The Cottage

Public lives and private secrets collide at …

PRAISE FOR

DANIELLE STEEL

“A LITERARY PHENOMENON … and not to be pigeonholed as one who produces a predictable kind of book.”—The Detroit NewsTHE PLOTS OF DANIELLE STEEL'S NOVELS TWIST AND WEAVE as incredible stories unfold to the glee and delight of her enormous reading public.”—United Press International“Ms. Steel's fans won't be disappointed!”—The New York Times Book Review“One counts on Danielle Steel for A STORY THAT ENTERTAINS AND INFORMS.”—The Chattanooga Times“Steel writes convincingly about universal human emotions.”—Publishers Weekly“STEEL IS AT THE TOP OF HER BESTSELLING FORM.”—Houston Chronicle“FEW MODERN WRITERS CONVEY THE PATHOS OF FAMILY AND MARITAL LIFE WITH SUCH HEARTFELT EMPATHY.”—The Philadelphia Inquirer“It's nothing short of amazing that even after [dozens of] novels, Danielle Steel can still come up with a good new yarn.”—The (Newark) Star-Ledger

PRAISE FOR THE RECENT NOVELS OF

DANIELLE STEEL

THE COTTAGE“A story of friendship … fans can always count on Danielle Steel to come up with a best-selling story … [her] charm has lasted.”—Abilene Reporter NewsSUNSET IN ST. TROPEZ“Steel's skillful character development shines.”—The (Newark) Star-Ledger“Steel delivers yet another gem that fans will eagerly devour.”—BooklistTHE KISS“Steel pulls through with skillful plotting, steeping a gentle brew that will once again gratify her legions of fans.”—Publishers WeeklyLONE EAGLE“THE NOVEL IS BRIGHTLY PACED, and the World War II setting provides plenty of contextual drama.”—PeopleLEAP OF FAITH“STEEL IS A SKILLED STORYTELLER. [Her] tale provides entertainment and imparts important lessons.”—BooklistJOURNEY“Steel uses her storytelling flair here … beautiful people, a glamorous setting, an evil antagonist, a dash of political intrigue and a hearty dose of social consciousness combine in AN ENTERTAINING AND EYE-OPENING STORY … it's quite a trip.”—Chicago TribuneTHE HOUSE ON HOPE STREET“[This] simple story of a courageous woman weathering the worst of life's storms is HARD TO PUT DOWN … Steel knows how to wring the emotion out of the briefest scene.”—People

Also by Danielle Steel

ANSWERED PRAYERS NO GREATER LOVE SUNSET IN ST. TROPEZ HEARTBEAT THE KISS MESSAGE FROM NAM LEAP OF FAITH DADDY LONE EAGLE STAR JOURNEY ZOYA THE HOUSE ON KALEIDOSCOPE HOPE STREET FINE THINGS THE WEDDING WANDERLUST IRRESISTIBLE FORCES SECRETS GRANNY DAN FAMILY ALBUM BITTERSWEET FULL CIRCLE MIRROR IMAGE CHANGES HIS BRIGHT LIGHT: THURSTON HOUSE THE STORY OF NICK TRAINA CROSSINGS THE KLONE AND I ONCE IN A LIFETIME THE LONG ROAD HOME A PERFECT STRANGER THE GHOST REMEMBRANCE SPECIAL DELIVERY PALOMINO THE RANCH LOVE: POEMS SILENT HONOR THE RING MALICE LOVING FIVE DAYS IN PARIS TO LOVE AGAIN LIGHTNING SUMMER'S END WINGS SEASON OF PASSION THE GIFT THE PROMISE ACCIDENT NOW AND FOREVER VANISHED PASSION'S PROMISE MIXED BLESSINGS GOING HOME JEWELS a cognizant original v5 release october 14 2010

To my very wonderful children,

Beatie, Trevor, Todd, Sam, Nick,

Victoria, Vanessa, Maxx, and Zara,

who are the light of my life,

the joy of my days,

the comfort of my life,

the solace in sorrow,

my light in the dark,

and the hope of my heart.

No greater joy than you,

and when you have children one day,

may you be as lucky as I have been

to love and be loved by you.

with all my love,

Mom/d.s.

Chapter 1

The sun glinted on the elegant mansard roof of The Cottage, as Abe Braunstein drove around the last bend in the seemingly endless driveway. The sight of the imposing French manor would have taken his breath away, if the driver had been anyone but Abe. It was a spectacular home, and he had been there dozens of times before. The Cottage was one of the last legendary homes of Hollywood. It was reminiscent of the palaces built by the Vanderbilts and Astors in Newport, Rhode Island, at the turn of the century. This one was in the style of an eighteenth-century French chateau and was opulent, handsome, graceful, exquisite in every aspect of its design. It had been built for Vera Harper, one of the great stars of silent movies, in 1918. She had been one of the few early stars to conserve her fortune, had married well more than once, and had lived there until she died at a ripe old age in 1959. Cooper Winslow had bought it from her estate a year later. She had had no children and no heirs, and had left everything she had, including The Cottage, to the Catholic Church. He had paid a handsome sum for it even then, because his career had been booming at the time. His acquisition of The Cottage had caused a considerable stir. It had been quite an extraordinary house and property for a young man of twenty-eight, no matter how major a star he was. Coop had had no embarrassment about living in the palatial home, and was comfortable that it was worthy of him.

The house was surrounded by fourteen acres of park and impeccably manicured gardens in the heart of Bel Air; it had a tennis court, an enormous pool paved in blue and gold mosaic, and there were fountains located in a number of places on the grounds. The design of the grounds and gardens had allegedly been copied from Versailles. It was quite a place. Inside the house were high-vaulted ceilings, many of them painted by artists brought in from France to do the work. The dining room and library were wood-paneled, and the boiseries and floors in the living room had been brought over from a chateau in France. It had provided a wonderful setting for Vera Harper, and had been a spectacular home for Cooper Winslow ever since. And the one thing Abe Braunstein was grateful for was that Cooper Winslow had bought it outright when he purchased it in 1960, although he had taken two mortgages out on it since. But even they didn't hamper its value. It was by far the most important piece of property in Bel Air. It would have been hard to put a price on it today. There were certainly no other houses comparable to it in the area, or anywhere else for that matter, except maybe in Newport, but the value of the estate in Bel Air was far greater than it would have been anywhere else, despite the fact that it was now somewhat in disrepair.

There were two gardeners pulling weeds around the main fountain as Abe got out of his car, and two others working in a flower bed nearby, as Abe made a mental note to cut the gardening staff in half, at the very least. All he could see as he looked around him were numbers, and dollar bills flying out windows. He knew almost to the penny what it cost Winslow to run the place. It was an obscene amount by anyone's standards, and certainly by Abe's. He did the accounting for at least half the major stars in Hollywood, and had learned long since not to gasp or wince or faint or make overt gestures of outrage when he heard what they spent on houses and cars and furs and diamond necklaces for their girlfriends. But in comparison to Cooper Winslow, all of their extravagances paled. Abe was convinced that Coop Winslow spent more than King Farouk. He'd been doing it for nearly fifty years, he spent money like water, and hadn't had an important part in a major movie in more than twenty years. For the last ten, he'd been reduced to minor character parts, and cameo appearances, for which he was paid very little. And for the most part, no matter what the movie or the role or the costume, Cooper always seemed to play the dashing, charming, fabulously handsome Casanova, and more recently the irresistible aging roué. But no matter how irresistible he still was on screen, there were fewer and fewer parts for him to play. In fact, as Abe rang the front door bell and waited for someone to answer, Coop hadn't had any part at all in just over two years. But he claimed he met with directors and producers about their new movies every day. Abe had come to talk turkey with him about that, and about cutting back his expenses radically in the near future. He had been living in debt and on promises for the past five years. And Abe didn't care if he made commercials for his neighborhood butcher, but Coop was going to have to get out and work—and soon. There were a lot of changes he was going to have to make. He had to cut back dramatically, reduce his staff, sell some of his cars, stop buying clothes and staying at the most expensive hotels around the world. Either that, or sell the house, which Abe would have preferred.

He wore a dour expression as he stood in his gray summer suit, white shirt, and black and gray tie, as a butler in a morning coat opened the front door. He recognized the accountant immediately and nodded a silent greeting. Livermore knew from experience that whenever the accountant came to visit, it put his employer in a dreadful mood. It sometimes required an entire bottle of Cristal champagne to restore him to his usual good spirits, sometimes an entire tin of caviar too. He had put both on ice the moment Liz Sullivan, Coop's secretary, had warned Livermore that the accountant would be arriving at noon.

She had been waiting for Abe in the paneled library, and crossed the front hall with a smile as soon as she heard the bell. She had been there since ten that morning, going over some papers to prepare for the meeting, and she'd had a knot in her stomach since the night before. She had tried to warn Coop what the meeting was about, but he'd been too busy to listen the previous day. He was going to a black-tie party, and wanted to be sure to get a haircut, a massage, and a nap before he went out. And she hadn't seen him that morning. He was out at a breakfast at the Beverly Hills Hotel when she arrived, with a producer who had called him about a movie with a possible part in it for him. It was hard to pin Coop down, particularly if it involved bad news or something unpleasant. He had an instinctive sense, a kind of finely tuned supersonic radar that warned him almost psychically about things he didn't want to hear. Like incoming Scud missiles, he managed to dodge them with ease. But she knew he had to listen this time, and he had promised to be back by noon. With Coop, that meant closer to two.

“Hello, Abe, it's nice to see you,” Liz said warmly. She was wearing khaki slacks, a white sweater, and a string of pearls, none of which flattered her figure, which had expanded considerably in the twenty-two years she'd worked for Coop. But she had a lovely face, and naturally blonde hair. She had been truly beautiful when Coop hired her, she had looked like an advertisement for Breck shampoo.

It had been love at first sight between them, not literally, or at least not from Coop's side. He thought she was terrific, and valued her flawless efficiency, and the motherly way she had taken care of him from the first. When he hired her she had been thirty years old, and he was forty-eight. She had worshipped him, and had a secret crush on him for years. She had given her life's blood to the impeccable running of Cooper Winslow's life, working fourteen hours a day, sometimes seven days a week, if he needed her, and in the process, she had forgotten to get married or have kids. It was a sacrifice she had willingly made for him. She still thought he was worth it. And at times she was worried sick about him, particularly in recent years. Reality was not important to Cooper Winslow. He considered it a minor inconvenience, like a mosquito buzzing around his head, and he avoided it all costs. Successfully, from his perspective at least, most of the time. Nearly always in fact. Coop only heard what he wanted to hear, i.e., only good news. The rest he filtered out long before it reached either his brain or his ears. And so far, he had gotten away with it. Abe had come that morning to deliver reality to him, whether Coop liked it or not.

“Hello, Liz. Is he here?” Abe asked, looking stern. He hated dealing with Coop. They were opposites in every way.

“Not yet,” she said with a friendly smile, as she led him back to the library, where she'd been waiting for both of them. “But he'll be back any minute. He had a meeting about a lead part.”

“In what? A cartoon?” Liz very diplomatically did not respond. She hated it when people said rude things about Coop. But she also knew how irritated the accountant had been with him.

Coop had followed absolutely none of his advice, and his precarious financial situation had become even more so, disastrously so in fact, in the past two years. And Abe's last words to Liz on the phone the day before had been “This has to stop.” He had come on a Saturday morning to deliver the message, and it annoyed him no end that as usual, Coop was late. He always was. And because of who he was, and how endearing he could be when he chose to, people always waited for him. Even Abe.

“Would you like a drink?” Liz asked, playing hostess, as Livermore stood by stone-faced. He had a single expression he used in every situation, none. It seemed to suit his part. Although rumor had it that once or twice, when Cooper teased him mercilessly about something, he had actually smiled. But no one had actually seen him do it, so it was more legend than fact. But Coop swore he did.

“No, thanks,” Abe said, looking almost equally expressionless as the butler, although Liz could see that irritation was creeping in at a rapid speed.

“Iced tea?” There was still an ingenue quality about her as she tried to put him at ease.

“That would be fine. How late do you think he'll be?” It was twelve-oh-five. And they both knew that Coop would think nothing of being an hour or two late. But he would come armed with a plausible excuse, and a dazzling smile, which made women go weak at the knees, but not Abe.

“Hopefully, it won't be long. It's just a preliminary meeting. They were going to give him a script to read.”

“Why?”

His more recent parts had been walk-ons, or showed him walking in or out of a premiere, or at a bar draped over some girl. Almost every part he played was in black tie. And he was as charming on the set as he was in real life. So much so that even now, the perks in his contracts were legendary. He somehow always got to keep his costumes, and negotiated his wardrobe, custom made at all his favorite tailors in Paris, London, and Milan. In addition to which, much to Abe's chagrin, he continued to buy more, wherever he went, along with antiques, crystal, linens, and staggeringly expensive art for his house. The bills were stacked up on Abe's desk, along with the bill for his most recent Rolls. Rumor had it he currently had his eye on a limited-edition, turbo-powered convertible Bentley Azure for half a million dollars. It would be a handsome addition to the two Rolls, a convertible and a sedan, and the custom-built Bentley limousine he had in the garage. Coop viewed the cars and wardrobe not as luxuries, but as the necessities of life. Those were the basics, the rest was cream.

A houseman appeared from the kitchen with two glasses of iced tea on a silver tray. Livermore had disappeared. The young man hadn't even left the room when Abe looked over at Liz with a frown.

“He's got to fire the staff. I want to do it today.” Liz saw the houseman glance back over his shoulder with a look of concern, and she smiled reassuringly at him.

It was her job to keep everyone happy and pay what bills she could. Their salaries were always top on her list, but even those had to slide for a month or two at times. They were used to it. And she herself hadn't been paid in six months. She'd had a little trouble explaining that to her fiancé. She always caught up when Coop did a commercial or got a small part in a film. She could afford to be patient. Unlike Coop, she had a nest egg socked away. She never had time to spend money, and she had lived frugally for years. Coop was always generous with her, when he could.

“Maybe we can let them go slowly, Abe. This is going to be hard on them.”

“He can't pay them, Liz. You know that. I'm going to advise him to sell the cars and the house. He won't get much for the cars, but if he sells the house, we can pay off the mortgage, and his debts, and he can live decently on the rest. He can buy an apartment in Beverly Hills, and be in good shape again.” He hadn't been in years.

But the house, Liz knew, was part of Coop, like an arm or a leg or an eye. It was his heart. It had been part of his identity for more than forty years. Coop would rather have died than sell The Cottage. And he wouldn't part with the cars, she was sure. The idea of Coop behind the wheel of anything but a Rolls or a Bentley was unthinkable. His image was part of who he was, all of who he was in fact. And most people had no idea that he was in dire financial straits. They just thought he was casual about paying his bills. There had been a little problem with the IRS a few years before, and Liz had seen to it that all the proceeds from a movie he made in Europe had gone to them instantly. It had never happened again. But things were tough these days. All he needed was one great film, Coop said. And Liz echoed that to Abe. She always defended Coop, and had for twenty-two years. It was getting harder to do so lately because of the irresponsible way he behaved. That was just Coop, they both knew well.

Abe was tired of the games he played. “He's seventy years old. He hasn't had a part in two years, or a big one in twenty. If he did more commercials, it would help. But it still won't be enough. We can't do this anymore, Liz. If he doesn't clean this mess up soon, he's going to wind up in jail.” Liz had been using credit cards to pay credit cards for over a year, as Abe knew, and it drove him insane. There were other bills that didn't get paid at all. But the idea of Coop in jail was absurd.

It was one o'clock when Liz asked Livermore to bring Mr. Braunstein a sandwich, and Abe looked as though there was smoke about to come out of his ears. He was furious with Coop, and only his devotion to his job kept him sitting there. He was determined to do what he had come to do, with or without Coop's help. He couldn't help wondering how Liz had stood him for all those years. He had always suspected they'd had an affair, and would have been surprised to learn that wasn't the case. Coop was smarter than that, and so was Liz. She had adored him for years, and never gone to bed with him. Nor had he asked. Some relationships were sacred to him, and he would never have tainted theirs. He was a gentleman after all, and at all times.

Abe finished his sandwich at one-thirty, and she had drawn him into a conversation about the Dodgers by then, his favorite team. She knew he was a passionate baseball fan. Putting people at ease was one of the things Liz did best. He had almost forgotten the time, as Liz turned her head. She knew the sound of his car on the gravel, although Abe hadn't heard a thing.

“There he is,” she smiled at Abe, as though announcing the imminent arrival of the three kings.

And as always, Liz was right. Coop was driving the Bentley Azure convertible the dealer had just loaned him for several weeks. It was a splendid machine, and suited him to perfection. He was playing a CD of La Bohème, as he came around the last curve, and stopped the car in front of the house. He was a breathtakingly handsome man, with chiseled features and a cleft chin. He had deep blue eyes, smooth, fair skin, and a full head of immaculately trimmed and combed silver hair. Even with the top down, he didn't have a hair out of place. He never did. Cooper Winslow was the epitome of perfection in every detail. Manly, elegant, with a sense of extraordinary ease. He rarely lost his temper, and seldom looked unnerved. There was an air of aristocratic grace about him, which he had perfected to a fine art, and came naturally to him. He was from an old family in New York, with distinguished ancestors and no money, and his name was his own.

In his prime, he played all the rich-boy, upper-class parts, a sort of modern-day Cary Grant, with Gary Cooper looks. He had never played a villain or a single rough part, only playboys and dashing heroes in impeccable clothes. And women loved the fact that he had kind eyes. He didn't have a mean bone in his body, he was never petty or cruel. The women he dated adored him, even long after they left him. He somehow nearly always managed to engineer it so that they left him, when he had had enough of them. He was a genius at handling women, and most of the women he had affairs with, those he remembered at least, spoke well of him. They had fun with him. Coop made everything pleasant and elegant, for as long as the affair lasted. And nearly every major female star in Hollywood, at some point, had been seen on his arm.

He had been a bachelor and a playboy all his life. At seventy, he had managed to escape what he referred to as “the net.” And he looked nowhere near his age.

He had taken extraordinarily good care of himself, in fact he'd made a career of it, and didn't look a day over fifty-five. And when he stepped out of the magnificent car, wearing a blazer, gray slacks, and an exquisitely starched and laundered blue shirt he'd had made in Paris, it was obvious that he had broad shoulders, an impeccable physique, and seemingly endless legs. He was six feet four, also rare in Hollywood, where most of the movie idols had always been short. But not Coop, and as he waved at the gardeners, he flashed not only a smile which showed off perfect teeth, but a woman would have noticed that he had beautiful hands. Cooper Winslow appeared to be the perfect man. And within a hundred-mile radius, you could see how charming he was. He was a magnet to men and women alike. Only a few people who knew him, like Abe Braunstein, were impervious to his charm. But for everyone else, there was an irresistible magnetism, a kind of aura about him that made people turn and look, and smile with awe. If nothing else, he was a spectacular-looking man.

Livermore had seen him coming too, and opened the door as he approached, to let him in.

“You're looking well, Livermore. Did anyone die today?” He always teased him about his somber mood. It was a challenge to Coop to make the butler smile. Livermore had been with him for four years, and Coop was immensely pleased with him. He liked his dignity, his stiffness, his efficiency, and his style. It lent his home precisely the kind of image he wanted to achieve. And Livermore took care of his wardrobe impeccably, which was important to Coop. It was a major part of the butler's job.

“No, sir. Miss Sullivan and Mr. Braunstein are here, in the library. They just finished lunch.” He didn't tell his employer they'd been waiting for him since noon. Cooper wouldn't have cared anyway. As far as Coop was concerned, Abe Braunstein worked for him, and if he had to wait, he could charge him for that too.

