo still, though more than eighty. He'd been one of my instructors at the college, and I'd been the star of his wife's political science classes, allowing my ready acceptance at the exclusive little conclave. It included officials from city and county offices, insider lawyers, trendy winemakers, itinerant would-be intellectuals. For the first years some regarded me as an outrageous bullshitter, my tales of adventure, whether in the jungles of El Salvador, the slums of Manilla or the parties of Beverly Hills, straining their credulity to the utmost. I knew this, of course, and revelled in watching their expressions, watching them visibly try to determine what to believe. Hosting the Old Man and his spouse for lunch one day, to meet my wife, see our home, was a first step in establishing my credentials. He would go on at length at the coffeehouse, forever, about Tricia's charms, making it clear that no flake could marry that woman, sire that child, maintain that life. My self-description of my then-profession as a freelance writer could be seen as a euphemism for unemployed poser, they really didn't grasp what it was to be a big-city magazine editor, and that was in the past, anyway, but after interviewing some of them for articles, after they saw their names on glossy magazine pages, my veracity became less questionable. And despite my hyperbolic manner, endless schemes and projects underway, people came to realize I was, indeed, for real. As I entered the internet economy, they could read in the newspaper later about the projects I'd mentioned earlier at that table, they saw my small real estate deals grow from germination to completion to profit. Many entered into professional relationships with me, and despite my eccentricities, they knew I was a man to be reckoned with. Others resented me bitterly, always, as did many from time to time. I tried to subdue myself, but it was so easy to one up their stories, or fill in the details of this or that current or historical event, that jealousy was unavoidable, as was my penchant for being a know-it-all. The Old Man even blew up on me once, quite uncharacteristically. After filling in a detail during his account of one of the finer points of bull-riding, I'd done that, too, as well as actual bullfighting, he barked, To hear you tell it, you've been everywhere and done everything! He had been that person at the table before I appeared, and though I hadn't consciously tried to usurp his role as most worldly man you've ever met, I assumed the mantle easily. But that day, everyone slightly gape-mouthed at the outburst, it was, all of a sudden, an open topic. I chose my words carefully, knowing that I could precipitate a nasty little breach. I'm sorry if it bothers you, I said in a low voice with a straight face. But generally speaking, I really have been everywhere and done everything. And the moment passed as they acknowledged to themselves that it was probably true. Billy Cash regularly observed and participated in the events at the table over the decade, and I took his measure as he took mine. I verily lusted after the opportunity to do some kind of deal with Billy, secure in the knowledge that trying too hard would negate my efforts toward that goal. Billy evinced an avuncular manner, always soft-spoken, demonstrating a subtle, kindly wit, the full, deflationary import of which could sometimes take awhile to wholly appreciate. He didn't put people down, but his apparently innocuous humor contained alternate interpretations, the usual effect being to bring someone back to earth or provide a much needed perspective. I benefitted greatly from the gentle darts he threw my way, developing a vast respect for the man and his intelligence while coming to realize that beneath the homespun exterior was a deep understanding of human nature and the workings of the world. Born to a poor but loving West Texas oilpatcher and his wife, Billy read extensively of the encyclopedia set they scrimped to pay for, worked his was through college and law school. After coming to California and marrying a computer whiz from Silicon Valley before it was known by the name, he joined a San Francisco law firm representing major corporations in litigation. I can easily imagine him shambling into a courtroom, looking ill-at-ease, shuffling papers, and letting loose the old line in that soft drawl, in preface, I'm just a simple country lawyer, convincing completely opposing counsel of that truth to such an extent that they treated him like one. Just as I can imagine the most sophisticated sharks not realizing till they went to the men's room during a break that their genitals had been removed and shoved down their throats. He thrived on litigation, nasty litigation, becoming an all-consumed predator in the circumstance. But he didn't like the person he became during those periods, the sustained anger, combativeness, and an epiphany overcame him. Real estate and construction deals gone bad comprised much of his work, and over the years he'd learned all the complexities inherent in the business. Hell, I can do this, he concluded one day, so he did, while moving north of San Francisco to the country where he built a solar house in the middle of his new organic apple orchard. He went on to construct and own numerous business or office parks in the area, in addition to transforming the building on the river into a hotel, an endeavor claiming fifteen