The beach on the other side of the fence sloped down slowly to the quiet ocean. Max Kearny waited but no one came to warn him about trespassing. He braced himself with one hand against the redwood boards of the fence and took off his shoes and socks. He tied the laces together and hung the shoes around his neck.
The sand was warm, streaked with bright pebbles and broken seashells. Max walked down beyond the scrub-topped dunes and then kept parallel with the ocean. A seagull came walking toward him, then angled away as though it were crossing a street to avoid him. The surf hissed in and then slid away and the clam holes popped all along the wet sand.
Standing in a windless cove between low sand hills was a painter's easel. An empty canvas chair fluttered gently in front of the easel and a wooden paint box sat open on the ground near it. Max crossed the sand and looked at the painting. The small canvas showed several men in red mackinaws doing something to rows of trees. Max leaned closer. The men were hanging up syrup buckets probably. In the background among the stick-straight trees a horse and buggy was passing.
Max turned from the picture and lit a cigarette. He'd seen a whole wall of pictures like this yesterday in Hollywood at one of the newer art galleries. They were by somebody who signed herself Aunt Jenny and would cost you $1,000 each. Aunt Jenny's favorite motif was sap buckets, with an occasional snow storm thrown in.
"Hello, Max."
Max turned again. Standing next to the painting was Joan McNamara. She was a tall blonde girl, deeply tanned now, wearing white shorts and a blue denim shirt. "I saw an easel," Max said. "I thought maybe it was yours."
Joan frowned. "What made you think that?"
"You still are an artist, aren't you?"
"Yes," she said, smiling. "It's good to see you, Max. What is it—two years?"
"Since you and Ken moved down here from San Francisco."
"You're still with the same agency and all up there?" Joan sat down in the canvas chair, angling it to face Max.
"Yeah. That's why I'm down here. To watch them tape some commercials I did the storyboards for." He dropped his shoes down on the sand. "You said you had a problem."
"I was so glad when you phoned us and said you were down for a week. You still do have your hobby?"
"The occult business," said Max. "Yes."
A gate slammed and then two people appeared, coming toward Max and Joan. One was a tall young man in white duck pants and a pullover cablestitch sweater. With him was an old woman in a flowered silk dress. Her hair was tinted pale blue and she wore an L.A. Dodgers baseball cap over it.
"Mrs. Willsey and Val," Joan said to them. "This is our friend, Max Kearny. He's an artist, too. Max, Mrs. Willsey and her son, Val Willsey."
Max shook hands with Val.
"Mother is Aunt Jenny," Val said, grinning at the half-done painting.
"I've seen her work," said Max.
"Do you paint also?" asked Mrs. Willsey, taking the canvas chair Joan stood to give her.
"No," said Max. "I'm just an art director in an ad agency."
"Sold out?" said Val.
"We didn't have maple trees where I grew up," said Max.
"I didn't touch a brush until I was past forty-three," said Mrs. Willsey. "That was more years ago than I'd care to have you guess. Now I do at least three canvases a week."
"Mother's having a one-man show at the Alch Gallery on LaCienega next month."
"At first I simply copied colored photos from the magazines," said Mrs. Willsey. "Once I even copied the creation of the world from Life magazine. Now, of course, I utilize my own girlhood for subject matter. Paint what you know."
Joan caught Max's arm. "Max will be staying with Ken and me over the weekend. I imagine you'd like a drink or something, Max, after driving all the way from Hollywood to Osodoro Beach."
"Fine," said Max.
They said goodbye to Aunt Jenny and her son and started back across the beach toward the house Joan and Ken McNamara were living in.
"The place is awful, isn't it?" Joan said.
"No. But it's big as hell."
"At least it's not Moorish."
"It's whose house? Ken's dad's?"
"Ewen McNamara himself, yes. He's retired from the movie business and is living in Arizona. He gave us the damn place more or less."
"What's Ken doing?"
Joan shrugged. "He doesn't have a job right now. I'm doing pretty well. Freelancing