But as Cooper strode into the room, he smiled winningly at Abe, and looked faintly amused, as though they shared a long-standing joke. Abe didn't fall for it, but there was nothing he could do. Cooper Winslow danced to his own tune.

“They served you a decent lunch, I hope,” he said, as though he were early instead of nearly two hours late. His style generally threw people off guard, and made them forget they'd been angry at him for being late, but Abe refused to be distracted and got right to the point.

“We're here to talk about your finances, Coop. There are some decisions we have to make.”

“Absolutely,” Coop laughed as he sat down on the couch and crossed his legs. He knew that within seconds, Livermore would bring him a glass of champagne, and he was right. It was the vintage Cristal he always drank, chilled to the perfect temperature. He had dozens of cases of it in his cellar, along with other fabulous French wines. His cellar was legendary, as was his taste. “Let's give Liz a raise,” he beamed at her, and her heart went out to him. She had some bad news for him too. She'd been dreading telling him all week, and had put it off until the weekend.

“I'm firing all your domestic help today,” Abe said without ceremony, and Cooper laughed at him, as Livermore left the room expressionlessly It was as though nothing had been said at all. Cooper took a sip of the champagne, and set the glass down on a marble table he'd bought in Venice when a friend's palazzo had been sold.

“There's a novel idea. How did you come up with that? Shouldn't we just crucify them, or maybe shoot them perhaps? Why fire them, it's so middle class.”

“I'm serious. They've got to go. We just paid their salaries, they hadn't been paid in three months. And we can't pay them again, we can't keep up this kind of overhead, Coop.” There was a sudden plaintive note in the accountant's voice, as though he knew that nothing he could say or do would make Cooper take him seriously. He always felt as though someone had pressed the “mute” button when he was talking to Coop. “I'm going to give them notice today. They've got to be out of here in two weeks. I'm leaving you one maid.”

“How marvelous. Can she press suits? Which one are you going to leave me?” He had three maids, as well as a cook, and the houseman who'd served lunch. Livermore, the butler. Eight gardeners. And a driver he used part-time for important events. It took a lot of staff to run his enormous house, although he could have done without most of them. But he liked being well served, and indulging himself.

“We're leaving you Paloma Valdez. She's the cheapest one,” Abe said practically.

“Which one's she?” Coop glanced at Liz. He couldn't remember anyone by that name. Two of them were French, Jeanne and Louise, he knew who they were, but Paloma didn't ring any bells with him.

“She's the nice Salvadorian I hired last month. I thought you liked her,” Liz said, as though speaking to a child, and Coop looked confused.

“I thought her name was Maria, at least I've been calling her that, and she didn't say anything. She can't run this whole house. That's ridiculous,” he said pleasantly, as he glanced back at Abe. Coop looked remarkably unruffled by the news.

“You have no choice,” Abe said bluntly. “You have to fire the help, sell the cars, and buy absolutely nothing, and I mean nothing, not a car, not a suit, not a pair of socks, not a painting or a place mat for the next year. And then maybe you can start to dig yourself out of the hole you're in. I'd like to see you sell the house or at the very least rent the gatehouse, and maybe even part of this house, which would bring some money in. Liz tells me you never use the guest wing in the main house. You could rent that out. We could probably get a big price for it, and for the gatehouse. You don't need either of them.” Abe had put considerable thought into it, he was very conscientious about what he did.

“I never know when people are coming from out of town. It's ridiculous to rent out part of the house. Why don't we just take in boarders, Abe? Or turn it into a boarding school? A finishing school perhaps. You come up with the oddest ideas.” Coop looked vastly amused and as though he had no intention of doing any of it, but Abe was glowering at him.

“I don't think you have a full understanding of the situation you're in. If you don't follow my suggestions, you're going to have to put the whole house on the market and sell it in six months. You're damn near bankrupt, Coop.”

“That's ridiculous. All I need is a part in one major film. I got a terrific script for one today,” he said, looking pleased.

“How big is the part?” Abe asked mercilessly. He knew the drill.

“I don't know yet. They're talking about writing me in. The part can be as big as I want.”

“Sounds like a cameo to me,” Abe said, as Liz winced. She hated it when people were cruel to Coop. And reality always seemed cruel to him, so much so that he never listened to it. He just shut it out. He wanted life to be pleasant and fun and easy and beautiful at all times. And for him it was. He just couldn't pay for it, but that never stopped him from living the way he wanted to. He never hesitated to buy a new car, or order half a dozen suits, or buy a woman a beautiful piece of jewelry. And people were always willing to do business with him. They wanted the prestige of having him wear or use or drive their things. They figured he would pay for whatever it was eventually, and most of the time he did, when he could. Somehow, in time, the bills got paid, mostly thanks to Liz.

“Abe, you know as well as I do, that with one big film, we'll be rolling in money again. I could get ten million dollars for a picture by next week, or even fifteen.” He was living in a dream.

“Make that one, if you're lucky. Or more like five hundred thousand, or three or two. You can't pull in the big money anymore, Coop.” The only thing he didn't say was that Cooper Winslow was over the hill. Even Abe had boundaries about what he felt he could say to him. But the truth was he'd be lucky to get a hundred thousand dollars, or maybe two. Cooper Winslow was too old to be a leading man now, no matter how handsome he was. Those days were over for good. “You can't count on a windfall anymore. If you tell your agent you want to work, he can get you some commercials, for fifty thousand dollars, maybe a hundred if the product is big. We can't wait for big money to come in, Coop. You've got to cut back until it does. Stop spending money like water, reduce the staff down to next to nothing, rent out the gatehouse and part of this house, and we'll take another look at things in the next few months. But I'm telling you, if you don't, you'll be selling this house before the end of the year. I think you should. But Liz seems to think you're determined to stay here.”

“Give up The Cottage?” Coop laughed even more heartily this time. “Now that is an insane idea. I've lived here for more than forty years.”

“Well, someone else will be living here if you don't start tightening the belt. That's no secret, Coop. I told you that two years ago.”

“Yes, you did, and we're still here, aren't we, and I'm neither bankrupt nor in jail. Maybe you need to take mood elevators, Abe. They might help that dismal point of view.” He always told Liz that Abe looked like an undertaker, and dressed like one. Coop didn't say it, but he strongly disapproved of Abe wearing a summer suit in February. Things like that bothered him, but he didn't want to embarrass him by commenting on it. At least he wasn't suggesting Coop sell his wardrobe too. “You're serious about the staff, aren't you?” Coop glanced at Liz, and she was looking at him sympathetically. She hated knowing how uncomfortable he would be.

“I think Abe's right. You're spending an awful lot on salaries, Coop. Maybe you should cut back just for a little while, until the money starts rolling in again.” She always tried to allow him his dreams. He needed them.

“How can one Salvadorian woman possibly run this entire house?” Coop said, looking momentarily stunned. It was a truly absurd idea. To him at least.

“She won't have to, if you rent out part of it,” Abe said practically. “That'll solve one problem at least.”

“Coop, you haven't used the guest wing in two years, and the gatehouse has been closed for nearly three. I don't think you'll really miss either one,” Liz gently reminded him, sounding like a mother trying to convince a child to give up some of his toys to give to the poor, or eat his meat.

“Why on earth would I want strangers in my house?” Cooper asked, looking bemused.

“Because you want to keep the house, that's why,” Abe said doggedly, “and you won't be able to otherwise. I'm dead serious, Coop.”

“Well, I'll think about it,” Coop said, sounding vague. The whole idea just didn't make sense to him. He was still trying to imagine what his life would be like without help. It didn't sound like much fun to him. “And you're expecting me to cook for myself, I assume,” he said, looking nonplussed.

“Judging by your credit cards, you're out for dinner every night anyway. You'll never miss the cook. Or the rest of them. We can get a cleaning service in from time to time if things get out of hand.”

“How charming. A janitorial service perhaps? Maybe we could get a crew of convicts on parole, that might work.” There was a spark in Coop's eyes again, and Abe looked exasperated.

“I've got their checks, and letters giving them all notice,” Abe said, looking grim. He wanted to be sure that Coop understood he was really going to fire them. There was no other choice.

“I'll talk to a realtor on Monday,” Liz said in a soft voice. She hated upsetting him, but he had to know. She couldn't just do it without warning him. But she thought renting out the two guest facilities was actually not a bad idea. Coop wouldn't miss the space, and they could get a very high price for the rent. She thought it was one of Abe's better ideas. And it would be a lot easier on Coop than selling the place.

“All right, all right. Just make sure you don't bring some serial killer into my house. And no children for God's sake, or barking dogs. In fact, I only want female tenants, and damn attractive ones. I should audition them myself,” he said, only half-joking. Liz thought he was being exceptionally reasonable not to make a fuss about it, and she was going to try to find tenants as soon as she could, before he balked. “Is that all?” he asked Abe, as he stood up, signaling that he'd had enough. That had been a strong dose of reality for Coop at one go. And it was obvious he wanted Abe to leave.

“It'll do for now,” Abe answered, standing up. “And I meant what I said, Coop. Do not buy anything.”

“I promise. I'll make sure that all my socks and underwear have holes in them. I'll let you inspect them the next time you come.”

Abe didn't respond as he walked to the door. He handed the envelopes he'd brought to Livermore and asked him to distribute them to the staff. They all had to be gone in two weeks.

“What a disagreeable little man,” Coop said with a smile at Liz after Abe left. “He must have had a miserable childhood just to think like that. He probably spent his boyhood years pulling the wings off flies. Pathetic, and God, someone should burn his suits.”

“He means well, Coop. I'm sorry, it was a tough meeting. I'll do my best to get Paloma trained in the next two weeks. I'll have Livermore show her how to handle your wardrobe.”

“I shudder to think what that's going to look like. I suppose she'll be putting my suits in the washing machine. I might start a whole new look.” He refused to be daunted by it, and continued to seem vaguely amused as he glanced at her. “It'll certainly be quiet here with just you and me and Paloma, or Maria, or whatever her name is.” But he saw a strange look in Liz's eyes as he said it. “What's that about? He's not firing you too, is he?” For a fraction of a second, she saw a look of panic, and it nearly tore her heart out. And it took her an eternity to answer him.

“No, he isn't, Coop… but I'm leaving “She said it in a whisper. She had told Abe the day before, which was the only reason why he wasn't firing her too.

“Don't be silly. I would rather sell The Cottage than have you leave, Liz. I'll go out and scrub floors myself to keep you.”

“It's not that…” there were tears in her eyes, “I'm getting married, Coop.”

“You're what ? To whom? Not that ridiculous dentist in San Diego?” That had been five years earlier, but he lost track of things like that. He couldn't even conceive of losing Liz, and it had never occurred to him she might get married. She was fifty-two years old and it seemed not only like she'd been there forever, but always would be. She was family after all these years.

There were tears rolling down her cheeks as she answered. “He's a stockbroker in San Francisco.”

“When did he come into the picture?” Coop looked shocked.

“About three years ago. I never thought we'd get married. I told you about him last year. I just figured we'd go on dating forever. But he's retiring this year, and he wants me to travel with him. His kids are grown up, and he finally said now or never. I figured I'd better grab the chance while I still have it.”

“How old is he?” Coop looked horrified. It was the one piece of bad news of the day he had never expected to hear, and which had shaken him up.

“Fifty-nine. He's done very well. He has a flat in London, and a very nice house in San Francisco. He just sold it and we're moving to an apartment on Nob Hill.”

“In San Francisco? You'll die of boredom, or get buried in an earthquake. Liz, you'll hate it.” He was reeling from the impact. He couldn't begin to imagine managing without her. And she was blowing her nose and couldn't stop crying.

“Maybe I will. Maybe I'll come running back. But I thought I should at least get married once, just so I can say I've done it. You can call me anytime, Coop, wherever I am.”

“Who's going to make my reservations, and talk to my agent? And don't tell me Paloma, whoever the hell she is!”

“The agency said they'd handle as much as they can for you. And Abe's office will handle all the bookkeeping. There's really not much else I do here,” other than field calls from his girlfriends, and keep his press agent fed with fresh information, mostly about who he was dating. He was going to have to start making his own phone calls. It was going to be a new experience for him. She truly felt as though she had betrayed him, and was abandoning him.

“Are you in love with this guy, Liz, or just panicked?” It hadn't occurred to him in years that she still wanted to get married. She had never said anything to him, and he never asked about her dating life. It was rare for her to mention it to him, or to even have time to date anyone. She was so busy juggling Coop's appointments, his purchases, parties, and trips, she had hardly seen the man she was going to marry in the last year, which was why he had finally put his foot down. He thought Cooper Winslow was a narcissist and an egomaniac, and he wanted to save Liz from him.

“I think I'm in love with him. He's a good person, he's nice to me. He wants to take care of me, and he has two very nice daughters.”

“How old are they? I can't imagine you with kids, Liz.”

“They're nineteen and twenty-three. I really like them, and they seem to like me. Their mother died when they were very young, and Ted brought them up himself. He did a nice job of it. One of them works in New York, and the other one is at Stanford in premed.”

“I can't believe this.” He looked absolutely shattered. The day had become instantly disastrous for him. He didn't even remember he was about to rent out his gatehouse and his guest wing. He didn't care about that now, only about losing Liz. “When are you actually marrying him?”

“In two weeks, right after I leave here.” She started crying again as soon as she said it. It suddenly seemed like a terrible idea, even to her.

“Do you want to do it here?” he said generously.

“We're doing it at a friend's house in Napa,” she said through her tears.

“It sounds awful. Are you having a big wedding?” He was truly stunned. He had never expected this.

“No. Just us and his daughters and the couple whose house we're getting married at. If it were any bigger, I'd have invited you, Coop.” She hadn't had time to plan a wedding. She was too busy taking care of him. And Ted didn't want to wait any longer. He knew if he did, she'd never leave Coop. She felt responsible for him.

“When did you decide all this?”

“About a week ago.” Ted had come down for the weekend and put a lot of pressure on her. And their decision coincided perfectly with Abe's decision to fire everyone. In a way, she knew she was doing Coop a favor. He couldn't afford her either. But she knew it was still going to be hard for both of them to say goodbye to each other. She couldn't imagine leaving him, and it broke her heart to do it. He was so innocent and so helpless—in his own inimitable way. And she had spoiled him over the past twenty-two years. She constantly worried about him and mothered him. She knew she would lie awake nights in San Francisco, fretting about him. It would be a tremendous adjustment, for both of them. Taking care of Coop had replaced the children she'd never had and finally stopped wanting years before.

He still looked shell-shocked when she left the house, and before she did, she answered the phone. It was Pamela, his latest romance. She was twenty-two years old, young even by his standards. She was a model, and aspiring to be an actress. He had met her at a shoot he had done for GQ. They had hired half a dozen models to stand beside him adoringly, and she had been the best looking of the lot. He'd only been dating her for about a month and she was totally infatuated with him, although he was old enough to be her grandfather, but he didn't look it fortunately. He was taking Pamela to The Ivy for dinner, and Liz reminded him to pick her up at seven-thirty. He gave her a big hug before she left, and reminded her to come back to him if she hated being married. And secretly, he hoped she would. Coop felt as though he were losing his younger sister and best friend.

Liz started crying again as she drove away. She loved Ted, but she couldn't imagine what life would be like without Coop. Over the years, he had become her family, her best friend, her brother, her son, her hero. She adored him. And it had taken every ounce of courage and strength she had to agree to marry Ted, and then to tell Coop. She hadn't been able to sleep for the past week, and she had felt sick about it all morning before Coop came home. She was grateful Abe had been there to distract her. And as she drove out the main gate, she nearly hit a car driving by. She was totally unnerved. Leaving Coop would be like leaving the convent or the womb. She just hoped she had made the right decision in the end.

Coop was still standing in the library when she left, and poured himself another glass of champagne. He took a sip, and then, still holding the glass, he walked slowly upstairs to his bedroom. He passed a small woman in a white uniform on the way. There was a large stain on the front of her dress that looked like tomato sauce, or soup. She was wearing her hair in a long braid down her back, and she was wearing sunglasses, which caught his attention, as she vacuumed noisily on the stairs.

“Paloma?” he asked cautiously, as though seeing her for the first time, and wishing he hadn't. She was wearing leopard sneakers, which made him wince.

“Jess, Mr. Weenglow?” There was something very independent about her. She didn't remove the sunglasses, but stood staring at him from behind the dark lenses. It was impossible to guess how old she was, but he assumed somewhere in her middle years.

“It's Winslow, Paloma. Did you have some sort of accident?” He was referring to the spot on her uniform, which looked as though someone had thrown a pizza at her.

“We had essspagghetti for lunch. I dropped my spoon on my juniform. And I don't have another one here.”

“Looks delicious,” he said as he wandered past her, still shell-shocked over Liz, and wondering what it was going to be like when Paloma was caring for his wardrobe. And as he closed the door to his bedroom, Paloma stood staring at him, and then rolled her eyes. It was the first time he had ever spoken to her, but even from the little she knew of him, she'd never liked him. He went out with women young enough to be his children, and seemed entirely self-involved. She couldn't think of a single thing to like about him, and shook her head disapprovingly as she continued to vacuum the stairs. She wasn't looking forward to being alone in the house with him either. She felt as though she'd drawn the short straw when she found out she was the only one not being fired by the accountants. But she wasn't going to argue about it. She had a lot of relatives in San Salvador to support and she needed the money. Even if it meant working for the likes of him.

Chapter 2

Mark Friedman signed the last of the papers, standing in the empty house with the realtor, and it nearly broke his heart when he did. The house had only been on the market for three weeks. They'd gotten a good price for it, but that meant nothing to him. As he stood looking around him at the bare walls and empty rooms where he and his family had lived for ten years, it was like seeing the last of his dreams disappear.

He had been planning to keep the house, and live in it, but Janet had told him to sell it as soon as she had gotten to New York. He knew then, that no matter what she had said in the weeks prior to that, she was never coming back to him. She had told him that she was leaving him only two weeks before she left. And her lawyer had just called his. His entire life had unraveled in the past five weeks. Their furniture was already on its way to New York, he had given everything to her and the kids. He was staying in a hotel near his office, and he was waking up every morning, wishing he were dead. They had lived in Los Angeles for ten years, and been married for sixteen.

Mark was forty-two years old, tall, lean, blond, blue eyed, and until five weeks earlier had been convinced he was happily married. He and Janet had met in law school, and got married as soon as they graduated. She had gotten pregnant almost instantly. Jessica was born on their first anniversary, and was now fifteen. Jason was thirteen. Mark was a tax attorney in a major law firm, and they had transferred him from New York to Los Angeles ten years before. It had been an adjustment at first, but they came to love it eventually. He had found the house in Beverly Hills within weeks, even before Janet and the kids arrived from New York. It had been perfect for them, with a big backyard, and a small pool. The people who had just bought it wanted to close as soon as they could, they were expecting twins in six weeks. And as Mark thought about it as he took a last walk around, he couldn't help thinking that their life was just beginning, and his was over. He still couldn't believe what had happened to him.

Six weeks earlier, he had been a happily married man with a beautiful wife he was crazy about, a job he loved, a nice house, and two gorgeous kids. They had no money worries, they were all in good health, and nothing bad had ever happened to them. Six weeks later, his wife had left him, the house was gone, his family was living in New York, and he was getting a divorce. It was almost too much to believe.

The realtor left him alone as he wandered through the empty rooms. All he could think of were the good times they'd shared. There had been nothing wrong with their marriage from his perspective, and even Janet admitted that she'd been happy with him.