years beginning to end. Easily vilified as a Texas real estate developer, Billy is, in fact, a profoundly ethical man committed to a win-win approach benefitting the community as a whole: the business interests, the workers, the neighbors, even the bums, if there are any. He's often forced to battle bureaucrats at every level to move projects along, and no one in the county better understands how to work the system, earning him a reputation for behind the scenes intrigue, including many of the negative connotations. But he always plays it straight, using his wiles to get the powers that be let him do the right thing. But most people don't know what I do, and I've heard the snide remarks often around town, usually refraining from comment, because I pick up valuable information along the way. I also take pleasure, however, in setting straight people who should know better, people I respect enough, or care enough about, just because they can benefit so much from Billy's friendship or goodwill. Over the years, I encountered dozens of anecdotes concerning his generosity, little known because of his modesty. But numerous merchants are still doing business today only because of Billy's largesse or patience, and he's a major player in all the local charities, no constituency too small or insignificant to earn his concern. He kept me at arm's length during most of the years I've known him, readily identifying me as some kind of maverick hustler, a not unfair characterization. But I believe he came to see that I was also an honest, accomplished hustler. I asked his advice concerning my own land manipulations, showed him some of my properties, demonstrating at the same time that I was a man of some means and original thought. And despite the apparent differences between us, we discovered that under the skin we were more alike than not in many respects. After knowing him for almost a decade, I lost one of my jobs, a commonplace for me, especially during the dotcom days. The people at the table were used to my misadventures, noting as well that they seemed to have no practical effect on my life or attitude. I just figured out another way to make some money, and in any case, my wife had a good job, big salary. He knew me well enough by then to know that I possessed a great command of history, regional and beyond, and that I'd traversed many of the backroads of the valley, was familiar with out of the way places, had hiked some of the more obscure game trails. One morning he asked if I knew anything about the old resort perched along the eastern mountainsides just northeast of town. Hell, Billy, I've been sneaking in their for thirty years, I said in my typically broad manner. One of my favorite places in the world. It may have been the most delightful resort ever on the North American continent, views stretching from the valley below to the bay and San Francisco beyond. Miles of manicured trails lined with moss covered rocks, swimming pools, trout streams and waterfalls, trysting places and overlooks. A dozen or so buildings of native stone and Victorian woodwork provided the accommodations, the dining room serving the full range of the state's bounty, from wines to fresh fruits and vegetables to exotic meats and seafood, all prepared by chefs from San Francisco. Its twenty-year preeminence among the elites of Northern California declined with the new century, the curative waters of the numerous springs supplanted by medical advances, the habits of travel altered by the car. Fires ravaged the property in the forties and sixties, leaving behind stone ruins that seem not to exist outside of Europe, the apparent remains of some lost tribe of Roman aristocrats. Eucalyptus abounds within the walls, shrouding the masonry in a melancholy shade, filtering the once-maginificent views in much the same way the very ruins reveal just hints of the fine life these people once indulged. We talked about the ruins briefly, Billy nodded thoughtfully, looked up, and said, Why don't you come by the office when you're done here? I joined him an hour later, when he explained that he wanted to buy the property and save the ruins. The current owner had had similar designs, but unaware of the local penchant for gratuitous anti-development sentiment, he launched his plans badly and sunk the prospects. Billy knew the project penciled out right, such that he could build a dozen or so luxury homes on fifteen or twenty the 700 acres, minimizing the environemental and traffic impacts, understanding as well the complexities of navigating the local scene. The surest way to avoid knee-jerk public opposition was to emphasize the historic importance of these remains that would within years be destroyed by the encroaching Australian giants. He asked if I wanted to do the historical research, offering a not inconsiderable sum. Of course I accepted, at the same time hoping I could come with enough to justify his expenditures. Perhaps because of its exclusivity it had all but disappeared from the histories, something I already knew from the dearth of information on the resort in my own considerable collection of rare old books on California's past. As an occasional investigative journalist, I had experience at digging up obscure facts, but true to form, Billy set me off on the right direction though it took a few days of failure to acknowledge the fact. He mentioned an old card catalog at the library listing the