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knows the chef there. We can finish talking over an incredible meal.”
    CJ put together her bag. “Bribery will get you everywhere. I heard there was a six-­week wait for a table there.”
    â€œUnless you’re with Martin Harlow. I’ll have my assistant book it and give you a call.” Annie bade the reporter a hasty farewell.
    Then she grabbed her things—­keys, phone, laptop, table, wallet, water bottle, production notes—­and stuffed them into her already overstuffed business bag. For a second, she pictured the bag she’d carry as a busy young mom—­diapers and pacifiers . . . What else?
    â€œOh my God,” she whispered. “Oh my God. I don’t know a thing about babies.”
    She bolted for the door, then clattered down the steps of the Laurel Canyon town house complex. Their home was fashionable, modern, a place they could barely afford. The show was gaining momentum, and Martin would be up for contract again soon. They’d need a bigger place. With a baby’s room. A baby’s room.
    The heat wave hit her like a furnace blast. Even for springtime in SoCal, this was extreme. ­People were being urged to stay inside, drink plenty of water, keep out of the sun.
    Above the walkway to the garage, the guy on a scaffold was still washing windows. Annie heard a shout, but didn’t see the falling squeegee until it was too late. The thing hit the sidewalk just inches from her.
    â€œHey,” she called. “You dropped something.”
    â€œSorry, ma’am,” the workman called back. Then he turned sheepish. “Really. The thing just slipped out of my hands.”
    She felt a swift chill despite the muggy air. She had to be careful now. She was pregnant. The idea filled her with wonder and joy. And the tiniest frisson of fear.
    She unlocked the car with her key fob, and it gave a little yip of greeting. Seat belt, check. Adjust the mirror. She turned for a few seconds, gazing at the backseat. It was cluttered with recycled grocery bags, empty serving trays and bowls from the last taping, when the key ingredient had been saffron. One day there would be a car seat back there. For a baby. Maybe they’d name her Saffron.
    Annie forced herself to be still for a moment, to take everything in. She shut off the radio. Flexed and unflexed her hands on the steering wheel. Then she laughed aloud, and her voice crescendoed to a shout of pure joy. She pictured Martin’s face when she told him and smiled all the way up the on-­ramp. She drove with hypervigilance, already feeling protective of the tiny invisible stranger she carried. Shimmering with heat, the freeway was clogged with traffic lined up in a sluggish queue. The crumbly brown hills of the canyon flowed past. Smog hovered overhead like the dawn of the nuclear winter.
    LA was so charmless and overbuilt. Maybe that was the reason so much imaginative work was produced here. The dry hills, concrete desert and dull skies were a neutral backdrop for creating illusion. Through the studios and sound stages, ­people could be taken away to places of the heart—­lakeshore cottages, seaside retreats, days gone by, autumn in New England, cozy winter lodges . . .
    We’re going to have to move , thought Annie. No way we’re raising a child in this filthy air.
    She wondered if they could spend summers in Vermont. Her idyllic childhood shone with the sparkle of nostalgia. A Switchback traffic jam might consist of the neighbor’s tractor waiting for a cow that had wandered outside the fence. There was no such thing as smog, just fresh, cool air, sweet with the scent of the mountains and trout streams. It was an unspoiled paradise, one she had never fully appreciated until she’d left it behind.
    She’d known about the pregnancy all of five minutes and she was already planning the baby’s life. Because she was so ready. At last, they were going to have