“I don't know what happened,” she said tearfully when she told him. “Maybe I was bored… maybe I should have gone back to work after Jason was born “But none of that explained to Mark adequately why she had left him for another man. She had admitted to Mark five weeks earlier that she was madly in love with a doctor in New York.

A year and a half before, Janet's mother had gotten very sick. First a heart attack, then shingles, and finally a stroke. It had been an endless seven months of Janet commuting back and forth to New York. Her father was devastated and developing Alzheimer's, her mother went from one medical crisis to the next. He took care of the kids whenever Janet was gone. The first time she went, after the heart attack, Janet was gone for six weeks. But she called him three or four times a day. He had never suspected a thing, and it hadn't happened immediately, Janet had explained, it had happened over time. She had fallen in love with her mother's doctor. He was a great guy, had been wonderfully supportive and sympathetic and kind to her. They had dinner one night, just casually, and it had taken off from there.

She had been involved with him for a year, and she said it was tearing her apart. She kept thinking she'd get over it, that it was a passing thing. She assured Mark that she had tried to end it several times. But they were hooked on each other, it had become an obsession for both of them. Being with Adam, she told Mark, was like being addicted to a drug. He suggested therapy and couples counseling, but Janet refused. She didn't say it to him then, but she had made up her mind. She said she wanted to move back to New York, and see where things went. She needed to be out of the marriage, for the time being at least, so she could explore the affair honestly. And as soon as she got to New York, she told Mark she wanted a divorce, and asked him to sell the house. She wanted her half of the money out of it, so she could buy an apartment in New York. Mark stood staring at their bedroom wall, as he thought about the last conversation he'd had with her. He had never felt so lost and alone in his life. Everything he'd believed and counted on and thought would always be there for him no longer was. And the worst thing was that he hadn't done anything wrong, at least he didn't think he had. Maybe he worked too hard, or didn't take her out to dinner often enough, but it was all so comfortable, and she had never complained.

The second worst day of his life, after the day she told him about the affair, was when they told the children they were splitting up. They had wanted to know if he and Mom were getting divorced, and he had said honestly that he wasn't sure. But he realized now that Janet had known even then. She just didn't want to tell them yet, or him.

The kids had cried endlessly, and for no apparent reason, at first Jessica had blamed it all on him. None of it made sense to them. At fifteen and thirteen, it made even less sense to them than it did to Mark. At least he knew why Janet was leaving him, whether he deserved it or not. But to the kids, it was a mystery that defied any explanation. They had never seen their parents argue or disagree, and they rarely had. Maybe over where to hang what on the Christmas tree, and once Mark had had a fit when Janet had totaled his new car, but in the end, he apologized and told her he was glad she hadn't been hurt. He was a pretty easygoing guy, and she was a decent person too. Adam was just more exciting than Mark. According to Janet, he was forty-eight years old, had a lively practice, and lived in New York. He kept a sailboat on Long Island, and had been in the Peace Corps for four years. He had interesting friends and a fun life. He was divorced, and had never had kids. His wife hadn't been able to have any, and they didn't want to adopt. And he was crazy about the idea of Janet's kids. He even wanted two more of their own, which Janet had not mentioned to Mark, or the kids. They knew nothing about him yet. She was going to introduce him into their lives once they got settled in New York, and Mark suspected she had no intention of telling them that Adam was the reason she'd left him.

In comparison, Mark knew he was dull. He liked his work, and estate planning was something he enjoyed and did well, but it wasn't something he could discuss at length with her. She had wanted to go into criminal law, or child advocacy, and tax law had always bored her to tears. She and Mark played tennis several times a week, they went to movies, hung out with the kids, went to dinner with friends. It had been a comfortable, ordinary life for all of them. And now, nothing was comfortable anymore. The emotional anguish he felt was almost a physical pain. He had had a knife in his gut for the past five weeks. He had just started going to a therapist, at the suggestion of his doctor, when Mark called and asked for sleeping pills, because he said he could no longer sleep. His life had become a living hell. He missed her, he missed his kids, he missed his life. In the blink of an eye, everything and everyone was gone, and now so was the house.

“Ready, Mark?” the realtor asked gently as she stuck her head in the bedroom door. He was just standing there, staring into space, lost in his own thoughts.

“Yeah, sure,” he said, and walked out of the room, with one last glance back. It was like saying goodbye to a lost world, or an old friend. He followed her out of the house and she locked the door. He had given her all his keys. The money was being deposited into his account that afternoon, and he had promised to wire Janet her half. They had gotten a good price for it, which meant nothing to him now.

“Are you ready to start looking for something for you?” the realtor asked hopefully. “I have some great small houses for you up in the hills, and there's a little gem in Hancock Park. There are some nice apartments around right now too.” February was always a good month to look. The holiday doldrums were over, and some great listings came on the market in the spring. And with the sale of the house, and the price he'd gotten for it, she knew he had money to spend. Even his half was more than enough to buy himself a handsome new place. And he had a good job. Money wasn't a problem for Mark. Just everything else.

“I'm fine at the hotel,” he said, slipping into his Mercedes after thanking her again. She had done a great job, and closed the sale smoothly and in record time. He almost wished she hadn't been so efficient, or had even lost the sale. He hadn't been ready to move on. It was something to talk about with his new therapist, grist for the mill. He had never been to a therapist before, and he seemed like a nice guy, but Mark wasn't sure it would help. Maybe with the sleep problem, but what could he do about the rest? No matter what they said in the counseling sessions, Janet and the kids were still gone, and without them he had no life. He didn't want a life. He wanted them. And now she belonged to someone else, and maybe the kids would like him better too. It was a devastating thought. He had never felt as hopeless in his life, or as lost.

He drove back to the office, and was back at his desk by noon. He dictated a stack of letters, and went over some reports. He had a partners' meeting that afternoon. He didn't even bother eating lunch. He had lost ten pounds in the last five weeks, maybe twelve. All he could do now was keep moving, putting one foot after the other, and try not to think. He did his thinking at night, when it all came back to him, and he heard her words again and again, and thought about the kids and how much they had cried. He called them every night, he had promised to come and visit them in a few weeks. He was taking them to the Caribbean over the Easter vacation, and they were going to come out to LA in the summer, but now he had nowhere for them to stay. Just thinking about all of it made him feel sick.

When he saw Abe Braunstein in a meeting about new tax laws late that afternoon, the accountant was stunned. Mark looked like he had a terminal disease. He usually looked healthy and young and athletic, he was always in good spirits, and even though he was forty-two, Abe always thought of Mark as a nice kid. He looked like the boy next door. Now he looked like someone had died. And he felt as though he had.

“Are you all right?” Abe asked with a look of concern.

“Yeah, I'm fine,” Mark answered vaguely, looking numb. His face even looked somewhat gray. He seemed exhausted and pale, and Abe was genuinely worried about him.

“You look like you've been sick. You've dropped a lot of weight.” Mark nodded, and didn't respond, and then after the meeting, he felt like a jerk for not reacting to Abe's concern. Abe was going to be the second person he'd told, the first being his therapist. He hadn't had the guts, or the stomach, to tell anyone else. It was too humiliating, it made him seem like such a loser, and he worried that people would think he'd been a shit to her. He wanted to explain, and he was torn between wanting to whine, and needing to hide.

“Janet left,” Mark said cryptically as they left the meeting side by side. It was nearly six o'clock. He hadn't heard half of what was said, and Abe had noticed that too. Mark looked like he was having an out-of-body experience, and felt like it. But at first, Abe didn't get his drift.

“On a trip?” he asked, looking confused.

“No. For good,” Mark explained, looking grim. But in a way, it was a relief to tell the truth. “She left three weeks ago. She moved to New York with the kids. I just sold the house. We're getting a divorce.”

“I'm sorry to hear that,” Abe said, feeling sorry for him. The poor guy looked destroyed. But he was young, he'd find another wife, maybe even have more kids. He was a good-looking guy, Abe had always thought. “That's really rough. I didn't know.” He hadn't heard a thing, although he did a lot of accounting work with Mark's firm. But they usually talked about tax law, or their clients, not about themselves. “Where are you living now?” It was funny how men asked each other what they were doing, not how they felt.

“In a hotel two blocks from here. It's kind of a dump, but it's okay for now.”

“Do you want to go out and get something to eat?” Abe's wife was expecting him at home, but Mark looked as though he needed a friend. He did, but he felt too lousy to go anywhere. Closing on the house had made everything seem even worse. It was tangible evidence that his life with Janet was over for good.

“No, thanks.” Mark managed to force out a smile. “Maybe another time.”

“I'll give you a call,” Abe promised, and left. He didn't know whose fault the divorce was, but it was obvious that Mark wasn't happy about it. He obviously didn't have anyone else. And Abe wondered if she did, she was a great-looking girl. They had looked like the all-American couple, the boy and girl next door. Both blond, both blue eyed, and their kids looked like poster children for the American way of life. They all looked like they were off a farm in the Midwest, although he and Janet had grown up within blocks of each other in New York. They had gone to all the same high school dances, but never met. She had gone to Vassar and he to Brown, and they finally met at Yale Law School. It was the perfect life. But no more.

Mark stayed at the office shuffling papers on his desk until eight o'clock that night, and then finally went back to the hotel. He thought about picking up a sandwich on the way, but he wasn't hungry. Again. He had promised both his doctor and his therapist that he would try to eat. Tomorrow, he promised himself. All he wanted to do now was go to bed and stare at the TV. And maybe eventually sleep.

The phone was ringing when he reached his room. It was Jessica. She had had a good day at school, and gotten an A on a quiz. She was a high school sophomore, but she hated her new school. And so did Jason, he was in eighth grade. The adjustment was hard on them. Jason was playing soccer, and Jessica was on the varsity field hockey team. But she said the boys in New York were all geeks. And she was still blaming Mark for everything she didn't understand about the divorce.

He didn't tell her the house had closed that day, or that they would never see it again. He just promised that he would come to New York soon, and told them to say hi to Mom. And after he hung up, he just sat there in bed, staring at the TV, with tears rolling silently down his cheeks.

Chapter 3

Jimmy O'Connor was lean and athletic and strong. He had broad shoulders and powerful arms. He was a golfer and a tennis player. He had gone to Harvard and been on the ice hockey team. He had been a superb athlete in school, and still was. And he was a great guy. He had gone to graduate school, and got a master's in psychology at UCLA, while he did volunteer work in Watts. He had gone back the following year to get a degree in social work, and had never left Watts. At thirty-three, he had a life and a career he loved, and still managed to get a little time in for sports. He had organized a soccer team and a softball team for the kids he worked with. He placed kids in foster care, and removed them from abusive homes, homes where they were beaten or molested or abused. He carried children who had had bleach poured on them, or been burned, in his own arms to emergency rooms, and more than once he had brought them home until the right foster home could be found. The people he worked with said he had a heart of gold.

He had classic black Irish looks, jet-black hair, ivory skin, and huge dark eyes. There was an almost sensual quality to his lips, and he had a smile that knocked women off their feet. It had knocked Maggie off hers. Margaret Monaghan. They were both from Boston, met at Harvard, and had come to the West Coast together when they graduated. They'd been living together since junior year. And grousing about it every inch of the way, they had gone to City Hall and gotten married six years before. Mostly to get their parents off their backs. It didn't make much difference to either of them, they claimed, and then grudgingly they admitted to each other that it was not only okay, it was nice. Getting married had been a good thing.

Maggie was a year younger than Jimmy and the smartest woman he'd ever known. There wasn't a woman like her in the world. She had a master's in psychology too, and was thinking about getting a Ph.D. She wasn't sure. And like him, she worked with inner-city kids. She wanted to adopt a flock of them, instead of having kids of their own. He was an only child, and she was the oldest of nine. She was from good, solid Boston Irish stock, originally from County Cork. Her parents had been born in Ireland and had powerful brogues which she imitated flawlessly. Jimmy's family had left Ireland four generations before. He was a distant cousin of the Kennedys, which she had teased him about mercilessly when she found out, and called him “Fancy Boy.” But she kept the information to herself, she just liked to rattle his cage. About anything and everything. He loved that about her. Brilliant, irreverent, beautiful, brave, with fiery red hair and green eyes, and freckles everywhere. She was his dream woman, and the love of his life. There wasn't a single thing he didn't like about her, except maybe the fact that she couldn't cook and didn't care. So he cooked for both of them, and was proud of the fact that he was a pretty decent cook.

He was packing the kitchen, and his frying pans, when the building manager rang the bell and walked in. He shouted out a greeting so Jimmy would know he was there. He didn't like to intrude, but he had to show the place. It was a tiny apartment in Venice Beach. They had loved living there. Maggie liked to roller blade down the streets, everyone did there. And they loved the beach.

Jimmy had given notice the week before, and was moving at the end of the month. He didn't know where. Just not there. Anywhere but there.

The building manager was showing the apartment to a young couple who said they were getting married. They were both wearing jeans and sweatshirts and sandals, and to Jimmy they seemed innocent and young. They were in their early twenties, had just graduated from college and had come from the Midwest. They were in love with LA and they thought the apartment was great. They thought Venice was the best. The building manager introduced them to Jimmy, and he nodded and shook hands, and went back to his packing, and left them to look at the apartment on their own. It was small, and in good order. There was a small living room, and a tiny bedroom, barely bigger than the bed, a bathroom you had to stand on each other's shoulders to use together, and the kitchen where he was packing. It had worked for them, they hadn't needed more space than that, and Maggie had always insisted on paying her half of the rent and couldn't afford more. She was stubborn about things like that. They had split all their expenses in half since the day they met, even after they were married.

“I'm not going to be a kept woman, Jimmy O'Connor!” she had said, imitating her parents' brogue, as her flame-colored hair danced around her face. He wanted to have babies with her just so he could have a house full of kids with red hair. They'd been talking about getting pregnant for the past six months, but Maggie also wanted to adopt. She wanted to give kids a better life than they might have had otherwise.

“How about six and six?” Jimmy teased. “Six of ours, six adopted. Which ones do you want to support?” She had conceded that she might be willing to let him support the kids, some of them at least. She couldn't afford to have as many as they wanted. But they had often talked about five or six.

“Gas stove?” the prospective tenant asked with a smile. She was a pretty girl, and Jimmy nodded, without saying more. “I love to cook.” He could have told her he did too, but he didn't want to engage in conversation with them. He just nodded and kept on packing, and five minutes later they left. The building manager called out thank you and Jimmy heard him close the door, and then muffled voices in the hall. He wondered if they were going to take the apartment. It didn't really matter. Someone would. It was a nice place, the building was clean, and they had a good view. Maggie had insisted on a view, although it had stretched her budget, but there was no point living in Venice if you didn't have a view, she had said with the brogue again. She played with the brogue a lot. She had grown up with it, and it was familiar to her, and always amused him. Sometimes they went out for pizza and she spent the entire dinner pretending to be Irish, and everyone was fooled. She had taught herself Gaelic too. And French. And wanted to learn Chinese, so she could work with immigrant children in the Chinese neighborhoods. She wanted to be able to talk to the kids.

“He's not very friendly,” one of the new tenants whispered. They had conferred in the bathroom and decided to take the place. They could afford it, and they loved the view, even if the rooms were small.

“He's a good guy,” the building manager said protectively. He had always liked them both. “He's had a tough time,” he said cautiously, not sure if he should tell them, but they'd hear it anyway from someone else. Everyone in the building loved the O'Connors, and he was sorry to see Jimmy go, but he understood. He would have done the same thing.

The new tenants had wondered if he was being evicted or asked to leave, he had looked so unhappy and almost hostile as he packed up his stuff.

“He had a beautiful young wife, a terrific girl. Thirty-two years old, with bright red hair, smart as a whip.”

“Did they break up?” the woman asked innocently, feeling slightly more sympathetic. Jimmy had looked almost fierce to her as he shoved his skillets into a cardboard box.

“She died. A month ago. Terrible thing. A brain tumor. She started having headaches a few months ago, she said they were migraines. Three months ago they put her in the hospital for tests, brain scans, I guess. MRIs, CAT scans, whatever they do. She had a lot of tests. They found a brain tumor, they tried to operate but it was too big, and it had spread all over the place. She was dead in two months. I thought it was going to kill him too. I've never seen two people more in love. They never stopped laughing and talking and kidding around. He just gave me notice last week. He says he can't stay, it makes him too sad. I feel so bad for him, he's such a good man.” The building manager had tears in his eyes.

“How awful!” the woman said, feeling tears sting her eyes too. It was a terrible story, and she had noticed photographs of the two of them all around the apartment. They looked happy and in love in the pictures. “What a terrible shock for him.”

“She was very brave. Right up until the last week, they went on walks, he cooked dinner for her, he carried her down to the beach one day because she loved it so much. It'll be a long time before he gets over it, if he ever does. He'll never find another girl like her.” The building manager, who was both known and beloved for his gruffness, wiped a tear from his eye, and the young couple followed him downstairs. But the story haunted them for the rest of the day. And late that afternoon, the building manager slipped a note under Jimmy's door to tell him the young couple had taken the apartment. He was off the hook in three weeks.

Jimmy sat staring at the note. It was what he had wanted, and what he knew he had to do, but he had nowhere to go. He no longer cared where he lived. It didn't matter to him. He could have slept in a sleeping bag on the street. Maybe that was how people became homeless. Maybe they no longer cared where they lived, or if. He had thought of killing himself when she died, just walking into the ocean without a murmur or a sound. It would have been an enormous relief. He had sat on the beach for hours the day after she died, and thought about it. And then, as though he could hear her, he could imagine her telling him how furious she would be, and what a wimp he was. He could even hear the brogue. It was nightfall when he went back to the apartment, and sat for hours crying and wailing on the couch.

Their families had come out from Boston that night, and the rosary and funeral had eaten up the next two days. He had refused to bury her in Boston. She had told him she wanted to stay in California with him, so he buried her there. And after they all went home, he was alone again. Her parents and brothers and sisters had been devastated over their loss. But no one was as distraught as he, no one knew how much he had lost, or what she meant to him. Maggie had become his whole life, and he knew with absolute certainty that he would never love another woman as he had her, or perhaps at all. He couldn't conceive of another woman in his life. What a travesty that would be. And who could possibly be like her? All that fire and passion and genius and joy and courage. She was the bravest human he had ever known. She hadn't even been afraid to die, she just accepted it as her fate. It was he who had cried and begged God to change his mind, he who had been terrified, who couldn't imagine living on without her. Unthinkable, unbearable, intolerable. And now here he was. She had been gone for a month. Weeks. Days. Hours. And all he had to do now was crawl through the rest of his life.

He had gone back to work the week after she died, and everyone treated him like broken glass. He was back at work full-time with the kids, but there was no joy in his life now, no spirit, no life. He just had to find a way to keep putting one foot in front of the other for the rest of his life, to keep breathing, to keep waking up every morning, with absolutely no reason why.

Part of him wanted to stay in the apartment forever, and another part of him couldn't bear waking up there without her one more time. He knew he had to get out. He didn't care where. Just out. He had seen the name of a realtor in an ad, and called them. All the agents were out. He left his name and number, and went back to packing. But when he got to her half of the closet, he felt as though Mike Tyson had reached out and punched him in the chest. It took his breath away. The sheer reality of it was so powerful it sucked the air out of his lungs and the blood out of his heart. He just stood there for a long moment. He could smell her perfume, and feel her presence beside him as though she were standing in the room next to him.