subject of every article in the local papers for a span of fifty years, from the times right after the Gold Rush to the century's end. I searched through miles of microfilm for a week, copying every item concerning the property and its principles, scoured every history book and reminiscence and copied those as well. Within two weeks I had compiled the most complete archive on the place in existence. Billy wouldn't have suggested the project if he'd expected me to disappoint him, but I believe he was pleasantly stunned at what I had amassed, some five or six hundred pages. Even I was surprised, and my success encouraged me to keep digging, though, strictly speaking, I'd fulfilled my part of the bargain. I reread old books about early San Francisco, the Comstock Lode, the towering men of California's first days, noting connections overlooked in the histories, realizing at some point that I'd discovered the great untold stories of the West; the ruins, the resort, had been the focal point of some of the most fantastic intrigues of the age, the ramifications encompassing the whole of the modern world. And in a valley where wineries and their ego-driven owners affected the most tenuous ties to historic figures and events, I learned that the real facts concerning the properties exceeded their grandest hopes. At the same time, my marriage was foundering, and though I'd seen it coming for a year or two, living it out was no easier. Despite the lack of any tawdry behavior on either of our parts, Tricia had come to resent me deeply, and I came to return the sentiment. We had all the elements of an ideal life, but her dissatisfaction became insufferable for us both. She couldn't stand my apparent disorganization, my pursuit of pleasure while she overextended herself. A perfectionist workaholic, she drove herself relentlessly for her career, complementing it with manic housecleaning, closet rearrangment and an excess of activities for our son. Seeing me sit around and read and watch television, watching me come home with new curios and books from my endless fieldtrips, hearing of my hours with friends at the cafes, reinforced her sense of unfairness. Any observer might agree, based on appearances, especially considering the much greater salary she earned. I'd been immune to this view of hers for years, knew better than anyone the extent to which she made work for herself through unpaid volunteer activities, incurring huge expenses for the wardrobe she felt she required, and travel. I spent twice as much time caring for our son as she, helped with the domestic chores, and while she was on the road--sometimes twenty, thirty long weekends a year--I had to fulfill the overburdened schedule of activites for the boy at the cost of my own endeavors. I subordinated my career commitments to hers uncomplainingly, but it was never enough, and the more willingly I assisted her, the more she demanded, ever less pleasantly. I would have done anything for her, I had already, but when requests turned to orders, I became noticeably uncooperative and unsympathetic, leading her to conclude that I was mean and ungrateful, besides lazy. She bought expensive, spoiling gifts for our son, furnishings for the house without regard to my opinions, summarily decided on expensive trips to Europe or Hawaii or the East Coast, my feelings irrelevant since she was paying. She eventually came to disregard me completely, a weight she had to bear. She genuinely believed in the truth of her assessments, but still tried to be civil. Her coldness toward me chilled the household, though, and our communications degenerated into the bare minimum required to coordinate our resepective domestic duties. My own growing anger came to exceed hers, as I considered she knew exactly what kind of man she was marrying when we made the commitment after four years of steady companionship. What aggravated me most, however, was her blindness to reality. I accomplished much more than she despite my evident lassitude, working at the highest levels, on many occasions, of the culture, law, business, politics and national affairs. When I perceived, finally, that she found me wanting as a husband because I refused to behave as a Victorian wife, an almost naked fury replaced the respect I once felt. Her attempts to denigrate my modest earnings especially rankled, because I allowed her to play lady bountiful, pretended the gratitude she felt her due as a result of her lavish expenditures, supposedly for the family, knowing that I'd have to make up her deficits. My attempts to discourage her spending she saw as continued repression by the male patriarchy, my refusal to do more housework, or do it to her satisfaction, more evidence of man enslaving woman. I tried to avoid the arguments she precipitated, tried to resist gracefully her demands, but I exploded once in a while at her endless attempts to direct my affairs, in a restrained manner which conveyed a certain contempt. I reminded her that while I did, indeed, help in the kitchen less than she desired, she helped me not at all while I was rebuilding our various houses, admitted that she did, indeed, make more money than I, but it was I who paid her debts with my deals. My outbursts hurt and infuriated her. I did everything possible to avoid emphasizing it, but despite her apparent success she'd have nothing but bankruptcy without me, nothing to show for her fevered work but a lengthy