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discovered how they managed to do that. He was still unconscious, as far as she knew. His parents would not reply to Paul’s calls or to his letters, causing him, and therefore Maggie, considerable distress.
    “They blame me,” Paul said. “He didn’t drink at all before he came here.”
    But Paul was not to blame—they knew that. Was Sarah? Though Maggie thought so, Kat was never sure. Sven had been very drunk, as the hospital lab report confirmed. Some friends claimed to have seen him in the pub at lunchtime on the day of the wedding, morose and drinking alone. Another rumor was that Sarah had been with him, had actually gone home with him that afternoon, might have been there when the accident occurred. Kat did not believe that. Maggie did. But nobody knew for sure. Sven’s fall remained a mystery. The young Dane simply disappeared from all their lives.
    Kat sat at the dining table for a while, thinking back to that time. When her phone rang, late in the afternoon, she switched it to voice mail. It was Mark Tinsley, the features editor from a local weekly: an interesting paper, full of well-written articles on the arts, books, happenings in Los Angeles. He would like her to come in for an interview, the editor said. He had a position coming up. Mrs. Harrison had highly recommended her. He was free on Tuesday at ten in the morning if that was convenient.
    “My God, Sarah,” Kat said to the air. “You don’t waste much time.”

    “So Sarah Harrison brought you lunch,” Scott said that evening, spooning the remains of the lemon chicken onto a small plate, creating a starter for himself. “This is really good.”
    “Yes. You saw her this afternoon?”
    “Yep. She was in the office for a late meeting. Man, she’s got a good head on her shoulders. She sure knows what she wants. Even Woodruff was silenced for once in his asinine life. I talked to her afterward. She said something about a job? At a newspaper?”
    Kat hesitated. “I’ve got an interview,” she said. “On Tuesday.”
    Scott looked so pleased, his pleasure quite out of proportion to the fact that Kat felt anxiety rising in her gut. Now, she would have to attend the interview. There was no getting out of it.
    “Excellent news, sweetheart,” Scott said. “Anyway, she wants us all to go look at the model of the country-club estate. Her husband had it set up in their house in Ojai. They don’t want to move it.”
    “She’s got a house in Ojai? I thought she lived in Malibu?”
    “Malibu is her beach house. I’m hearing that the Ojai place is huge. Anyway, she asked if you would come, too.”
    “No, I don’t think so,” Kat said.
    “You’re not curious about her house? How she lives? James has been out there, says it’s quite something.”
    “No. I’m not curious.”
    Scott sighed.
    “Look, she asked if you would come when Miyamoto was right there in the conference room,” he said slowly. “Miyamoto asked if his wife was also invited. And Sarah said yes. I think if you don’t go, well, Mrs. Miyamoto might feel uncomfortable. The only wife there.”
    Kat stood and took a breath before looking into her husband’s eyes.
    “I don’t care if Mrs. Miyamoto feels uncomfortable,” she said. “Mrs. Miyamoto has a daughter at Yale. A daughter, alive and healthy and beautiful, who has been home for the summer. Okay? Do you see the difference here, Scott, between Mrs. Miyamoto and me?”
    Scott got to his feet at once, moved toward her, and held her by the shoulders.
    “Of course I do. But it’s just an overnight trip. A small group. You know them. You like them. They like you. It’s my job, Kat. It’s work.”
    Kat pulled back. She had become, she realized, so self-centered, so self-absorbed, she could not see anything beyond her own pain.
    “Okay. I’ll think about it. I’d prefer you went alone though.”
    “I don’t want to go alone. I want you with me.”

EIGHT
    S cott turned off the 101 and took a narrow road up into