“What the fuck am I supposed to do now?” he said out loud as tears sprang to his eyes, and he held on to the door frame. It was as though a supernatural force had almost knocked him down. The power of her loss was so great he could hardly stand up.

“Keep going, Jimmy,” he heard the voice in his head. “You can't quit now.” He could still hear the brogue.

“Why the hell not?” But she hadn't. She had never given up. She had fought right till the end. She had worn lipstick and washed her hair the day she died, and wore the blouse he loved best. She had never given up. “I don't want to keep going!” he shouted at the voice he could hear, the face he would never see again.

“Get off your bloomin' arse!” he could hear as plain as day, and suddenly he laughed through his tears as he stood there staring at her clothes.

“Okay, Maggie… okay…” he said, as one by one he took down her dresses and folded them carefully into a box as though she'd come back for them someday.

Chapter 4

Liz came back to The Cottage on Sunday, to meet with the realtor, the day after Coop had agreed to rent the gatehouse and the guest wing. She wanted to move ahead as soon as possible, before he changed his mind. The income they would generate would make a big difference for him. And she wanted to do everything she could for him before she left.

She had agreed to meet the realtor at eleven, and when they both reached The Cottage, Coop was out. He had taken Pamela, the twenty-two-year-old model, to brunch at the Beverly Hills Hotel, and had promised to take her shopping on Rodeo Drive the next day.

She was absolutely gorgeous, but she had nothing to wear. And spoiling women was one of the things Coop did best. He loved shopping for them. Abe was going to have a coronary when he saw the bill. But Coop never worried about that. Coop had promised to take her to Theodore and Valentino and Dior and Ferre, and wherever else she fancied, and to Fred Segal after that. It was going to be a fifty-thousand-dollar shopping spree for sure, or more. Particularly if they stopped off at Van Cleef or Cartier, if anything caught his eye in the windows. And it would never occur to Pamela to tell him that his generosity was excessive. For a twenty-two-year-old girl from Oklahoma, this was a dream come true, and so was Coop.

“I'm amazed that Mr. Winslow is willing to have tenants on the property, particularly in a wing of the main house,” the real estate agent mentioned to Liz, as she let her into the guest wing. She was fishing for some piece of gossip she could share with future tenants, which didn't please Liz. But it was also inevitable, and a necessary evil if they were going to rent. They were at the mercy of how people interpreted it. And those interpretations were never kind about major movie stars, or celebrities of any sort. It was part of the deal.

“The guest wing has a separate entrance of course, so they'll never run into Coop. And you know, he travels so much, I don't think he'll know they're there. Having tenants is protection for him, if people realize that there are people living on the property full-time. Otherwise, there could be break-ins or all kinds of problems. This is really a security bonus for him.” It was an angle the realtor hadn't thought of, but it did make sense. Although she was suspicious that there was more to it than that. Cooper Winslow hadn't had a lead in a major movie in years. She couldn't remember the last one she'd seen, although he was certainly still a big star, and caused a huge stir wherever he went. He was one of the great Hollywood legends of all time, which was going to help her rent the two facilities he was leasing, and get a stiff price for them as well. This was high, high prestige, and the estate was the only one like it in the country, if not the world. With a handsome movie star in residence, at least some of the time. Maybe if the tenants were lucky, they would catch a glimpse of him on the tennis court or at the pool. She was going to put that in the brochure.

The door to the guest wing creaked open, and Liz wished she had sent a crew in to dust and clean before they'd gone in. But there hadn't been time, and she wanted to move fast. But generally speaking, it looked fine. It was a beautiful wing of the house. It had the same high ceilings the rest of the house had, and elegant French windows leading out to the grounds. There was a lovely stone terrace framed with hedges, and antique marble benches and tables Coop had bought in Italy years before. The living room was full of handsome French antiques. There was a small study next to it, which could serve as an office, and up a short flight of stairs an enormous master bedroom all done in pale blue satin with mirrored Art Deco furniture he had picked up in France.

There was an enormous white marble bathroom next to the master bedroom, and a dressing room with more closets than most people needed, although they wouldn't have been enough for Coop. And on the other side of the living room, there were two small, but adequate bedrooms, decorated in bright English floral chintz and antiques. And there was a wonderful country kitchen with a big dining table in it, which the realtor said reminded her of Provence. There was no dining room, but Liz pointed out that they didn't really need it, since the living room was so large, a table could be set up there, or the tenants could eat in the kitchen, which was cozy and fun and informal. There was a massive old French stove, a ceramic fireplace in the corner of the room, and beautiful antique painted tiles on the walls. All in all it made a perfect apartment for someone, on the grounds of the most beautiful estate in Bel Air, and they had full access to the tennis courts and the pool.

“How much does he want for it?” The realtor's eyes were shimmering with excitement. She had never seen a better place, she could even imagine another movie star renting it, just for the prestige. Perhaps someone staying in town to make a movie, or spending a year in LA. The fact that it was furnished would make it a real bonus for someone. And beautifully furnished at that. With fresh flowers, and a little dusting, the guest wing would really come to life, and the realtor could see that too.

“How much do you suggest?” Liz asked. She wasn't sure. She hadn't had any dealings with the rental market in years, and had lived in the same modest apartment herself for more than twenty years.

“I was thinking at least ten thousand a month. Maybe twelve. For the right tenant, we could push it to fifteen. But surely no less than ten.” It sounded good to Liz, and with the gatehouse, it would give Coop a comfortable cushion every month, if they could keep his credit cards out of his hands. She was seriously worried about what mischief he'd get up to after she was gone, with no one to monitor him, or even scold him if need be. Not that she had such perfect controls on him, but she could at least remind him from time to time not to get in any deeper than he was.

As soon as Liz locked the front door to the guest wing, they drove to the north end of the property to where the gatehouse stood secluded in a seemingly secret garden. It was in fact nowhere near the front gate, and had so much greenery and land around it, that it appeared to be on an estate of its own. It was a beautiful little stone house with vines growing up one side, and it always reminded Liz of an English cottage. It had a magical feeling to it, and inside there were both elegant wood paneling and rough-hewn stone walls. It was an interesting juxtaposition of two worlds, and entirely different from the elegant French decor of the guest wing.

“Oh my God, this is fabulous!” the realtor said enthusiastically, as they walked past a rose garden that surrounded the house, and stepped inside. “It's like being in another world.”

In the gatehouse, the rooms were small and well proportioned with beam ceilings, and the furniture was heavier and English, with a long, handsome leather couch that Coop had bought from an English club. The house had a wonderful cozy feeling, and a huge fireplace in the living room. It had a decent-sized country kitchen, full of antique cooking implements on the walls, and there were two average-sized bedrooms upstairs, done in manly stripes, with George III furniture that Coop had collected for a while. There were beautiful needlepoint rugs in all the rooms, and a small elegant dining room with antique silver set out on the sideboard. The china in the cupboard was Spode. It was a perfect little English cottage, and you could have imagined yourself anywhere but Bel Air. It was closer to the tennis courts than the main house, but it was farther from the pool, which was almost directly outside the guest wing. So each place had its virtues and conveniences and own style.

“This is an absolutely perfect place for the right tenant,” the realtor said with unabashed glee. “I'd love to stay here myself.”

“I've always thought that too,” Liz smiled at her. She had once asked Coop if she could borrow it for a weekend, but in the end she never had. And like the guest wing, it was perfectly appointed with linens and drapes, china, and all the cooking utensils and flatware anyone could possibly need.

“I can get at least ten thousand a month for this one too,” the realtor said, looking pleased. “Maybe more. It's small, but it's absolutely beautiful, and has incredible charm.” It had an entirely different feeling from the guest wing, which seemed grander and more luxurious because of the scale, but was very homey too. There were just higher ceilings, and a lot more room, because the living room and the master bedroom and kitchen were all so large. But they were both beautiful properties, and the realtor felt certain she could have them rented in no time at all. “I'd like to come out and take some pictures of both places next week, I don't even want to show them to other brokers yet. I want to see who we have on our own books looking for furnished rentals. Properties like these don't come along every day, and I want to find the right tenants for Coop.”

“That would be very important for him,” Liz said solemnly.

“Are there any restrictions I should know about?” the realtor asked, making a few quick notes on a pad, about size, facilities, and number of rooms.

“To be honest, he's not crazy about kids, and he wouldn't want anything damaged. I don't know how he'd feel about a dog. But other than that, I think as long as someone is respectable and can pay the rent, there won't be any problem.” She didn't tell her that he only wanted female tenants.

“We have to be careful about the kid thing, we don't want to get reported to the rental board for discrimination,” the realtor warned her. “But I'll keep it in mind when I show it. These are both pretty sophisticated rentals, and the rent is a pretty big ticket. That will keep out the riffraff,” unless of course they rented it to rock stars. That was always a less predictable element, and the realtor had had some problems with them, as everyone else had.

The real estate agent left the property shortly after noon, and Liz drove back to her own apartment, after checking that everything was all right at the main house. All of the staff were still somewhat in shock after being given notice by Abe the previous afternoon, but given the irregularity of their paychecks, it wasn't totally unexpected. Livermore had already announced that he was going to Monte Carlo, to work for an Arab prince. He'd been hounded by him for months, and had called that morning to accept the job that had been a standing offer to him. He didn't seem particularly upset to be leaving Coop, and if he was, as usual, he showed no sign of it. He was flying to the South of France the following weekend, which was going to be a major blow to Coop.

Later that afternoon, Coop came back to the house with Pamela. They'd had a long lunch and sat at the Beverly Hills Hotel pool, chatting with some of Coop's friends, all of them major Hollywood figures. Pamela couldn't believe the crowd she was suddenly traveling in, and she was so impressed she could hardly speak when they left the hotel, and came back to The Cottage. They were in bed together half an hour later, with a bucket of Cristal chilling at his bedside. The cook served them dinner in bed on trays, and at Pamela's insistence, they watched videos of two of his old films. And he drove her home afterwards, because he had an appointment with his trainer and acupuncturist early the next morning. Besides which, he preferred to sleep alone. Even sleeping with a beautiful young woman in his bed sometimes disturbed his sleep.

By the next morning, the realtor had prepared two folders with all the details of both rentals. She got on the phone bright and early, and called several of her clients who were looking for unusual rentals. She set up three appointments to show the gatehouse to bachelors, and another to show the guest wing to a young couple who had just moved to LA and were remodeling a house that was going to take at least another year, if not two, to finish. And shortly after that, her phone rang. It was Jimmy.

He sounded serious and quiet on the phone, and explained that he was looking for a rental. He didn't care where, just something small and easy to manage, with a decent kitchen. He wasn't cooking these days, but he realized that at some point he might like to start again. Other than sports, it was one of the few things that relaxed him. He also didn't care whether or not the place was furnished. He and Maggie had the basics, in terms of furniture, but they hadn't loved any of it, and he wouldn't have minded leaving it all in storage. In some ways, he thought it might remind him less of her, and be less painful, if even the furniture was different. In fact, as he thought about it, he realized he preferred it. The only reminder of Maggie he was taking with him were their pictures. Everything else that had been hers he was boxing up and putting away, so he didn't have to look at it every day.

The realtor asked if he had a preference of location, but he didn't. Hollywood, Beverly Hills, LA, Malibu. He said he liked the ocean, but that would remind him of her too. Everything did. It would have been hard to find something that didn't.

And when he didn't make a point about price, the realtor decided to take a chance, and told him about the gatehouse. She didn't mention the price to him, but described it, and after a moment's hesitation, he said he'd like to see it. She made an appointment with him for five o'clock that afternoon, and then asked him what part of town he worked in.

“Watts,” he said, sounding distracted, and as though to him there was nothing unusual about it, but the realtor looked instantly startled at her end.

“Oh. I see.” She wondered if he was African American, but obviously couldn't ask him, and also wondered if he could afford the rent. “Do you have a budget, Mr. O'Connor?”

“Not really,” he said quietly and then glanced at his watch. He had to run to an appointment with a family about two of their foster children. “I'll see you at five then.” But she was no longer quite so certain that he'd be the right tenant. Someone who worked in Watts was not going to be able to afford Cooper Winslow's gatehouse. And when she saw him late that afternoon, she was certain of it.

Jimmy arrived driving the beat-up Honda Civic that Maggie had insisted they buy, although he had wanted to spring for something a lot more jazzy when they moved to California. He had tried to explain to her that living in California was all about having a great car, but in the end, as usual, she convinced him otherwise. There was no way they could do the kind of work they did, and drive an expensive car, no matter how easily he could afford it. The fact that he came from money, very old money, and quite a lot of it, had always remained a well-kept secret, even among their friends.

He was wearing worn jeans with frayed edges and a torn knee, a faded Harvard sweatshirt that he'd had for a dozen years, and a battered pair of workboots. But in the places where he visited families, there were often rats and he didn't want to get bitten. But in contrast to his clothes, he was clean shaven, intelligent, obviously well educated, and had a recent haircut. He was an interesting conglomeration of conflicting elements, which confused the agent completely.

“What sort of work do you do, Mr. O'Connor?” she asked chattily as she unlocked the door to the gatehouse. She had already shown it three times that afternoon, but the first man she'd shown it to said it was too small, the second one thought it was too isolated, and the third one really wanted an apartment. So it was still free and clear, although she was certain now that Jimmy couldn't afford it. Not on a social worker's wages. But she had to show it to him anyway.

As they came through the hedge, she heard him catch his breath. It looked like an Irish cottage, and reminded him of the trips to Ireland he'd taken with Maggie. And the moment he stepped into the living room, he felt as though he could have been in Ireland or England. It was a perfect little house for a bachelor, it had a manly, unpretentious, unfussy feel to it, and he seemed pleased when he saw the kitchen. And he seemed satisfied with the bedroom too. But what he said he liked most of all was the feeling that he was out in the country somewhere. Unlike the man who had seen it that afternoon, he liked the isolation. It suited his mood.

“Will your wife want to see it?” the realtor asked, probing delicately to see if he was married. He was a good-looking guy, in great shape, and as she glanced at the sweatshirt, she wondered if he actually had gone to Harvard, or just bought the shirt at the Goodwill.

“No, she…” he started to say in answer to the question about his wife, and then didn't. “I'm… I'd be living here alone.” He still couldn't bring himself to say “widowed.” It sliced right through his heart like a knife each time he tried it. And “single” sounded pathetic and dishonest. At times, he still wanted to say he was married. He would have still been wearing his wedding band if he'd had one. Maggie had never given him one, and the one she'd worn had been buried with her. “I like it,” he said quietly, walking through all the rooms again, and opening all the closets. Being on the estate seemed a little grand to him, but he wondered if he could tell people he was house-sitting, or paid to work on the grounds, if he brought anyone home from work.

There were a lot of stories he could tell if he had to, and had over the years. But what he liked best about it was that he knew Maggie would have loved it. It was just her kind of place, although she would never have agreed to live there, because she couldn't afford her share. It made him smile, thinking of it, and he was tempted to take it. But he decided to wait and sleep on the decision, and promised to call the realtor the next day. “I'd like to think about it,” he said, as they left, and she was sure he was just saving face. From his car and his clothes and his job, she knew he couldn't afford it. But he seemed like a nice man, and she was pleasant to him. You never knew who you were dealing with. She had been in the business long enough to know that. Sometimes the people who looked the least reputable or the most poverty stricken turned out to be the heirs of enormous fortunes. She had learned that early on in the business, so she was gracious to him.

As Jimmy drove home, he thought about the gatehouse. It was a beautiful little place, and it seemed like a peaceful retreat from the world. He would have loved to live there with Maggie, and wondered if that would bother him. It was hard to know what was best anymore. There was nowhere he could hide from his sorrow. And when he got home, he went back to his packing, just to distract himself. The apartment was already fairly empty. He made himself a bowl of soup, and sat staring silently out the window.

He lay awake for most of the night, thinking about Maggie, about what she would advise him. He had thought of taking an apartment on the edge of Watts, which would be practical certainly, and the dangers didn't alarm him particularly. Or maybe just an ordinary apartment somewhere in LA. But as he lay in bed that night, he couldn't stop thinking about the gatehouse. He could afford it, and he knew she would have loved it. He wondered if, for once in his life, he should indulge himself. And he liked the story about working on the grounds of the estate in exchange for reduced rent at the gatehouse. It seemed a plausible story. And besides, he loved the kitchen, the living room and fireplace, and garden all around him.

He called the realtor on her cell phone at eight in the morning, while he was shaving. “I'll take it.” He actually smiled as he said it. It was the first time he had smiled in weeks, but he was suddenly excited about the gatehouse. It was perfect for him.

“You will?” She sounded startled. She'd been sure she wouldn't hear from him again, and she wondered if he had understood the price when she quoted it to him. “It's ten thousand dollars a month, Mr. O'Connor. That won't be a problem?” She didn't have the guts to quote him more than that, and she'd been beginning to wonder if it was going to be harder to rent than she had thought. It had a very definite and most unusual flavor.

It wasn't for everyone, living in isolation on an estate, but he seemed to love that about it.

“It'll be fine,” he reassured her. “Do I need to drop off a check to secure it, or a deposit?” Now that he'd made up his mind, he didn't want to lose it.

“Well, no… I… we'll have to do a reference check first.” She was sure that would do him in, but by law, she had to go through the process, no matter how ineligible he seemed.

“I don't want to lose it if someone else comes along in the meantime.” He sounded worried. He was no longer as casual about life as he had been. He noticed lately that he got anxious more easily, about things that before he'd never even thought of. Maggie had always done all the worrying for him, now it was all his.

“I'll hold it for you, of course. You have first rights on it.”

“How long will the reference check take?”

“No more than a few days. The banks are a little slow with credit checks these days.”

“I'll tell you what, why don't you call my banker?” He gave her the name of the head of private banking at BofA. “Maybe he can move things along a little faster.” Jimmy was always discreet, but he also knew that once she called him, things would move like greased lightning. His credit was not an issue, and had never been.

“I'll be happy to do that, Mr. O'Connor. Is there a number where I can reach you today?”

He gave her his office number, and told her to leave a message on his voice mail if he was out, and he'd call her back as soon as he got it. “I'll be in all morning.”

He had a mountain of paperwork on his desk. And at ten o'clock that morning, she called him.

The credit check had gone exactly as he'd expected. She called the head of private banking, as a matter of routine, and the moment she said Jimmy's name, she was told that without question, there was no problem. His credit was excellent, and they were not able to disclose his balances, but they were of an amount as to put him in the upper echelons of their clients was all they could say.

“Is he buying a house?” the banker asked with interest. He hoped he was, although he didn't say it. After Jimmy's recent tragedy, he would have seen it as a hopeful sign, and he could certainly afford it. If he'd wanted to, he could have bought The Cottage. But he didn't mention that to the realtor.

“No, he's renting a gatehouse. It's quite expensive,” she said, just trying to reconfirm what he'd told her, and to make sure there was no misunderstanding. “Ten thousand a month, and we'll need first and last months' rent, and a twenty-five-thousand-dollar security deposit.” Once again, he assured her there was no problem. It aroused her curiosity and in a rare burst of indiscretion, she asked him a question. “Who is he?”

“Exactly who he says he is. James Thomas O'Connor. He's one of our most solid clients.” It was all he would tell her, and she was more than a little intrigued.

“I was a little concerned because, as a social worker, of course…it's a little unusual to pay such a high rent.”

“It's a shame there aren't more people like him. Is there anything else I can tell you?”

“Would you mind faxing me a letter?”

“Not at all. Do you need us to issue a check on his behalf, or is he going to do it himself?”