resume. My few attempts to convey the most basic realities failed. She could not absorb any of these facts so at odds with her self-image as the consummate professional, her image of me as fun-loving freeloader. She absorbed nothing but her own self-righteous bitterness, myself the target. Typically, by the end, she attempted to dictate terms to me, summarily suggesting that I move out within a week. I told her I'd take a month, the communications by then emails since we could no longer talk to each other at all without yelling. Most troublesome for me, her need to control, her need to dictate, threatened financial catastrophe in her compulsion to expel me from her life. I'd amassed considerable assets over the last five years despite paying off her debts, but they lacked liquidity. Handled badly, our separation could ruin us, and she lacked the patience or inclination willingly to cooperate with me I existed in a fog of rage during those weeks of late winter, suppressed such that most of my acquaintances were unaware of our situation. I could barely think or work or plan, let alone write anything particularly demanding. I'd been unemployed for six months, had done nothing of my own in that time, just easy freelance assignments. The research for Billy, editing an autobiographical novel for the Old Man, some internet consulting. Throughout my publishing profession I'd maintained the fiction that if only I'd had the time I'd write something worthwhile, but during many extended periods between jobs, I'd managed to accomplish little. In reaction to that pattern, in an attempt to forget myself and the current mess, I found myself thinking more about the California histories I'd discovered, and conceived a plan. I bought some good, marketable internet addresses that suited my purposes, and designed a web architecture that would allow me to publish online in a coherent way as I wrote on the topic. When ready, I could send the finished product to an agent, in the interim having something to show for my labors. The structure also promised excellent prospects as a non-profit entity. Most important to me, however, was the knowledge that if I didn't do something, I'd forget the discoveries I'd made. So I started writing, surprisingly easily, since they were well-understood, straightforward facts and stories. I published several essays and small biographies within a week or two, creating a template that allowed the project to grow, a work in progress that could be repurposed in myriad ways. Joining Billy one morning as he left the coffeehouse for his office, I told him about the project, printed out some pages on arrival, told him I saw an eventual non-profit foundation in the future if I played it right. Billy knows non-profits well, is involved in the local charities, usually behind the scenes, to an exalted degree. The idea seemed to resonate with him. Not many days later he invited me to his office, situated in a cavernous former bank down the street from the coffeehouse, a huge space he shared with his two partners and a small staff. He started talking about my endeavor, how it related to the ruins he hoped to develop, eliding, eventually, into a philosophical discussion of what it meant to be a partner. At some point in the monolog I perceived something unexpected happening, evoking all the emotions I'd ever felt in similar situations. I was reminded of the many times in my past, in the publishing world, when things seemed to be going well, and I was called into a superior's office, a common occurrence given my status in the hierarchies. The anodyne preliminaries, a strange shift in direction and tone, and the realization I was being laid off or fired. The knowledge that nothing I could say could alter the inevitable, that I had to sit and absorb the news as gracefully as possible. That, too, became a common occurence in my last years in Los Angeles, as I reached the top of middle management in lifetime jobs just when corporate restructurings led to massive downsizings. Sitting there, listening to the bad tidings blankly, wondering what would happen now, what it portended for my future, knowing it would take time to fully comprehend. This was completely different, however, despite my similar emotions and blank reaction. This, too, would take time to absorb, but I did know Billy was asking me to become his partner in a history endeavor the full nature of which would be determined over time. I walked out of the meeting in a days' long daze, sure of nothing except that I now had an office, a support staff, and Billy's full confidence. The frigid household always awaited me at the end of the day, the elation of this new development quashed on walking through the front door of bright, colored Victorian window panes. Tricia thought my association with Billy, our collaboration in historical research, a waste of time. Are you making any money? she snapped once. Something will come of it eventually, I said evenly, controlled voice. I'll believe that when I see it, her last words. I'd stopped giving her money for the bills on losing my last job, knowing she could cover it if she stopped buying shoes and flowers. Our end was near, had to stockpile money of my own. It infuriated her, the ultimate injustice, I wasn't earning a salary, I was still having fun, was dabbling in this stupid history thing, I wouldn't help more around the house. And I wouldn't give her the money she knew I had. When she pressed it, I snapped back, Let's see, I've given you a hundred grand in the last four years. I figure I'm paid up for a few years. It shut her up, though blinding her with an irrational anger that couldn't acknowledge the justice of my position. I didn't bother to tell her of the money I'd already earned from Billy for the initial research, and we were barely talking at all in the months later when he insisted on paying for the laptop I bought since I'd come to loathe working at home. When Billy initiated the partnership that day, he'd candidly explained much more than I needed to know about his affairs, compelling me to reveal my domestic situation and finances. I was solvent for awhile, but admitted that I feared what might happen with my assets should things get messy. In the few weeks following, Tricia demanded my exit and a divorce, I informed Billy of the event. Billy nodded, looked down, and reached somewhere and pulled out a checkbook. You'll be needing some money, he said, writing a check for several thousand dollars, handing it across the desk. Hey, Billy, I said, shocked. I'm not desperate yet, and I don't really need the money. I know, I know, he said. You've done alot of work on this project, and you're not making any money. Developers like me don't always have checks to throw around, and you ought take this while you can get it. The check provided a cushion of confidence as I considered the divorce settlement, and it dawned on me rather quickly that I had my wife at a severe disadvantage. She earned a large salary, I was unemployed, a virtual stay-at-home-spouse, though I spent little time at home anymore. The house, our major community asset, derived wholly from my investments and labor. My family inheritance and how I'd managed it accounted for the rest of our holdings. Tricia was needlessly provocative on a regular basis, raising levels of hostility quite unnecessarily, enraging me beyond measure. When a discussion with Billy once touched the subject of my separation, I expressed a savage desire to plunder her, to exact revenge for all the destruction she initiated. Even though I looked forward to being free again, her nastiness got the best of me, her continued attempts to control me, to dictate terms, when she should have known I could crush her, fed an ungodly disdain. I wanted to teach her a lesson. Billy looked down, shook his head, said, You had a child together, and you're going to be stuck with her for a few more years. Don't do anything you'll all regret. I knew all the time I wouldn't do what I'd lately come to fantasize. I couldn't claim much in the way of emotional pain because she'd so diminished herself in my estimation over the years, and punishing her over the principle of the thing essentially violated my principles. Further, I realized that as cruelly as she treated me, she really couldn't help herself. She was who she was, and she truly believed her delusions, believed that she was doing the right thing. From her perspective I'd become an angry, bully of a man. From my perspective, she ended our marriage because I disobeyed and talked back. My only discontent with her resulted from her discontent with me. I never would have said a harsh word to her if she hadn't been so consistently critical, disapproving, pessimistic. We each had our own self-serving version of the truth. Despite that, despite the routine meanness that passed between us, we both fulfilled our obligations to the family unit, both knew we could trust each other at least to try to do the right thing. Billy's brief comment brought me back to reality, dispelled the evil thoughts faster than otherwise likely, redirecting my attention to a reasonable agreement. I told Tricia I'd present a settlement in two weeks, started running numbers at the corner table of the coffeehouse several mornings in a row, made an appointment with the most rapacious divorce lawyer in the county. In an-hour-and-a-half, he presented the most dazzling performance I ever saw in dozens of legal encounters. He queried me intensely, ordered my silence till he wanted an answer, till he was ready for questions. As a result of feminist demands for equality over the years, Tricia, ardent feminist, could be required to pay thousands in monthly spousal supprt, forever. I'd certainly get half the value of the house--its worth had doubled in just a few years--and I might be able to get it all. She'd have to share custody, my child support liability a pittance. My family money, of course, was all mine. I'd sensed as much at the outset, but now I knew exactly where things stood. The attorney's time cost the best $500 I ever spent. To Tricia I disclosed the consultation with an attorney, immensely enjoying her discomfiture at the news, my smugness detectable. Why'd you do that? she asked nervously, suppressing desperately the anger she felt. She was scared, I was jubilant. When the day finally came around, I gloried in my command of the situation, wallowed in her palpable fear as we sat at the kitchen table, site of so many good, family moments before it all soured. She'd had a week to prepare for the worst, to suffer my imagined vengeance, which she knew could be unrestrained when I found a deserving target. She shifted uncomfortably, in the chair, crossing her legs, her arms. I delivered the ultimatum in a calm, determined voice. I'd arranged to refinance the house, withdrawing