“I'll ask him,” she said, as she realized that she had just rented Cooper Winslow's gatehouse. She called Jimmy back, told him the good news, and told him he could have the gatehouse and the keys as soon as he wanted. He promised to drop a check off to her at lunchtime, and told her he wouldn't be moving in for another few weeks, until he vacated his current apartment. He wanted to hang on to the last of Maggie for as long as he could, but he was suddenly excited about the gatehouse. And he knew that wherever he went, he would take her with him.

“I hope you'll be very happy there, Mr. O'Connor. It's a gem of a house. And I'm sure you'll enjoy meeting Mr. Winslow”

As he hung up, he laughed thinking of what Maggie would have said about having a movie star as their landlord. But for once, he was going to indulge in doing something a little crazy. And somehow, in his heart of hearts, he had the feeling that Maggie would not only have approved, she would have loved it for him.

Chapter 5

Mark had had another nightmarish night, nearly without sleep, when he arrived at his office the next morning. And almost moments after he got there, his phone rang. It was Abe Braunstein.

“I'm so damn sorry about what you told me yesterday,” Abe said sympathetically. He had been thinking about him the night before, and then suddenly wondered if he was looking for an apartment. He couldn't stay in a hotel forever. “I had a crazy idea last night. I don't know if you're looking for a place to live, or what your needs are, but there's a very unusual place that just came on the market. One of my clients is renting out his guest wing, Cooper Winslow. He's gotten himself in a hell of a bind, of course that's confidential. He's got a fantastic estate in Bel Air, and quite a house. He's renting out his gatehouse, and his guest wing. They started showing both yesterday, and I don't think they're rented yet. I just thought I'd mention it, because it might be a terrific place to live, kind of like being in a country club. Maybe you'd like to see it.”

“I haven't given it much thought,” Mark said honestly. He really wasn't ready, although living on Cooper Winslow's Bel Air estate had a certain ring to it, and it might be a great environment for his kids when they came out to visit.

“If you want, I'll pick you up at lunchtime and drive you out to see it. If nothing else, it's worth a look as a tourist. It's quite a place. Tennis courts, swimming pool, fourteen acres of garden in the middle of the city.”

“I'd love to see it.” He didn't want to be rude to Abe, but he wasn't in the mood to look for apartments, even on Cooper Winslow's estate, but he thought maybe he should, just in case it would be good for the kids.

“I'll pick you up at twelve-thirty. I'll call the realtor and have her meet us out there. It's pricey, but I think you can afford it.” He smiled, knowing that Mark was one of the firm's highest-earning partners. Tax law was not exciting, but it had been profitable for him, although nothing about Mark was ostentatious. He drove a Mercedes, but other than that, he was down to earth, and very unassuming, and always had been.

For the rest of the morning, Mark forgot about it. He thought it was a long shot that he would like the guest wing at The Cottage. He was going to see it mostly out of courtesy to Abe, he had nothing else to do at lunch-time. Now that he hardly ever ate, he had more time on his hands. His clothes were hanging off him.

Abe arrived at the office on schedule, and told Mark that the realtor was meeting them at The Cottage in fifteen minutes. And for the entire drive they talked about a new tax law that seemed to have some loopholes in it that interested both of them, so much so that Mark looked up in surprise when they got to the main gate. The Cottage had a very imposing entrance. Abe knew the code, and let himself in, and they drove along the winding drive through trees, and endless manicured gardens, and Mark laughed out loud when he saw the house. He couldn't even imagine living in a house like that, it looked like a palace to him.

“My God, does he actually live there?” There were marble pillars and marble steps, and an enormous fountain that reminded him of the Place de la Concorde in Paris.

“It was built for Vera Harper. Winslow's had it for over forty years. It costs him an absolute fortune to run.”

“I can imagine. How much staff does he have?”

“At the moment, close to twenty. In two weeks, one in the house, and three gardeners. He has eight at the moment. He calls it my scorched-earth policy, and he's not too happy about it. I'm forcing him to sell the cars too, if you need a Rolls or a Bentley He's an interesting guy, but about as spoiled as they come. I hate to admit it, but the place suits him. We have kind of an armed truce between us.” Abe was everything that Coop wasn't, practical, down to earth, frugal, he didn't have an ounce of elegance or style, but he had more compassion than Coop suspected, which was why he was bringing Mark out to see the house. He felt sorry for him, and wanted to help him. He'd never seen the guest wing himself, but Liz had told him it was terrific, and she was right.

Mark whistled as the realtor let him in. He looked up in amazement at the high ceilings, and out the French windows with pleasure. The gardens were absolutely beautiful. He felt as though he were in an old French chateau, and the furniture was very handsome too. The kitchen was a little antiquated, but he didn't really care, and as the realtor pointed out, it was warm and cozy. And he was amused by the grandeur of the master bedroom. Blue satin was not what he would have chosen for his bedroom, but it was certainly glamorous, and for a year, while he figured out what he was doing with his life, this would be an easy solution. And the grounds were wonderfully safe and protected for his children. It had a lot to recommend it. He had been thinking lately about moving back to New York to be near his kids, but he didn't want to encroach on Janet, and he had a lot of clients in LA who counted on him. The one thing Mark didn't want to do was make a hasty decision. And having a place to live was one way not to. He would have a home again, even if it wasn't his own. And it was a lot less depressing than living in a hotel, lying awake at night, listening to people flush toilets and slam doors.

“This is quite something.” He smiled at Abe, and felt like an innocent as he looked around. It never even dawned on him that people lived this way. His own house had been comfortable and well decorated, but the guest wing looked like a movie set. If nothing else, it would be amusing, and fun to live there. And he had a feeling that his kids would love it when they came to visit, particularly the tennis courts and the pool. “I'm glad you brought me out here.” He smiled gratefully at Abe.

“I thought of it last night, and I figured it was worth a look. You can't live in a hotel forever.” He had given all his furniture to Janet, so the fact that it was furnished, and so handsomely, was a no-brainer for him. In a lot of ways, it was perfect for Mark.

“How much is it?” Mark asked the realtor.

“Ten thousand a month,” she said, without batting an eye. “But there's nothing else like it. A lot of people would pay ten times that just to be here. The Cottage is a unique property, and so is the guest wing. I just rented the gatehouse to a very nice young man this morning.”

“Really?” Abe commented with interest. “Anyone we've ever heard of?” He was used to celebrities and the movie stars who were his clients and Coop's friends.

“Actually, no, I don't think so. He's a social worker,” she said primly, and Abe looked surprised.

“Can he afford it?” As Coop's accountant, he had a vested interest in asking her those questions. They didn't want to get someone in who couldn't pay the rent.

“Apparently. The head of private banking at BofA says he's one of their most solid clients. He sent me a fax to that effect about ten minutes after I spoke to him, and the tenant dropped off a check for first, last, and security, as I was walking out of the office to come here. I'm dropping the lease off to him tonight. He lives in Venice Beach.”

“Interesting,” Abe commented, and then turned his attention back to Mark, who was investigating the closets. There were more than he needed. But he particularly liked the two bedrooms for the children, and he thought his kids would love the place. It was elegant and glamorous, but still comfortable, and it was all done in beautiful taste.

Mark was pondering the rent as he looked around, but he knew he could afford it. He just didn't know if he wanted to spend that much on rent. If he did, it would be the first outrageous thing he'd done for himself in an entire lifetime, but maybe it was time for him to do something outrageous. Janet had. She had walked right out the door into the arms of another man. All he was doing was renting an expensive apartment for a year, but one that he would really enjoy living in. He might even start sleeping decently again, on the peaceful grounds. He could swim laps in the pool when he came home from the office, or play tennis, if he could find a partner. He couldn't imagine inviting Cooper Winslow to play with him. “Is he ever around?” he asked the realtor with interest.

“Apparently he travels a great deal, which is why he wants tenants, so there are people living full-time on the property, and not just servants.” It was the party line, and Abe recognized instantly that it was probably what Liz had told her. She was always so diplomatic, and so protective of Coop's reputation. Abe didn't want to tell the realtor that there would no longer be servants living there in two weeks.

“That makes sense,” Mark nodded. “It's good security for him.” But he also knew what Abe had told him in confidence about Coop's financial situation. They shared a lot of information like that about their clients.

“Are you married, Mr. Friedman?” the realtor asked him politely. She wanted to make sure that he didn't have ten children, but that looked unlikely. And the fact that Coop's own accountant had brought him there meant that he didn't need any intense scrutiny in the screening process, which was simpler for all concerned.

“I…uh…no…I'm getting divorced.” It nearly choked him to say it.

“Do your children live with you?”

“No, they live in New York.” It broke his heart to say that too. “I'm going to be going back to see them as often as possible. They can only come out here during their vacations. And you know how kids are, they want to stay close to their friends. I'll be lucky if they come out once a year,” he said sadly. But the realtor was relieved, after Liz's warning that Coop wasn't anxious for tenants with children. He was a perfect candidate, a single man, with children who weren't even in the same city, and would hardly ever come to visit. You couldn't ask for better. And he was obviously solvent, if Abe had brought him. And then, as he walked back into the living room, he blurted out, “I'll take it.” Even Abe looked startled, but Mark was beaming, and the realtor was delighted. In the two first days on the market, she had rented both of Coop's properties, and at a very decent price. She thought ten thousand was fair for each of them, and Liz had said Coop would be satisfied if she got that much for them. She hadn't wanted to push any higher. And Mark looked ecstatic. Suddenly, he couldn't wait to get out of the hotel, and move in. The realtor told him he could occupy it within a few days, as soon as the credit check was complete, they got his check, and she gave him the keys. Liz had told her she wanted to have both facilities professionally cleaned for the tenants, which she mentioned to him.

“I think I'll move in this weekend,” he said happily, as he and the realtor shook hands on the deal, and he thanked Abe profusely for bringing him to see it.

“That was a lot easier and more productive than I expected it to be, and faster.” Abe smiled happily as they drove back down the driveway. He had expected him to agonize and have a tougher time making the decision.

“It's probably the craziest thing I've ever done, but maybe I need to be a little crazy once in a while,” Mark volunteered. He was always so serious and so responsible, so measured in everything he did. He wondered now if that was why he had lost Janet to another man, who was probably more exciting. “Thanks, Abe. I love the place, and I think my kids will too. We're going to get awfully spoiled living here for a year.”

“It'll do you good for a while,” Abe said compassionately.

That night Mark called Jessica and Jason in New York, and told them about the guest wing he'd rented from Coop.

“Who's he?” Jason asked, sounding blank.

“I think he's some really old guy who was in movies when Dad was a kid,” Jessica explained.

“That's about right,” Mark said, sounding pleased. “But the main thing is it's a great house, and we have our own wing, on beautiful grounds, with a tennis court and a pool. I think it'll be fun for you two when you come out.” All three of them were on the phone at the same time.

“I miss our old house,” Jason said, sounding glum.

“I hate my school,” Jessica chimed in. “All the girls are mean, and all the boys are geeks.”

“Give it time,” Mark said diplomatically. It hadn't been his idea to end the marriage, or move the kids to New York. But he didn't want to say anything critical about their mother. He preferred to keep whatever animosity they felt toward each other between them. It seemed better for the kids. “It takes time to get used to a new school. And I'm going to see you soon.” He was flying to New York for a weekend, in February. They had reservations in Saint Bart's in March for their spring break. And he was thinking about chartering a small boat for their Caribbean holiday. He was trying to break out of his familiar mold. “How's Mom?”

“She's okay, she goes out a lot,” Jason complained, but they hadn't said a word yet about the new man. Mark was sure she hadn't introduced them to him yet. She was waiting for things to settle down. They had only been there for three weeks, nearly four. It wasn't a long time, although it felt like an eternity to him.

“Why can't we keep our old house?” Jessica asked mournfully, and when he told her it had just sold, they both cried. It was yet another conversation that ended on an unhappy note. They had a lot of those. And Jessica always seemed to be looking for someone to blame, mostly him. She still hadn't figured out that her mother had wanted the divorce. And Mark didn't want to point the finger at her. He was waiting for Janet to step up to the plate and take responsibility for it herself, but so far she hadn't. She had just told them that she and Daddy hadn't been getting along, which was a lie. They'd been fine, until Adam came along. Mark wondered how she was going to sell him to the kids, maybe as someone she'd just met. It was probably going to be years before they figured it out, if they ever did, which depressed him too. His children were going to go on blaming him forever for causing the divorce. And one of his worst fears was that his kids were going to be as crazy about Adam as their mother was, and then they would forget him. He was three thousand miles away, in Los Angeles, and he couldn't see them as often as he liked. He could hardly wait for their vacation in Saint Bart's. He had chosen it because he thought it would be fun for them, and for him too.

He promised to call them the next day, as he always did. And he gave the hotel notice that night that he was moving out on the weekend. He could hardly wait. He loved his new digs. It was the first cheerful thing that had happened to him since Janet had hit him with the news. He felt like he'd been in shock for the last five weeks. And that night, he went out and ate a hamburger before he went to bed. For the first time in weeks, he was actually hungry.

He packed his clothes into two suitcases on Friday night, and on Saturday morning, he drove to the estate. He had the code to the gate and opened it, and when he let himself into the guest wing, it was immaculately clean. Everything had been vacuumed and dusted, and the furniture shone. The kitchen was spotless and there were clean sheets on his bed. And for a surprisingly long moment, it felt like coming home.

After he'd unpacked, he took a walk around the grounds. They were beautifully tended. He went out and bought groceries, and fixed himself lunch, and afterwards he went to lie beside the pool, to soak up some sun. He was in great spirits that afternoon when he called the children. It was the end of the day for them, on a snowy Saturday in New York. And both kids sounded bored. They were tired of being shut in. Jessica was going out with friends that night, but Jason said he had nothing to do. He missed his dad, and his house, and his friends, and his school. There was apparently nothing he liked about New York.

“Hang in, sport, I'm coming to see you in two weeks. We'll find something to do. Have you played any soccer this week?” Mark chatted with him, and Jason continued to complain.

“We can never play because of the snow.” Jason hated New York. He was a California kid, and had lived there since he was three. He didn't even remember living in New York before. All he wanted to do was go back to California, which still felt like home to him.

They talked for a while longer, and then Mark finally got off. He checked out where things were in the kitchen, and put a video on that night, and he was amused to see that Cooper Winslow had a walk-on part in it. He was certainly a good-looking man, and Mark wondered when and if they'd meet. He had seen someone drive in behind him in a Rolls-Royce convertible that afternoon, but he was just far enough ahead that all he could see was a man with silver hair, presumably Coop, and a pretty girl next to him in the front seat. Mark realized Coop had a far more interesting life than he. After sixteen years being faithfully married, he couldn't even imagine what it would be like to start dating again, and had no desire to. He had too much on his mind, too many memories, too many regrets, and all he could think about were his kids. For the moment, there was no room for a woman in his life. Room maybe, but no heart. He was just grateful that when he went to bed that night, he slept like a baby, and woke up happy the next morning after dreaming that his children were living with him. That would in fact have made it a perfect life for him. But in the meantime, what he had was an improvement over his room at the hotel. And he'd be seeing them in two weeks. It was something to look forward to, and all he needed now.

He went to cook himself breakfast, and was surprised to discover that the kitchen stove didn't work. He made a note to call the realtor about it, but he didn't really care. He was just as happy with orange juice and toast. He wasn't much of a cook, except when the kids were around, he would cook for them.

And in the main part of the house, Coop was making similar discoveries. His cook had left earlier that week, after finding another job. Livermore was already gone. And both maids were off for the weekend, and leaving the following week. The houseman was already working for someone else. And Paloma didn't come in on weekends. Pamela was cooking breakfast for him, wearing bikini underwear and one of his shirts. She claimed to be a whiz in the kitchen, as witnessed by a mound of rock-hard scrambled eggs and burnt bacon she handed him on a plate in bed.

“Aren't you a clever girl,” he said admiringly, with a look of concern as he glanced at the eggs. “I take it you couldn't find the trays?”

“What trays, darlin'?” she asked in her Oklahoma drawl. She was very proud of herself, and had forgotten napkins and silverware. She went back to get them as Coop used a cautious finger to poke the eggs. They were not only hard, but cold. She'd been talking to a girlfriend on the phone while she cooked. Cooking had never been her strong suit, but what she did in bed with him was, and he was pleased. The only problem was, she couldn't talk. Except about her hair, and her makeup and her moisturizer, and the last photo shoot she'd been on. She was extremely limited, but it wasn't her conversation which fascinated him. He just liked being with her. There was something very invigorating about young girls. He had a marvelous way with women her age, he was debonair and fun and worldly-wise and sophisticated, and besides which, he took her shopping nearly every day. She had never had as much fun in her life as she was having with Coop. She didn't care how old he was. She had a whole new wardrobe, and he'd bought her diamond earrings and a diamond bracelet the week before. There was no question about it. Cooper Winslow knew how to live.

He flushed the eggs down the toilet when she went back downstairs to get him a glass of orange juice, and she was proud to see that he had eaten everything. And as soon as she ate hers, he brought her back to bed with him, where they spent the afternoon. And that night, he took her to Le Dome for dinner. She loved going to Spago with him too. It was a real thrill for her to see everyone stare at them as they recognized him and wanted to see who he was with. Men looked at him enviously, and women raised an eyebrow as they looked at them, and Pamela liked that too.

He drove her back to her apartment that night, after dinner. He'd had a fun weekend with her, but he had a busy week ahead. He was shooting a car commercial, which was a big deal, and they were paying him handsomely for it, and it was going to be Liz's last week.

Coop was actually happy to climb into his bed alone that night. Pamela was a lot of fun, but after a while, she was just a kid. And he no longer was. He needed his beauty sleep. He went to bed at ten o'clock, and slept like a rock, until Paloma threw back the curtains and lifted the shades the next day. He woke up with a start, and sat up staring at her.

“Why on earth are you doing that?” He couldn't imagine what she was doing in his room, and was relieved to note that he'd put on silk pajamas the night before. Otherwise he might have been sprawled naked across his bed. “What are you doing in here?” She was wearing a clean uniform, this time with rhinestone sunglasses, and bright red high-heeled shoes. She looked like a combination between a nurse in the white uniform, and a gypsy fortune-teller, and he wasn't amused.

“Miss Liz said to wake ju up at eight o'clock,” she said, glaring at him. She had a powerful dislike for him and it showed. And Coop hated her too.

“Couldn't you knock on the door?” he barked at her, falling back into his bed with his eyes closed. She had woken him from a sound sleep.

“I try. Ju don' answer. So I come in. Now ju wake up. Miss Liz say ju gotta go to work.”

“Thank you very much,” he said formally, his eyes still closed. “Would you mind making me breakfast?” There was no one else now who could. “I'll have scrambled eggs and rye toast. Orange juice. Black coffee. Thank you.”

She was muttering to herself as she left the room, and Coop groaned. This was going to be a painful alliance, he realized with total clarity. Why in hell did she have to be the one they kept? Couldn't they have kept one of the others? No, of course not, he complained to himself… she was cheap. But he had to admit, twenty minutes later when he came out of the shower, and found his breakfast sitting on a tray on his bed, the eggs were good. Better than Pamela's. That was something at least, although she had made huevos rancheros instead of scrambled eggs. He would have complained about her not cooking what he'd asked for, but they were delicious and he devoured it all.

Half an hour later, he was out the door, impeccably dressed, as usual, in a blazer, gray slacks and blue shirt, a navy blue Hermes tie, and his hair as beautifully groomed as it always was. He was a vision of elegance and sophistication as he slipped into his old Rolls, and drove off. And Mark followed him down the drive, on his way to work. He wondered where Coop was going at that hour, and couldn't imagine it. He was alone for once, which was unusual for him, but so was leaving the house at that hour.