half the equity; she'd be able to make the payments easily as long as she continued to refrain from the shoes and flowers. I'd eliminate our debt, this time paying off her new BMW. We'd share custody of our son, decisions arrived at mutually. I offered to eschew spousal support if she relieved me of the obligation for child support. Tricia sat speechless momentarily, unable to credit what she'd heard. She'd villified me so in her mind that it took ten, fifteen seconds, to understand the import of the deal. Well...okay, she said, weakly, slowly, hollow-voiced. That...sounds...good. From that day on, her venomous attitude toward me dissipated, Tricia becoming again at least a pale reflection of the delightful woman I'd loved so deeply so many years before. I left with a hundred thousand dollars, an absence of restraints, moved to the mountaintop overlooking the valley. And met Michelle a week later. Cast newly adrift in the world, a while passed before finding my bearings. I could do anything I wanted now, but determining what that might be demanded reasoned thought, careful introspection, though at the time I suffered from shock, a severe sense of dislocation with this new freedom after decades of domestic constraint. Giving up my life of women, adventure and intrigue for marriage, I'd done willingly, but the very dynamics of living together began to undermine our relationship from the beginning. Tricia found the charming rogue less charming on a 24-hour-a-day basis, my irregular habits maddening to a woman devoted to order. I compromised as much as possible, but my loose sense of priorities, my penchant to procrastinate as I waited for problems to go away or resolve themselves, contradicted every tenet of Tricia's style, her need to keep lists, to plan for eternity, to anticipate and act on non-existent problems, right now. These incompatibilities we overlooked in our previous four years together, since we only shared time when we wanted. Both of us had busy, separate lives, generally alien to each other except for significant overlaps. We complemented each other well at certain respective functions, though hers were boring, as were her friends and colleagues, while mine were exciting, as were my friends and colleagues. In spite of that, we crossed over well. Her staid acquaintances found me exciting, mine found her charismatic. A photographer friend once stopped us on the Venice boardwalk to take our pictures with a vintage camera, the final photo in black and white, of Tricia in capris, me in khakis, sitting on the ground against a wall. Geez, you guys look like you're hanging out with the Kennedy's at Cape Cod, she said. Others often said Tricia looked like a blonde Jackie Kennedy. And thinking of those days, that photo, the comparison to Jackie Kennedy, I mused that they had it wrong. My wife was the woman Jackie might have become if she'd ever really had to work. Tricia was prettier, with a wonderful voice, unlike that simpering little-girl squeek. Better figure, too, as well as better educated. And her style was unparalleled. I discovered, however, slowly, that she suffered from shyness, masked by her position and poise, and she didn't really enjoy the company of people much, content to settle for one, good friend, and seldom adept at choosing that one. Often, they were people who used her, discouraging her from the effort to make others. I collected enough friends to go around, but the energy to maintain relationships exceeded her abilities or inclinations, and while she choreographed magnificent dinners and parties, her self-imposed demands dictated major productions for every function. They became few and far between, and the concept of having friends over for pizza and beer without an orgy of housecleaning in the days before she found unnacceptable. I adjusted, I loved her, but watching the excitement, even the tamest versions of it, leak out of our life numbed me to the core. For her part, I know my style of operation deeply offended her sense of propriety. Always the good girl, living with the bad boy just seemed wrong. She tried early on to control me through disapproval, the friction aggravated by the death of her father, and we separated after a year. I returned eight months later, at her request, presuming that she'd come to terms with who I was. Wrong again. For years I'd kept a journal, recording observations, composing essays, clarifying ideas, making plans, and a few years into the marriage I quit, not realizing until years later why. In randomly reading the pages, I discovered that I'd be writing about why she wasn't speaking to me this particular week, how an insignificant comment or moment led to yet another argument over trivialities, my anger at her provocation, her resentment at my anger. In spite of that we were often happy, though I came to feel I was living in a black and white world, devoid of color, a sense heightened by giving up drugs, especially cannabis. She'd had no problem with it before, no problem with my occasional coke binges, but now it was all unacceptable. I adjusted. None of it mattered. The birth of our son increased the feelings of constriction, justifying more demands on me, my behavior, while her once unlimited affection for me transferred to Jimmy. There was one too many people in her life, and she didn't have enough love to go around. I was so glad it was over, that we could be friends again, that she