Liz passed them both on the way in, and waved at Coop. She still couldn't believe this was her last week.

Chapter 6

Liz's last days in Coop's employ had a bittersweet quality to them. He had never been as sweet to her, or as generous. He gave her a diamond ring that he said had been his mother's, which was one of those stories she was always skeptical of. But whosever ring it had been, it was beautiful and fit her perfectly, and she promised him she would always wear it and think of him.

He took her to Spago on Friday night, and she had too much to drink, and by the time he dropped her off at her house, she was crying about how miserable she was going to be without him. But he had resigned himself to her departure by then, reassured her that she was doing the right thing, left her at her place and drove home, where he had a new flame waiting for him. Pamela was on location for a magazine in Milan. And he had met Charlene while doing the car commercial he'd just done. She was a spectacular-looking woman, and at twenty-nine, she was old for him. But she had the most extraordinary body he'd ever seen, and he'd seen many of them. Hers was worthy of the Cooper Winslow Hall of Fame.

Charlene had enormous breasts that she insisted were real, and a waist he could circle with both hands. She had long jet-black hair, and she had enormous catlike green eyes. She said her grandmother was Japanese. She was an amazing-looking girl, and she had been completely bowled over by him. She was more intelligent than Pamela, which was something of a relief. Charlene had lived in Paris for two years, modeling on the side, and going to the Sorbonne, and she had grown up in Brazil. She was a wonderful mélange of international flavors, and she had gone to bed with him by the second day of the shoot. Coop had had a very good week.

He had invited her to spend the weekend with him, and she had accepted with a squeal of delight. He was already thinking of going to the Hotel du Cap with her. She would look fabulous with her top off at the pool. She was in his bed when he got home after his dinner with Liz, and he joined her without ceremony. They spent a very interesting, somewhat acrobatic, night together, and on Saturday they drove to Santa Barbara for lunch, and came home in time for dinner at L'Orangerie. He was enjoying her company, and he was beginning to think it was time to kiss Pamela goodbye. Charlene had a lot more to offer, and she was a more sensible age for him.

She was still there on Monday morning, when Paloma arrived for work. Coop asked her to bring trays for both of them, which she did with a sullen expression of disapproval. She glared at Coop, slammed the trays down on the bed, and stalked out of the room in bright pink high heels. The accessories she wore with her uniform always fascinated him.

“She doesn't like me,” Charlene said, looking crestfallen. “I think she disapproves.”

“Don't worry about it. She's madly in love with me. Don't be afraid if she makes a jealous scene,” he said sarcastically, as they dug into what appeared to be rubber eggs, covered with a thick layer of pepper which made Coop choke and Charlene sneeze. It was a far cry from the huevos rancheros she'd made him the week before. Paloma had won this round, but Coop was determined to have a word with her after Charlene left, and by then it was early afternoon.

“That was an interesting breakfast you served this morning, Paloma.” Coop stood in the kitchen, looking coolly at her. “The pepper was a nice touch, but unnecessary. I needed a buzz saw to cut through the eggs. What did you make them with? Rubber cement, or just ordinary paper glue?”

“I donnow what ju talkin' about,” she said cryptically, polishing a piece of silver that Livermore had told her had to be polished every week. She was wearing the rhinestone sunglasses again. They were obviously her favorites, and were becoming Coop's too. He was wondering if there was even a remote possibility of bringing her to heel. If not, he was going to have to replace her, no matter what Abe said. “Ju don' like my eggs?” she asked angelically, as he scowled at her.

“You know what I mean.”

“Miss Pamela called from Italy this morning, at eight o'clock,” Paloma announced nonchalantly, and as she did, Coop stared. Her accent had suddenly disappeared.

“What did you just say?” It wasn't so much what as how.

“I said…” she looked up at him with an innocent grin, “Mees Pamela called ju at eight o'clock.” The dialect was back again. She was playing games with him.

“That's not how you said it a minute ago, is it, Paloma? What's the point of all that?” He was visibly annoyed, and she looked a little sheepish, and then covered it with bravado and a shrug.

“Isn't that what you expect? You called me Maria for the first two months I was here.” He could still hear the echo of San Salvador, but only faintly, and her English was almost as good as his.

“We hadn't been properly introduced,” he excused himself. And although he wouldn't have admitted it to her, he was faintly amused. She had figured she would hide from him by pretending to be barely able to speak English. He suspected she was not only smart, but probably a damn good cook too. “What did you do in your country, Paloma?” He was suddenly intrigued by her. As irritating as she was, she was becoming a human being to him, and he wasn't sure he wanted to be burdened with that. But nonetheless, his curiosity got the best of him.

“I was a nurse,” she said, still polishing the silver. It was a loathsome task, and she missed Livermore almost as much as Coop.

“That's too bad,” Coop said with a grin, “I was hoping you were going to tell me you were a tailor or a dressmaker. At least then you could take proper care of my clothes. Fortunately, I am not in need of your nursing skills.”

“I make more money here. And ju have too many clothes,” she said, donning the accent again, like a garment she put on and off at will. It was like playing peekaboo with him.

“Thank you for that piece of editorial commentary. You have some interesting accessories yourself,” he said as he glanced down at the pink shoes. “Why didn't you tell me Pamela called, by the way?” He had already decided to make a switch in paramours. But he always remained friends with the previous ones. And he was generous enough that they always forgave him his vagaries and his sins. He was sure Pamela would.

“You were busy with the other one when she called. What's her name.” The accent was gone again.

“Charlene,” he supplied, and Paloma looked vague. “Thank you, Paloma,” Coop said quietly and decided to quit while he was ahead, and left the room. She never wrote a single message down, and only told him about them when she thought of it, which worried him. But she seemed to know who the players were. So far, at least. And she was becoming a more interesting character herself day by day.

Paloma had met Mark the previous week, and she had offered to do some laundry for him, when he told her the washing machine in the guest wing was out of order. And the stove still was too. She had told him that he could use the kitchen in the main house if he needed to. She said Coop never came down to the kitchen himself in the morning, and she gave him a key to the connecting door between the main house and the guest wing. The espresso machine in the guest wing was broken too. Mark had made a list of all of it, and the realtor had promised him it would all be repaired, but with Liz gone, there was no one to take care of it, except Coop himself, which wasn't likely to happen, they both knew. Mark was taking his clothes out to be laundered, and Paloma was doing sheets and towels for him, and with the use of Coop's espresso machine on the weekends, he had no other needs. He was using the microwave instead of the stove, and the only time he'd need the stove would be when he had the kids. He was sure it would be fixed by then, even if he had to take care of it himself, and he told the realtor he was willing to. She said she would see what she could do. But Coop never returned any of her calls, or his. And Coop was scheduled to do another commercial that week, for a brand of chewing gum. It was a ridiculous ad, but the pay was decent enough so his agent had talked him into it. He was working more than usual these days, although no features had surfaced yet. His agent had been beating the bushes for him to no avail. His reputation was too well known in Hollywood, and given the kind of parts he wanted to play, romantic leads, leading men, he was simply too old. He wasn't ready to play fathers or grandfathers yet. And there hadn't been any demand for aging playboys in years.

Charlene stayed at The Cottage with him almost every night that week. She was trying to get work as an actress, but she got even less work than Coop. And the only work she had done so far since she'd come to Hollywood were two X-rated videos, one of which had been shown on TV at 4 A.M. And her agent had finally convinced her that neither of them would look good on her C.V. She had already asked Coop if he could talk to anyone about getting work for her, and he'd said he would see what he could do. She had started out as a lingerie model on Seventh Avenue, after similar modeling in Paris, and she had a fabulous body for that, but he wasn't even sure if she could act, and seriously doubted it. She claimed to have modeled in Paris extensively, but she could never seem to find her book. Her real skills were in an area that was far more appealing to Coop, and had nothing to do with acting, modeling, or TV.

He was enjoying her company immensely. And he was relieved when Pamela told him when she got back from Milan that she'd gotten involved with the photographer on the shoot. Those things had a way of working themselves out, particularly in Coop's world. It was all about bodies and temporary alliances and quick affairs. It was only when he went out with famous actresses that he encouraged the rumors about engagements and wedding bells. But he wanted none of that with Charlene. She was all about having a good time, and seeing that he had fun too. He'd already been on two major shopping sprees with her, which had eaten both checks his tenants had given him, but he thought she deserved it, as he explained to Abe when the accountant called and warned him he'd have to sell the house if he didn't behave.

“You'd better give up starving models and actresses, Coop. You need to find a rich wife.” Coop laughed at him and said he'd give it some thought, but marriage had never appealed to Coop. All he wanted to do was play, and that's what he was going to do, or planned to anyway, until his dying day.

The following weekend Mark went to New York to see his kids. He had told Paloma all about them by then. She had done a little cleaning for him, and he'd paid her handsomely. She would have done it for him anyway. She felt sorry for him when he told her his wife had left him for another man, and she started leaving fresh fruit in a bowl on his kitchen table, and some tortillas she'd made. She liked hearing about his kids. It was easy to see he was crazy about them. There were photographs of them all over the place, and others of him and his wife.

But in spite of that, it was a challenging weekend. It was the first time Mark had seen the children since they'd left LA more than a month before. Janet said he should have given them more time to settle in before he came, and she seemed nervous and hostile to him. She was leading a double life, pretending to be unattached when she was with the kids, and continuing her clandestine affair. And Adam wanted to know when he was going to meet her kids. She had promised him it would be soon, but she didn't want them to figure out why she had moved them to New York. She was terrified they'd object to Adam, and start a war with him, out of loyalty to their father, if nothing else. She was looking nervous and strained when Mark saw her, and he wondered what was going wrong. And the kids were unhappy too. But they were thrilled to see their dad.

They stayed at the Plaza with him, and ordered lots of room service. He took them to the theater, and a movie. He went shopping with Jessica, and he and Jason went for a long walk in the rain, trying to make sense of things. And by Sunday afternoon, he felt as though he had only scratched the surface, and hated leaving them again. He was depressed all the way home on the plane. He was really beginning to wonder if he should move to New York. He was still thinking about it the following weekend, as he lay in the sun at the pool on Saturday, and he noticed that someone was moving into the gatehouse finally. He took a stroll over, and saw Jimmy hauling boxes out of a van by himself, and offered to give him a hand.

Jimmy hesitated for a long moment, and then accepted gratefully. He was surprised himself at how much stuff he had. He had sent most of what he had to storage, but had kept a lot of framed photographs, some trophies, his sports equipment, and his clothes. He had a lot of stereo equipment, some of which was Maggie's. There seemed to be a mountain of stuff he had brought with him, and even with Mark helping, it took them two hours to unload the van, and they were both tired when they stopped. All they'd done was introduce themselves to each other at that point, and Jimmy offered him a beer when they finally sat down, and Mark accepted gratefully. It had been a lot of work.

“You sure have a lot of stuff,” Mark said with a grin as he sipped the beer. “Heavy stuff, what's in all that, your collection of bowling balls?” Jimmy smiled and shrugged.

“Damned if I know. We had a two-room apartment and I sent most of it to storage, and I still had all this.” He had a lot of books and papers, and CDs. It seemed endless, but it disappeared easily into the drawers and cupboards and bookcases and closets of the gatehouse. And when he opened the first box, he took out a picture of her and set it on the mantelpiece and stood looking at her. It was one of his favorites. She had just caught a fish in a lake on one of their trips to Ireland, and she looked victorious and pleased, her bright red hair tied in a knot on top of her head, her eyes squinting against the sun. She looked about fourteen years old. It was the summer before she got sick, only about seven months ago. It seemed like a lifetime ago to him, as he turned and saw Mark watching him. Jimmy looked away and didn't say anything.

“Pretty woman. Your girlfriend?” Jimmy shook his head and took a long time to answer, but finally did with a knot in his throat. He was used to it now, it felt like a growth sometimes, the knot that still turned into tears at the drop of a hat, and felt like it always would.

“My wife,” Jimmy said quietly.

“I'm sorry,” Mark said sympathetically, assuming they were divorced, because it seemed like everyone was now. “How long has it been?”

“Seven weeks tomorrow night,” Jimmy said, as he took a breath. He never talked about it, but he knew he had to learn how, and maybe this was as good a time as any to start. Mark looked like a nice guy, and maybe they'd be friends, living on the same property. Jimmy tried to keep his voice steady as he lowered his eyes.

“It's been six for me. I just visited my kids in New York last weekend. I miss them so damn much. My wife left me for another guy,” Mark said in a somber voice.

“I'm sorry,” Jimmy said sympathetically. He could see the pain in Mark's eyes, mirrored and magnified only by the pain in his own. “That's tough. How old are your kids?”

“Fifteen and thirteen, a girl and a boy. Jason and Jessica. They're great kids, and so far they're hating New York. If she was going to fall for someone else, I wish it had been someone out here. The kids don't know about him yet. What about you? Kids?”

“No. We were talking about it. We hadn't gotten around to it yet.” He was amazed at how much he was willing to say to Mark. It was as though they had some strange invisible bond. The bond of heartache and loss and unexpected tragedy. The brutal blows of life that come as a surprise.

“Maybe it's just as well. Maybe it's easier to get divorced if you don't have kids. Maybe not. What do I know?” Mark said with a blend of compassion and humility, and suddenly Jimmy realized what he thought.

“We're not getting divorced,” he said in a choked voice.

“Maybe you'll get back together,” Mark said, envying him, but she obviously wasn't around either, so things couldn't be working out for them. And then he saw the look of raw anguish in Jimmy's eyes.

“My wife died.”

“Oh my God… I'm so sorry. … I thought What happened? An accident?” He glanced at the photograph again, suddenly horrified that the beautiful young woman holding the fish was gone, not just to her own life, but dead, and it was easy to see how heartbroken Jimmy was.

“A brain tumor. She started having headaches… migraines… they did some tests. She was gone in two months. Just like that. I don't usually talk about it. She would have loved this place. Her family was Irish, born in County Cork. She was Irish to her very core. An amazing woman. I wish I could be half the human being she was.” Mark almost cried listening to him, and he could see the tears glistening in Jimmy's eyes. All he could do was look at him sympathetically, and then he helped him haul the rest of the boxes around, and he carried at least half of them upstairs. They didn't say anything to each other for a while, but Jimmy seemed to have regained his composure again by the time all the boxes were in the right rooms and Mark had helped him open some of them. “I can't thank you enough. I feel a little crazy moving to this place. We had a perfectly good apartment in Venice Beach. I just had to get out, and then this came up. It seemed like the right thing to do for now.” It gave him a place to recover where he didn't have a thousand memories of being there with her. And under the circumstances, it seemed sensible to Mark too.

“I was living in a hotel two blocks from my office, listening to people cough all night. An accountant I work with does work for Coop and knew he was renting out the gatehouse and the guest wing. I fell in love with the place the minute I saw it, and I think the grounds will be great for my kids. It's like living in a park. I moved in two weeks ago, and it's so peaceful here, I sleep like a baby. Do you want to come see my place? It's completely different from this. You had just rented this place the morning I saw mine. But I think mine will work better for my kids.” It was all he thought about, particularly after seeing them the previous weekend, and knowing how unhappy they were in New York. Jessica was fighting constantly with her mother, and Jason seemed to be disconnecting from everyone and isolating. He didn't think either of them were in good shape, and neither was their mom. He had never seen her as stressed. She had blown all their lives to smithereens, and he wondered if she was finding that it wasn't as idyllic as she had thought it would be. She had chosen an arduous, rocky road, not only for them, but herself.

“I'm going to take a shower,” Jimmy said with a smile at Mark. “I'll come down to your place in a while, if you'll be home. Do you want to play some tennis this afternoon?” He hadn't played since Maggie died.

“Sure. I haven't looked at the courts yet. I haven't had anyone to play with. I've used the pool though, it's very nice. It's right next to my place. I was going to swim laps every night after work, but I haven't had time.”

“Have you seen Coop?” Jimmy asked with an amused grin, and Mark could see he felt better again. The poor guy was in a fragile state after losing his wife.

“Not yet, or not to talk to anyway. Only from a distance, when he drives in and out. He drives some damn nice-looking women. He seems to have a flock of young girls.”

“That's his reputation, isn't it? I think that's pretty much what he's done all his life. I haven't seen him in a movie in years.”

“I think he's down on his luck, or in a tight spot anyway, which is why you and I wound up as his tenants,” Mark said practically. It had worked out well for them.

“I figured that much. Especially in your case,” he said to Mark, “why would he rent a wing in his house, if he didn't need the money? This place must cost a fortune to keep up.”

“His accountant just fired all the help. Maybe we'll be seeing him out gardening one of these days.” They both laughed at the thought, and a few minutes later Mark left and went back to his place. He was glad to have met Jimmy and was impressed by the work that he did with kids in Watts, and he was sorry as hell about his wife. What miserable, rotten luck. It seemed worse than what had happened to him. At least he still had his kids, and Janet had broken his heart and screwed up his life, but at least she hadn't died. Mark couldn't think of anything worse than what had happened to his new friend.

Jimmy turned up half an hour later, looking fresh and clean, with freshly shampooed hair. He was wearing shorts and a T-shirt, and carrying a tennis racket. And he was vastly impressed when he saw the wing where Mark lived. And Mark had been right, it was completely different than his. Jimmy liked his own place better, but he could see why Mark's place would be good for his kids. There was a lot more room to move around. And he suspected they'd be happier close to the pool.

“Coop didn't object to your kids?” Jimmy asked as they walked to the tennis court.

“No. Why?” Mark looked surprised. “I told the realtor they live in New York, and they're not going to be out here much unfortunately, except on vacations. It's easier for them if I go there.”

“I got the impression from the realtor that he doesn't like kids. I can see why of course. He's got some pretty nice stuff in both our places. It worked out well for me. We didn't have much furniture, it was kind of beaten up and our apartment was very small. I just put it all in storage. It's kind of nice to have a fresh start for a while. What about you?”

“I let Janet take everything, except my clothes. I thought it would be better for the kids to have all their familiar stuff with them. This place was a godsend for me. Otherwise, I'd have had to go out and buy a load of furniture. I think if I'd had to do that, I'd have stayed at the hotel. For a while anyway. I really wasn't up to furnishing an apartment, or worrying about all that. I just walked into this with my suitcases and unpacked. Presto, magic, I'm home.”

“Yeah,” Jimmy grinned, “me too.” As Mark knew.

They found the tennis court easily, but were disappointed to find that it was in bad shape. They tried to play a game and the surface was broken and too rough. And in the end, they just volleyed some balls back and forth. They enjoyed the exercise, and afterwards, wound up at the pool. Mark swam laps, while Jimmy lay in the sun for a while, and afterwards Jimmy went back to his place. He invited Mark for dinner that night. He was going to cook a steak on the barbecue, and out of habit, he had bought two.

“Sounds good. I'll bring the wine,” Mark volunteered. He showed up an hour later with a bottle of very decent cabernet, and they sat on Jimmy's terrace and talked about life, sports, their jobs, Mark's kids, and the ones Jimmy wished he'd had, and might someday, and they talked as little as possible about their wives. It was still too painful for both of them. Mark admitted that he was reluctant to start dating again, and Jimmy wondered if he ever would. For the moment, he doubted it, but at thirty-three that was a tough decision to make. They both agreed they were just going to drift for a while. And eventually their conversation extended to Coop, what they both thought he was like, who he really was, if anyone. Jimmy had a theory that if you led the Hollywood life for as long as he had, it eventually corroded your reality. It certainly seemed like a plausible theory about Coop, from what they'd both read about him.

At that exact moment, as they sat on Jimmy's patio, Coop was at the main house, in bed with Charlene. She was a veritable smorgasbord sexually, and he had done things with her that he hadn't even thought of in years. It made him feel young again, and challenged, and amused. She had a kittenish quality, which titillated him, and then a moment later, she was a fierce lioness, defying him to conquer her. She kept him busy for most of the night. And the next morning, she sneaked downstairs to cook breakfast for him. She was going to surprise him with a wonderful breakfast, and then make love to him again. She was standing in the kitchen wearing nothing but a thong, and a pair of red satin platform high heels, when she heard a lock turn and a door open, and she turned around to see Mark standing in Coop's kitchen in his underwear, with his blond hair tousled. He looked like a sleepy eighteen-year-old kid, as she stood there without apology or any attempt to cover herself, and just grinned.

“Hi, I'm Charlene,” she said, as though she'd been wearing a dressing gown and fluffy slippers. He couldn't even see her face, he was so overwhelmed by her enormous breasts, the thong, and her endless legs. It took him a full minute to find her face.

“Ohmygod… I'm so sorry…. Paloma told me Coop never uses his kitchen on the weekends… my stove doesn't work and the espresso machine is broken… I was just going to make a cup of coffee…she gave me the key….” He was practically stuttering, and Charlene didn't look the least upset. More than anything, she seemed friendly and amused.

“I'll make you a cup of coffee. Coop is asleep.” Mark suspected she was probably an actress or a model Coop had brought home, or a girlfriend of his. He'd seen a blonde with him weeks before, and Mark didn't know who either of them was. Sexual talent in some form or other he assumed.

“No, really, I'll go I'm terribly sorry….” She just stood there, smiling at him, with her breasts practically in his face.

“It's okay.” She didn't seem the least bothered to be standing naked in front of him. And if it hadn't been so embarrassing he would have laughed at the scene. He felt completely inept standing in front of her, and while he continued to look mortified, she made him a cup of coffee and handed it to him. “Are you the tenant?” she asked comfortably, as he held the steaming cup, trying to retreat.

“Yes, I am.” Who else would he be? A cat burglar? A stranger off the street? “I won't come in here again. I'll buy a new coffee machine. Maybe it's best if you don't tell Coop,” he said nervously. She was a stunning-looking girl.

“Okay,” she said amiably, as she took out a container of orange juice and poured a glass for Coop, and then she glanced at Mark before he left. “Do you want orange juice?”

“No, thanks… really. I'm fine. Thanks for the coffee,” he said, and disappeared as quickly as he could. He locked the door to the main house again, and then stood grinning in the hallway off his living room where the communicating door was. He couldn't believe the scene he'd just been in. It was like something in a very bad movie. But she sure had one hell of a figure, and incredibly long raven-black hair.

He was still laughing to himself, and the scene seemed to get funnier as he thought about it. And once he was dressed, he couldn't resist walking up to the gatehouse to tell Jimmy. He had already vowed to himself he was going out to buy a new coffee machine that afternoon.

Jimmy was sitting on the patio, drinking a mug of coffee and reading the newspaper, when he looked up and saw Mark grinning at him. He smiled easily, and Mark looked unable to contain his amusement.

“You will never guess where I had coffee this morning, or with whom.”

“Probably not, but from the look on your face, it must have been good.” Mark told him about Paloma and the key, the broken stove and the coffee machine, and that he had walked in on Charlene, standing virtually naked, wearing a G-string and a pair of platform shoes, looking totally unembarrassed as she made coffee for him.

“It was like a scene in a movie. Christ, imagine if I'd run into him. I'd probably have gotten evicted.”

“Or worse.” But Jimmy was grinning too. It was the funniest vision, imagining Mark in his underwear, with a naked woman serving him coffee.

“She offered me orange juice too. But I figured I was pushing my luck, staying another minute.”

“Do you want another cup of coffee, though I'll admit, the service is a little more mundane here.”

“Yeah, sure.” They were like the two new kids on the block who had found each other, and their circumstances were sufficiently similar to form a bond between them. And there was something easy and pleasant about being neighbors. They both had their own friends and lives, but they had both been avoiding their own circles lately. Their tragedies had set them apart, and made them feel awkward even with their closest friends. They had isolated themselves, and now they had each found a partner in their isolation. It was far easier than being with the people who knew them when they were married. It was like starting with a clean slate, even though they had shared their stories. But their old friends' pity was sometimes hard to take.

Mark went back to his place half an hour later. He had brought some work home from the office. But they met up again at the pool later that afternoon. Mark had bought himself a new coffee machine, and Jimmy had finished unpacking by then. He had put up half a dozen pictures of Maggie in key locations. Oddly enough, it made him feel less lonely if he could see her face. Sometimes, late at night, he was terrified he'd forget how she looked.

“Did you get your work done?” Jimmy asked Mark comfortably from a lounge chair.

“Yeah,” Mark smiled at him, “and I bought a new coffee machine. I'm going to give that key back to Paloma in the morning. I'll never do that again.” The vision of Charlene in her thong still made him smile.

“Would you have expected less of him?” Jimmy asked, referring to their landlord.

“Probably not. I just didn't expect front-row seats to his sex life.”

“I suspect that would keep you pretty busy.” Jimmy looked as amused as he did, and they were chatting quietly half an hour later, when they both heard a gate creak open and slam shut, and a moment later, there was a tall man with silver hair, smiling at them. He was wearing jeans and a perfectly pressed white shirt, no socks, and brown alligator loafers. He was a vision of perfection, and they both jumped like two kids who had been caught doing something they shouldn't. In fact, they had both been given access to the pool, and the only reason Coop had come out was to meet them. He had seen them from his terrace. Charlene was upstairs, in the shower, washing her hair.

“Don't let me disturb you. I just thought I'd come down and say hello. As long as you're my guests, I wanted to meet you.” They both had the same feeling of amusement to be called his “guests.” For ten thousand a month, they were not his “guests,” but his tenants. “Hello, I'm Cooper Winslow,” he said with a stunning smile, as he shook hands first with Jimmy and then Mark. “Which of you lives where? Did you know each other before?” He was curious about them, as they were about him.

“I'm Mark Friedman, I live in the guest wing. And no, we met yesterday while Jimmy was moving in.”

“I'm Jimmy O'Connor,” he said easily, as he shook hands with the handsome man towering above him. They both had the feeling of being new boys at school meeting the headmaster for the first time. And both were aware that Coop had come honestly by his reputation for being charming. He looked easy and pleasant, and elegant, and impeccably tailored. Even the perfectly pressed jeans fit every inch of his well-toned body and seemingly endless legs. And if either of them had had to guess, they would never even have pegged him at sixty, he looked far younger. And it was inconceivable that he was seventy. It was no mystery why women adored him. Even in blue jeans, he exuded style and glamour. He was every inch the Hollywood legend, as he lowered himself into a chair and smiled at them.

“I hope you're both comfortable in your respective houses.”

“Very much so,” Mark was quick to answer, praying that Charlene hadn't told him about that morning. He was afraid she had and that was why Coop had come out to see them. “It's a remarkable place,” he said admiringly, trying not to think of the woman in the G-string who had served him coffee. And sensing that that was what he was thinking, Jimmy was grinning, with eyes full of mischief. It was a wonderful story.

“I've always loved it here,” Coop said, referring to The Cottage. “You'll have to come up to the main house sometime. Maybe for dinner one night,” and then he remembered he no longer had a cook or a butler or anyone to serve properly. He was going to have to call caterers now if he wanted to invite people to dinner. There was no way he would have trusted Paloma to produce anything but pizza or tacos, no matter how good her English was now. With or without an accent, she was a rebel and frighteningly independent. If he asked her to serve dinner, there was no telling how she'd behave. “Where are you both from?”

“I'm originally from Boston,” Jimmy answered. “I've been here for eight years, since graduate school. I love it.”

“I've been here for ten,” Mark explained. “I came out from New York.” He was about to add “with my wife and children,” but he didn't. It sounded too pathetic, particularly if he had to explain why they were no longer with him.

“You both made the right decision. I'm from the East too, I can't stand the weather there anymore, particularly the winters. It's a much better life here.”

“Particularly on a property like this,” Jimmy said admiringly. He found himself fascinated by Cooper Winslow, as he sat and chatted with them. He seemed totally at ease in his own skin, and he was obviously used to attention and adulation. There was no question that he was entirely aware of how dazzling he was. He had made his living off it for half a century. They were impressive statistics, particularly given the way he looked, at his age.

“Well, I hope you'll both be happy here. Let me know if you need anything.” Mark wasn't about to complain about the stove or the coffee machine. He had already decided to have them fixed himself and take the appropriate amount off his next rent check. He didn't want to open the conversation about his morning coffee, on the off chance that the woman with the huge breasts had told Coop, even though she'd promised she wouldn't. Mark was afraid to trust her.

Coop smiled winningly at both of them again, chatted for a few more minutes and then left them, as the two much younger men stared at each other once he was gone. They waited several minutes before speaking, to give him a chance to go back into his own house, so he wouldn't overhear them.

“Holy shit,” Mark spoke first. “Do you believe what he looks like? I'm going to hang up my spurs forever. Who could ever compete with that?” He had never been so impressed by any man in his life. Cooper Winslow was the best-looking man he'd ever seen. But Jimmy looked less impressed when he answered pensively.

“There's only one problem,” he said in a whisper. He didn't want Coop to hear him. “It's all about him. You can't help but wonder if there's a heart there, or if it's just charm and good looks and a great tailor.”

“Maybe that's enough,” Mark said, thinking of Janet. She would never have left a man with the looks, wit, and charm of Cooper Winslow. Mark felt like a total geek beside him. All his insecurities had leapt to the surface the minute Coop appeared.

“No, it isn't,” Jimmy said wisely. “The guy's a shell. Nothing he says means anything. It's all about beauty and bullshit. And look at the women he gets. Thirty years from now, do you want a bimbo in a thong serving you breakfast, or a real person you can talk to?”

“Can I take a minute to think that over?” Mark said, and they both laughed.

“Yeah, okay, it's probably fun for a while, but then what? It would drive me insane.” Maggie had been such a whole person. Smart, real, beautiful, fun, sexy. She had been everything he'd ever wanted. The last thing Jimmy wanted was a bimbo. And all Mark wanted was Janet. But on the surface, Cooper Winslow looked like he had all his bases covered. Even Jimmy had to admit he was impressive. “Actually, he can keep the woman with the tits. Given a choice, I want the loafers. They were terrific.”

“You keep the loafers. I'll take the bimbo. Thank God, he didn't mention my encounter with her in his kitchen this morning,” Mark said with a look of relief.

“I knew that was what you were thinking.” Jimmy laughed at him. He liked Mark. He was a nice guy, and he had decent values. Jimmy had enjoyed talking to him, and the prospect of their friendship. It was off to an interesting beginning, and he felt so sorry for him. He could easily relate to the trauma he'd been through, particularly missing his kids. “Well, now we've met him. He looks like a movie star, doesn't he?” Jimmy said, thinking back on the brief meeting. “I wonder who presses his clothes? Mine have been wrinkled since I left home. Mag wouldn't iron anything. She said it was against her religion.” She had been a staunch Roman Catholic, and a vehement feminist. The first time he'd asked her to do a load of laundry, she damn near hit him.

“I've been taking everything including my underwear to the dry cleaner,” Mark admitted willingly. “I ran out of shirts last week, and had to buy six new ones. Housekeeping isn't my forte. I've been paying Paloma to do a little cleaning for me. Maybe if you ask her, she'd do it for you too.” She had been incredibly kind to him. And she seemed not only willing and capable, but intelligent and wise. He'd talked at length about his kids with her, and everything she'd said had been sympathetic and sensible. He respected her a great deal.

“I'm okay,” Jimmy added with a smile. “I'm a real artist with a vacuum and a bottle of Windex. Maggie didn't do that either.” Mark didn't want to ask what she did do. She'd obviously had enough virtues for Jimmy to be crazy about her. And later that afternoon, Jimmy told him they'd met at Harvard. She was obviously a very bright young woman.

“Janet and I met in law school. But she never practiced. She got pregnant as soon as we got married, and she stayed home with the kids.”

“That's why we hadn't had kids yet. Maggie was always torn between giving up her career, and staying home with children. She was very Irish that way. She thought mothers should stay home with their babies. I figured we'd work it out sooner or later.” What he hadn't figured on was what had happened instead.

They went back to talking about Coop again after a while, and at six o'clock, Jimmy went back to the gatehouse. He had promised to meet friends for dinner. He invited Mark to come along, but Mark said he was going to shuffle some papers. He had more reading to do about new tax laws. But when they went their separate ways, they both decided it had been a good weekend. They had each made a new friend, and they were happy in their new homes. And they were both amused at having met Cooper Winslow. He hadn't disappointed either of them. Coop was everything he was said to be. The perfect Hollywood legend.

Jimmy and Mark promised to get together for dinner one night the following week. And as Jimmy walked up the path to the gatehouse, Mark walked into the guest wing, and smiled to himself again, thinking of his morning coffee, and the woman who had handed it to him. Lucky, lucky Cooper Winslow.

Chapter 7

Liz called Coop the morning after he had met Jimmy and Mark at the pool, and he was delighted to hear her. She had been married for a week, and was still on her honeymoon, but she was worried about him.

“Where are you?” he asked, smiling at the sound of her voice. It still seemed strange not to see her face every morning.

“In Hawaii,” she said proudly. She was using her married name every chance she got, and even though it felt strange, she loved it, and was sorry now she hadn't done it sooner. Being married to Ted was like a dream.

“How plebeian,” Coop teased her. “I still think you should ditch him and come back. We can have the marriage annulled in a minute.”

“Don't you dare! I like being a respectable, married woman.” Far more than she had ever thought she would.

“Liz, I'm disappointed in you, I thought you had more character than that. You and I were the last holdouts. This leaves only me.”

“Well, maybe you should get married too. It's really not that awful. There are even minor tax benefits, or so I'm told.” In truth, she loved it, and she had married the right man. Ted was wonderful to her. And Coop was happy for her, in spite of the inconvenience she had caused him.

“That's what Abe says. That I should get married. He says I need to find a rich woman. He's so unspeakably crude.”

“It's not a bad idea,” she teased him. She couldn't imagine Coop getting married. He had far too much fun playing the field. She couldn't see him settling down with one woman. He'd have to have a harem to keep him amused.

“I haven't met a rich woman in ages, in any case. I don't know where they're hiding. Besides, I prefer their daughters.” Or in recent years, granddaughters, but neither of them said it. He had been involved with his share of heiresses, and a number of very wealthy women of more respectable ages over the years, but Coop had always preferred the young ones. There had even been an Indian princess, and a couple of very wealthy Saudis. But no matter who they were, or how wealthy, Coop always tired of them. There was always a more beautiful, more exciting one just around the corner. And he always turned just one more corner. Liz suspected he always would, and if he lived to be a hundred, he'd still be turning yet one more corner. He loved being free.

“I just wanted to be sure you were behaving,” Liz said adoringly. She really did miss him. She had enormous affection for him. “How is Paloma doing?”

“She's absolutely fabulous,” Coop said, sounding convincing. “She makes rubber eggs, puts pepper on my toast, she turned my cashmere socks into baby booties, and she has exquisite taste. I've actually come to love her rhinestone glasses. Not to mention the fuchsia pumps she wears with her uniform, when she isn't wearing the leopard sneakers. She's a gem, Liz. God only knows where you found her.” But the truth was, much as she irritated him, he was enjoying the animosity that had developed between them.

“She's a nice woman, Coop. Teach her, she'll learn. She worked with the others for a month, some of it must have rubbed off.”

“I think Livermore had her locked up in leg irons in the basement. I may have to try that. Oh and by the way, I met my houseguests yesterday.”

“Houseguests?” Liz sounded startled. She didn't know about them.

“The two men who are living respectively in the gatehouse and the guest wing.” His tenants.

“Oh, those houseguests. How are they?”

“They seemed respectable. One is a lawyer, and the other one is a social worker. The social worker looks like a kid, and went to Harvard. The lawyer looks a little nervous, but he was perfectly pleasant. They seem reasonable and well behaved, as long as they don't start throwing beer bottles into the pool, or adopt undesirable orphans. They don't look like heroin addicts, or criminals. I'd say we got lucky.”

“Sounds like it. The realtor assured me they were nice people.”

“She could be right. I'll reserve judgment till they've been here a little longer. But for the moment, I don't foresee any problems.” It was a great relief to her, she had been worried about it, which was also why she had called him. “Why are you calling me anyway? You should be making mad, passionate love on the beach with that plumber you married.”

“He's not a plumber, he's a stockbroker. And he's playing golf with a client.”

“He brought clients on your honeymoon? Liz, that's a very bad sign. Divorce him immediately.” Coop was laughing, and Liz was relieved to hear him sound happy.

“He ran into the client here,” she said, laughing. “I'll be home in a week. I'll call you. Now, behave yourself, don't buy any diamond bracelets this week. You'll give Abe Braunstein an ulcer.”

“He deserves one. He's the most humorless, tasteless man on the planet. I should send you a diamond bracelet, just to annoy him. At least you deserve it.”

“I'm wearing the beautiful ring you gave me when I left,” she reminded him. She was always grateful to him. “I'll talk to you when I get back. Take care, Coop.”

“I will, Liz. Thanks for calling.” He enjoyed talking to her, and hated to admit it, but he missed her. Terribly. He had felt adrift ever since she left. His house and his life were like a ship without a rudder. He still couldn't imagine what he would do without her.

And when he checked his appointment book that morning, he saw her careful handwriting in it. He was expected at a dinner party at the Schwartzes' that night. They were the social stars of Hollywood, and had been for two decades. He was a major producer, and she had been an actress and great beauty in the fifties. Coop didn't want to go, but he knew they'd be upset if he didn't. He was far more interested in spending another night with Charlene, and he didn't want to take her with him. She was a little bit too racy for that circle. Charlene was the kind of girl he played with, not someone he wanted to be seen with at formal dinner parties. He had many categories of women. Charlene was an “at home” girl. The major movie stars he reserved for premieres and openings, where they would double their impact on the press by being seen together. And there were a whole flock of young actresses and models he enjoyed going out with. But he preferred going to the Schwartzes' parties alone.

They always had a roomful of interesting people, and he never knew who he'd meet there. It was more effective to be alone, and they enjoyed having him as a bachelor. He was fond of both Arnold and Louise Schwartz, and he called Charlene and told her he couldn't see her that night, and she was a good sport about it. She said she needed a night off anyway, to wax her legs and do her laundry. She needed her “beauty sleep,” she said, which was the one thing he knew she didn't need. She had no problem staying up all night, and looking ravishing in the morning. And he was always willing to ravish. But tonight belonged to the Schwartzes.

He met with a producer at lunch, had a massage afterwards, and a manicure. He had a nap, and a glass of champagne, when he woke up, and at eight o'clock, he was wearing his dinner jacket as he stepped out the front door. The driver he hired when he went out was waiting in his Bentley, and Coop looked more handsome than ever in the well-cut tuxedo with his silvery hair.

“Good evening, Mr. Winslow,” the driver said pleasantly. He had driven Coop for years, and he drove other stars as well. He made a good living doing freelance driving. It made more sense for Coop than having a full-time driver. Most of the time he preferred driving himself.