stopped treating me so badly, perhaps as badly as she ever treated anyone in her life. But it wasn't the treatment that bothered me so much, I'd already lost respect for her opinion before it reached its worst. It was my opinion of her that nagged at me. After everything we'd had together, it bothered me to despise her so, I didn't want to think ill of her. I had to disengage so I'd stop bringing out the worst in her. It had nothing to do with my behavior, except that I refused her control, and succeeded despite her pessimism. She loathed me, and treated me in a loathesome manner. It hurt to watch her degrade herself in attacking me, it hurt to think hateful thoughts about her. A woman I'd loved, still did at some level. The bits and pieces of these facts I gleaned over time, but now, alone in the barn on the mountain, in the pacing and smoking and drinking, I could see them whole, see how easily love could be corrupted, see how two decades had changed me, see how much she'd become a part of me. All this I considered, reconsidered, in the pacing and smoking at night, while during my days I attempted to recreate the sort of networks I'd enjoyed before marriage, a collection of women I liked, whom I could service to mutual benefit, until I came across another special creature. At the same time, I intended to get out in the world, to move in large circles again, make connections, deals, find intrigue, manipulate events. But I was no longer the same person I had been, and despite a strong sense of myself, who I was, this new beginning forced that assessment of my past, present and future. Billy commented during this period that I wasn't quite myself, I was dealing with issues, incurring my denials, the assertion that I was happy with the divorce, my prospects, all of it true. But I was recreating myself with the growing knowledge that I really could do anything now, overwhelmed by what I remembered from my past, the things I'd aspired to as a beset teenager, trying to figure out how to sustain the bizarre life of adventure I had even then contrived before my majority. I'd wanted to be Rhett Butler, Sam Spade, James Bond, and it hit me that I had, in fact, lived those roles, my life an endless series of the most terrifying, exciting, gratifying, romantic scenes from hundreds of books, movies, but I'd done it for real. I'd developed new skills during my twenty years of marriage, my limbo, that would serve well in any future endeavors. I had several hopeful business deals in the works, any one of which could enrich me beyond imagination when I made the right moves, I owned land I could leverage into money and an estate, I had enough ready cash to sustain me for years. Billy nailed it, I was dealing with issues, but the resolutions all promised more of the life I wanted. I'd already fulfilled more fantasies than I imagined to a degree unimaginable, and I was uniquely prepared for more, the horizons boundless. That insight staggered me, along with the knowledge that to a remarkable extent, I could do anything I wanted, no matter how grandiose, if I played it right, anything I wanted. I lived in the barn without heat, plumbing or electricity, developing my own off-grid lifestyle, of no inconvenience to me, having spent years living in jail cells, army barracks, jungle huts, forest tents, third-world dives. I surrounded myself with thousands of rare books, my numerous collections, of graphics, primitive weapons, antique toys, curiosities, folk art, paintings, relics, car, ship, train and plane models, by the hundreds, clockworks, old cameras, skulls. My every window gave view to scenes captured by the great, oldtime California artists, visions of Virgil Williams and William Keith everywhere I looked, the trilling of birds awakening me in the morning, the howling of coyotes serenading me at night, no neighbors for a half-mile, ten minutes to town. I could shoot from the porch, pee from the balcony, walk around naked. I paid no rent, owed no debts, suffered no obligations. I purged my anger at Tricia, cut loose troublesome people, I devoted my life to pleasant pursuits. Absent any overhead, I could spend money heedlessly, could dine out, attend events of high societies, low underworlds, everything in between. I lived a life of Nineteenth Century splendor, with a computer, television, stereo and cell phone. Over the years, I'd read of certain English eccentrics, often maverick sons of the aristocracy, combination scholar-soldier-adventurer-voluptuaries. That was my new life, all of a sudden, quite by accident, quite by design. I continued my research and writings concerning California history, the growth of San Francisco after the Gold Rush, the men whose like are seldom found today, men, I realized, like me. Like Harley. We'd become interested in the great characters behind the scenes, obscure men who pulled strings and amassed power and wealth, committed to a certain strict code of behavior, but unrestricted by conventional presumptions of the possible. I'd gotten in the habit of writing again, I had something to write about, if only other people's histories. And in the pacing and smoking and drinking on the mountain on a star-filled spring night, I thought of another night 35 years before, long-forgotten, at Fort Bragg, a young paratrooper trying to get into Special Forces. Fantasies of war, espionage, exotic locales, beautiful women, a meaningful, exciting life. And