When Coop got to the Schwartzes' enormous mansion on Brooklawn Drive, there were a hundred people already standing in the front hall, drinking champagne and paying homage to the Schwartzes. She looked stylish in a dark blue gown, and was wearing a fabulous collection of sapphires. And all around her, Coop saw the usual suspects, ex-presidents and first ladies, politicians, art dealers, producers, directors, internationally known lawyers, and the usual smattering of movie stars, some more current than Coop, but none as famous. He was instantly surrounded by a flock of adoring admirers of both sexes. And an hour later, they went in to dinner, as Coop followed the herd.

He was seated at the same table as another well-known actor of a similar vintage, and there were two famous writers at their table, and an important Hollywood agent. The head of one of the major studios was also seated there, and Coop made a mental note to speak to him after dinner. He had heard they were making a feature that was perfect for him. He knew the woman on his right, she was one of the better-known Hollywood matrons, whose parties tried to rival Louise Schwartz's but didn't. And on his left was a young woman he had never met before. She had a delicate, aristocratic face, big brown eyes, ivory skin, and dark hair pulled back in a bun, like a Degas ballerina.

“Good evening,” he said pleasantly. He noticed that she was small and lithe, and he wondered if she actually was a dancer. And as a brigade of waiters served the first course, he asked her, and she laughed. It wasn't the first time someone had asked her that, and she claimed she was flattered. She knew who he was, and had been excited to find him sitting next to her. Her place card said Alexandra Madison, which meant nothing to him.

“Actually, I'm a resident,” she said, as though that explained everything, but to him, it didn't mean a thing.

“A resident of where?” he said, with a look of amusement. She was not his usual profile, but she was strikingly pretty, and he saw that she had lovely hands, with short nails, and no polish on them. She was wearing a white satin gown, and had a young girl's face and figure.

“At a hospital. I'm a physician.”

“How interesting,” he said, looking momentarily impressed. “What kind? Anything useful?”

“Not unless you have children. I'm a pediatrician, a neonatologist to be exact.”

“I detest children. I eat them for dinner,” he said with a wide smile that showed off the perfect white teeth he was known for.

“I don't believe you,” she said with a giggle.

“Truly. And children hate me. They know I eat them. I only like them when they turn into grown-ups. Particularly women.” At least he was honest. He had had a lifelong distrust of children, and an aversion to them. He generally tried to choose women who didn't have them. They complicated everything, and had spoiled many an evening for him. Women without children were much more fun to be with, from his standpoint. You didn't have to rush home to pay babysitters. They weren't sick at the last minute. They didn't spill their juice all over you, or tell you they hated you. It was one of the many reasons why he preferred younger women. Over thirty, most women seemed to have kids. “Why couldn't you be something more entertaining? Like a lion tamer. Or actually, being a ballerina would suit you. I think you should consider a career change now, before you get in any deeper.” Alexandra was having fun sitting next to him. She was impressed with him, but she was enjoying playing with him, and in spite of her unfortunate choice of jobs, and severe hairdo, according to Coop, he liked her.

“I'll have to give it some thought. What about being a veterinarian? Would that be better?” Alexandra asked innocently.

“I don't like dogs either. They're filthy. They get hair all over your trousers, they bite, snap, and smell. Almost as bad as children. Not quite, but a close second. We'll have to think of an entirely different career for you. What about acting?”

“I don't think so,” she laughed, as a waiter spooned caviar onto her blini. Coop loved the food at the Schwartzes' dinners, and Alexandra looked comfortable there too. She had an aura of ease and grace about her, as though she had grown up in dining rooms like this one. It was written all over her, despite the fact that she wasn't wearing important jewels. Just a string of pearls, and a pair of pearl and diamond earrings. But something about her spelled money. “What about you?” She turned the tables on him. She was above all intelligent, and he liked that about her too. At the dinner table at least, it provided a challenge. “Why are you an actor?”

“I find it amusing. Don't you? Imagine being able to play pretend every day, and wear beautiful clothes. It's actually very pleasant. Far nicer than what you do. You wear an ugly wrinkled white coat and children throw up all over you, and scream the minute they see you.”

“That's true. But the ones I deal with are too small to do much damage. I work in the neonatal ICU, mostly with preemies.”

“Ghastly,” he said, pretending to be horrified. “They're probably the size of mice. You could get rabies. This is much worse than I suspected.” He was having a delightful time with her, and a man across the table glanced at him with a look of amusement. It was like watching fine art as Coop turned the charm full force on a woman. But Alexandra was a good match for him. She was sensible, and smart enough not to let Coop lure her or make her feel ill at ease. “What else do you do?” Coop continued to quiz her.

“I fly my own plane, and have since I was eighteen. I love to go hang gliding. I've parachuted out of an airplane, but I promised my mother I wouldn't, so I no longer do. I play tennis, ski. I used to race motorcycles, but I promised my father I wouldn't. And I spent a year doing health care work in Kenya before med school.”

“You sound relatively suicidal. And your parents seem to interfere a great deal in your athletic pursuits. Do you still see them?”

“When I have to,” she said honestly, and he saw in her eyes that she was telling the truth. She was a girl with an amazing amount of poise and spirit. He was fascinated by her.

“Where do they live?” he asked with interest.

“Palm Beach in the winter. Newport in the summer. It's very boring and predictable, and I'm something of a rebel.”

“Are you married?” He had seen that she wasn't wearing a ring, and he didn't expect a positive answer. She didn't feel married to him. He had excellent radar for these things.

“No.” She hesitated for a moment before she answered. “I almost was,” she volunteered. She didn't usually say that, but he was so outrageous, it was fun being honest with him. He was easy to talk to, and very quick.

“And? What happened?”

The ivory face turned icy, although she continued smiling. But her eyes were full of sorrow suddenly. No one but Coop would have seen it. “I was jilted at the altar. The night before actually.”

“How tasteless. I hate people who do rude things like that, don't you?” He was stalling for time. He could see that saying it had hurt her, and for an instant he was sorry that he had asked. She had been so bluntly truthful with her answer. He hadn't expected her to do that. “I hope he fell into a pit of snakes after that, or a moat full of alligators. He deserved it.”

“He did, more or less. The moat full of alligators, I mean. He married my sister.” It was heavy stuff for a first meeting. But she assumed she'd never see him again, so it didn't matter what she said to him.

“That is rude. And do you still speak to her?”

“Only when I have to. That's when I went to Kenya. It was a very interesting year. I enjoyed it.” That was her signal to him that she didn't want to discuss the matter further, and Coop didn't blame her. She had been painfully honest with him, far more than he would have dared with a stranger. And he admired her for it. He told her about his last safari after that, which had been fraught with miseries and discomforts. He had been invited to a game preserve, as their guest, and by his estimation, they had tortured him with every horror they could think of. He had hated every minute of it, but listening to him tell it, he made it sound funny, and he had her roaring with laughter at his description of the scene.

They had a wonderful time sitting beside each other, and they both ignored their other neighbors. She was still laughing at him when the meal came to an end, and he was sorry when she got up and went to talk to some old friends she had spotted at another table. They were friends of her parents, and she thought she should speak to them, but she told Coop how much she had enjoyed meeting him, and she meant it. He had made it a memorable evening for her.

“I don't have time to go out much. And Mrs. Schwartz was sweet to invite me. She's a friend of my parents. I only came because I was able to get the night off, but most of the time, I'm stuck at the hospital. I'm glad I did come.” She shook his hand firmly, and a moment later, Louise Schwartz was tittering beside him.

“Watch out, Coop,” she warned him. “She's a handful. And if you take her out, her father will kill you.”

“Why? Is he in the Mafia or something? She looks perfectly respectable to me.”

“She is. That's why he'd kill you. Arthur Madison.” It was a name that anyone would have recognized. It was the oldest steel fortune in the country, and the biggest. And she was a doctor. An interesting combination. Abe Braunstein's words rang in his ears as Louise said it. She was not only a rich woman, but possibly one of the richest. And totally simple and unassuming, and one of the brightest girls he'd ever met. Better than that, she had a lot of spirit. It would have been difficult not to be attracted to her, or amused, or challenged at least. Coop watched her with interest as she spoke to a number of people. She had scored a hit with Cooper. He ran into her again as he was leaving. He had timed his exit perfectly to match hers, and pointed to the waiting Bentley

“Can I give you a lift?” He sounded friendly, and harmless. He had calculated that she was roughly thirty, and had been correct in his estimation. He was exactly forty years older than she was, but at least he didn't look it, or feel it. And the funny thing was that he wasn't drawn to her because of who she was. He actually liked her. She was clearly a woman who would not tolerate any nonsense. Better yet, or worse, she'd been hurt, and he could see that she was cautious. And who she was, or who her father was, only added depth and color to the picture. She appealed to him immensely, and would have, with or without her father, or his money. Odd as it was, Coop mused as he watched her, he liked Alexandra for herself.

“I've got my car, but thank you,” she said politely, smiling at him. And as she said it, one of the valet parkers brought up her old beat-up Volkswagen, and she smiled at him.

“I'm impressed. Very humble. I admire your discretion,” he teased her about her car.

“I just don't like wasting money on cars. I hardly ever drive it. I never go anywhere. I'm always working.”

“I know, with those dreadful mouse babies. What about beauty school? Have you ever thought about that?”

“It was actually my first career choice, but I couldn't pass the exams. I kept flunking crimping.” She was as quick and as irreverent as he.

“I enjoyed meeting you, Alexandra,” he said, looking her in the eye with the blue eyes and the cleft chin that made him a legend, and irresistible to women.

“Call me Alex. I enjoyed meeting you too, Mr. Winslow.”

“Maybe I should call you Dr. Madison. Would you prefer that?”

“Absolutely.” She grinned at him, as she slid into her battered car. It didn't bother her in the least to have come to the Schwartzes' in a car that looked like it should have been abandoned by the side of a highway somewhere, or perhaps had been. “Goodnight,” she called to him with a wave as she drove away, and he called after her.

“Goodnight, Doctor! Take two aspirin and call me in the morning.” He could see that she was laughing as she drove down the driveway, and he was smiling as he got into the back of the Bentley He reminded himself to send Louise flowers in the morning. A lot of them. He was so glad that he had decided not to see Charlene that night. He had had a wonderful evening with Alex Madison. She was a most unusual girl indeed, and a very interesting prospect for him.

Chapter 8

The morning after the dinner party, Coop sent Louise Schwartz an enormous arrangement of flowers. He thought of calling her secretary for Alex Madison's phone number, but decided to call the hospital directly to see if he could locate her on his own. He asked for the neonatal ICU, and they went down a list of residents before giving him her pager number. He paged her, but she didn't respond. They said she was on duty, but couldn't be called to the phone. He was surprised to find he was disappointed when he didn't hear back from her.

And two days later, he was out in black tie again. He was invited to the Golden Globes as usual, although he hadn't been nominated for anything in more than twenty years. But like all the other major stars, he added excitement and color to the event. He was going with Rita Waverly, one of the biggest stars Hollywood had seen in the past three decades. He liked going to major events with her. The attention they got from the press was staggering, and they had been linked romantically from time to time over the years. His press agent had leaked that they were getting married once, and she got annoyed with him. But they had been seen together too often now for anyone to believe the rumor again. But just being seen with her made him look good. She was an incredible-looking woman, in spite of her age. Her press kit said she was forty-nine, but Coop knew for a fact she was fifty-eight.

He picked her up at her apartment in Beverly Hills, and she emerged wearing a white satin bias-cut gown that was wallpapered to a figure that had not only been starved in recent years, but had experienced every possible kind of surgery except for prostate and open heart. She had been nipped and tucked and pulled and yanked and chopped with staggeringly good results. And resting on her considerable cleavage, which had also been enhanced surgically, was a three-million-dollar diamond necklace, borrowed from Van Cleef. And as she walked out of her building, she was trailing a floor-length white mink coat. She was the epitome of a Hollywood star, just like Coop. They made a handsome couple, and when the press saw them at the Golden Globes, they went wild. You would have thought they were both twenty-five years old and had won the Oscar that year. The press ate them up, as they always did.

“Over here!!!… Over here!!!… Rita!!!… Coop!!!” Photographers shouted for better angles, while fans waving autograph books screamed, and a thousand flashes went off in their faces, as they beamed. It was a night to feed their egos for the next ten years. But they were both used to it, and Coop laughed as they were stopped every few feet by TV camera crews asking them what they thought of this year's nominees.

“Wonderful… truly impressive work… makes you proud to be in the business…” Coop said expertly as Rita preened. With the endless adulation and all eyes on them, it took them nearly half an hour to get to their seats. They were at tables, and would be eating a meal before the televised awards began. And Coop was visibly attentive to her, leaning gently toward her, handing her a glass of champagne, carrying her coat.

“You almost make me sorry I didn't marry you,” Rita teased, but she knew as well as he did, it was all for show, although he was fond of her. But they were good for each other's reputations, and even the hints of romance over the years had always brought them back into the main focus of the public eye for a time. The truth was they had never even come close. He had kissed her once, just for the hell of it, but she was so narcissistic he knew he couldn't have stood her for more than a week, nor she him. They were both smart about that.

As soon as the show began, and the cameras scanned the audience, they zoomed in instantly, and at considerable length, on them.

“Holy shit!” Mark suddenly exclaimed as he sat in the gatehouse with Jimmy, drinking a beer, and watching TV. Neither of them had anything better to do, and Mark had suggested they watch the awards. He had even joked about it, wondering if they'd see Coop, but neither of them had expected to see quite so much of him, or his date. The cameras seemed to stay on them forever, and eat them up. “Look at that!!” Mark pointed and Jimmy grinned.

“Who is that? Rita Waverly? Jesus, he really does know everyone, doesn't he?” Even Jimmy was impressed. “She looks pretty good for her age.” It reminded him instantly that Maggie used to love watching all the Hollywood stuff, the Golden Globes, the Oscars, Grammys, Emmys, even the awards for soap operas. She loved being able to identify all the stars. But identifying Coop and Rita Waverly was hardly challenging, blind babies would have known who they were.

“That's quite a dress,” Mark commented, as the camera moved on to someone else. “Pretty cool, huh? When was the last time you had a landlord you saw on national TV?”

“I think I had one in Boston who got arrested for a felony, and I saw him for a split second on the evening news. I think he was selling crack.” They both grinned, and Jimmy popped open another beer. Their friendship had become convenient and comfortable, they lived close to each other, were both personable and intelligent, and other than their work, had nothing much else in their lives. They had recent grief and loneliness in common, and neither of them was ready to date. It helped pass the evenings to share a steak and a few beers a couple of times a week. And once Coop vanished from the screen, they settled in to watch the Golden Globes. Jimmy had just put a bag of popcorn in the microwave.

“I'm beginning to feel like half of the Odd Couple,” Jimmy smiled as he handed the open steaming bag of popcorn to Mark. They were playing this year's nominees for best theme song from a dramatic movie, and Mark glanced up at him with a grin.

“Yeah, me too. But it works for now at least. Someday I'd like to get ahold of Coop's address book and audition some of his cast-offs, but not yet.” And Jimmy had practically taken a vow of celibacy for life. He had no intention of betraying Maggie's memory in the foreseeable future, or ever perhaps. Their friendship was a blessing for both of them for the time being. And their camaraderie filled their empty nights.

Alex Madison was on duty at the hospital that night, to pay penance for the evening she'd spent at the Schwartzes' when she met Coop. She had traded Monday for tonight with another resident, who had a date with the girl of his dreams. It had been an easy switch.

She had already had a busy, stressful evening, when she walked through the waiting room looking for the parents of a two-week-old preemie who had been a code blue earlier in the day, but had been stabilized again. She wanted to reassure them that their baby's vital signs were stable, and he had gone to sleep. But she realized as she stepped into the empty waiting room that they must have gone out to eat. And as she looked around, she glanced at the TV that was droning on, as it always did, and was startled to see Coop. The cameras had just zeroed in on him, and she stood there grinning as she spoke out loud in the empty room.

“I know him!” He was looking incredibly handsome, and very charming as he hovered over Rita Waverly, and handed her a glass of champagne. It was an odd feeling realizing he had done the same for her, with just that look, at the Schwartzes' only two days before.

Coop was certainly a splendid-looking man, and Rita Waverly looked good too. “I wonder how much plastic surgery she's had,” Alex said out loud again, without realizing it. It was funny to think how distant their world was from her own. She spent her days and nights saving lives, and comforting parents whose babies hovered on the brink of death. And people like Coop and Rita Waverly spent their time looking beautiful and going to parties, wearing furs and jewels and evening gowns. She hardly ever had a chance to wear makeup, and she was wearing wrinkled green pajamas with a huge stamp on her chest that said “NICU.” She was unlikely to appear on any best-dressed lists, but she had chosen this, and liked her life the way it was. Not for anything would she have gone back to her parents' rarified, pretentious, hypocritical world. It often made her realize that it was a good thing she hadn't married Carter. Now that he had married her sister, and was emblazoned in the social register, he was as snobbish and arrogant as all the other men she detested in her old world. Coop was an entirely different breed. He was a movie star, a celebrity. At least he had an excuse for looking and behaving the way he did. It was his job to be that way. But not hers.

A moment later, after watching him until the camera moved away from him again, she went back to her safe, protected environment, full of incubators, and tiny babies on monitors and tubes. And she forgot about Coop and the Golden Globes again. She didn't even see his message on her pager until the next day. He was the last thing on her mind.

But as amused as Mark and Jimmy and Alex had been to see Coop on television, Charlene was considerably less so, as she sat scowling at the TV. He had told her two days before that he couldn't take her to the Schwartzes' because they needed him as an extra man. And he had assured her that she would have been bored to death, which was what he always said when he wanted to go somewhere alone. But going to the Golden Globes with him would have been just her cup of tea. And she was furious with him for not taking her, and going with Rita Waverly instead. But professionally at least, going with Charlene would have done nothing for him.

“Bitch!” she spat petulantly at the TV. “She must be eighty years old,” she said out loud, as Alex had in the waiting room. There was something about seeing people you knew on television that made you want to speak to them. And there was a lot she would have liked to say to Coop. She had seen him put an arm around Rita and lean close to her and whisper in her ear. Rita Waverly was laughing at something he said, as the cameras moved off to another star sitting nearby.

Charlene left half a dozen messages for him, and was seething when she finally reached him on his cell phone at 2 A.M.

“Where the hell are you, Coop?” She sounded halfway between a tantrum and tears.

“And good evening to you too, my dear.” He sounded calm and undisturbed.

“I'm at home in bed, where are you?” He knew what she was upset about. It had been predictable, but unavoidable. Not in a million years would he have taken her to an event as highly publicized as the Golden Globes. As far as he was concerned, their relationship wasn't serious or important enough to warrant publicity. Besides which, being seen with Rita Waverly did him a great deal more good. He enjoyed Charlene, and others like her, immensely but privately. He had no desire whatsoever to show her off to the world. But he assumed correctly that she had seen him on TV.

“Is Rita Waverly with you?” she asked, a tone of hysteria creeping into her voice. She was going to turn ugly soon, Coop knew. Those kinds of inquiries always encouraged him to move along quickly to the next candidate on his list. Beautiful or not, Charlene's moment in the sun was almost up. There were always others waiting for him in the wings. It was time to turn the corner again.

“Of course not. Why would Rita be here?” He sounded innocent, and was.

“You looked like you were going to fuck her any minute when I saw you on TV.” The time had come.

“Let's not be rude,” he said, as though speaking to a naughty child who had just attempted to stomp on his foot. When in doubt, Coop always removed himself, or stomped first. But he had no need to do that to Charlene. He knew that all he had to do was quietly disappear. “It was a very boring ordeal,” he said with a well-staged yawn. “It always is. It's work, my dear.”