after living it, still living it, writing about it, a novel outlined, imagined, but brought to life, the real thing. I also yearned for that great love, too, however, that one great woman, to have children with, domestic bliss. These aspirations seemed incompatible, as if any of it were possible, but I was making up stories, could imagine what I wanted, so ignored the inherent dilemma. And in the pacing and smoking and drinking, Ravel's Bolero blasting from the stereo to echo back at me from across the ravine, drums and cymbals crashing to crescendo, I saw that I'd lived out, in detail, that vague outline, had those adventures, had that family, was living new adventures. I'd pulled it off, resolved that dilemma, had lived that novel. And now I could write about it. I started with accounts of my new adventures, the events I attended, the behind the scenes machinations in the valley, the social hierarchies, expanding the scope, eventually, to the auction near London, the parties in Los Angeles, museum openings in San Francisco, social criticism and gossip, informed by my own unique history, knowledge of history at large, my unique understanding of how things really work. I published them on my wine sales web site, unconcerned that no one read them since I hadn't started marketing it yet. That would come later, when I snagged the deep pockets investors I knew would come. I owned, after all, the best web address of the sort in the world. I was writing what I wanted to write, that was all that mattered, and I was satisfied with the results. Newly cognizant of my ability to manipulate the stories, I embarked on every outing determined to make something happen, asking myself, only half in jest, what kind of trouble can I get into now? Adrenaline pumping, exhileration growing. Instead of trouble, I got access, moving easily in and out of the most refined, or difficult, environments, engaging in conversation the most compelling guests, insightful flunkies, interesting celebrities. Attractive women. At such an event I met Michelle, the first after leaving the home by the bay, among the first stories I would write, a story mentioning our first encounter. And pacing and smoking and drinking in the subsequent months, I marveled at the strange, surrealistic quality of the incident and aftermath, how this casual interest blossomed into an obsession to win her heart, to ride horses, to make this story come out the way I wanted. To see her happy, ultimately, with me or without me. And I'm pacing and smoking and drinking, and smoking even more cannabis, in a mental frenzy as I regard the potential, thinking about this deal she can do, a deal I couldn't pull off for myself, a deal to enrich her beyond her dreams, a deal that can transform her life, with me or without me, and I'm thinking how I have everything I can ask for, a future I've dreamed of, and it would all be perfect for me if we became lovers, total contentment, for now, if only transient, how she can achieve everything she ever wanted, with me or without me, for now, if only she doesn't reject it in her enthusiasm to reject me. I'm listening to the Beatles now, Michelle, my belle, and I'm sick at heart, warm inside, melting, feeling good, and sick at heart again, the highs and lows I subject myself to in thinking of her, unbearable, but I bear it some more, think of her some more, think of the deal, it's a great deal, I think it's a great deal, and I'll talk to Billy about this tomorrow. He develped most of the properties by the airport and beyond, still owns alot out there, nobody knows its worth and potential like Billy Cash. On leaving the coffeehouse, I stop him, ask if he'll have some time to talk in an hour, he says Yes. I'm reluctant to waste his time, don't want to waste his time on stupid schemes, but this really looks good, though I'm still hesitant walking into the offices. He makes it easy for me, as he always does for anyone, and I preface the delivery by acknowledging my ignorance. He knows I'm taking riding lessons, knows nothing of my romantic interest, I tell him I fear this new friend, my riding instructor, might lose her place, though she doesn't see it. I mention the boyfriend vet, the plans for a clinic, along with my doubts concerning the current stable property. How I stumbled across this ranch, want to explore the contingencies. My belief that it might be such a good deal that Michelle should get it herself, might be able to pull it off, especially with her vet investors in the clinic. I run the numbers by him, my assumptions about her cash flow, the possible rental income, likely downpayment and interest rates. My belief that the land could double in value in a few years, the most significant fact. That Michelle has no money of her own, but it might be such a good deal that she could find an investor. Billy listens, head down, nodding here and there as he asks the pertinent questions. Well, he says, if she has that kind of cash flow, she might be able to pull it off. And land out there's always a good investment. That's not a bad price. It's over in ten, fifteen minutes, I thank him, get up to leave. I'm walking out, he can't see the smile on my face, can't really know the exhileration I feel. He can't see the tears spring to my eyes the instant he says, to my back, Tell me know how it works out. And let me know if she can't raise the money. Yes, I knew we could find an investor for Michelle.