panic mellowed out into melancholy, that awful sadness that always came over me when I saw this overgrown corner of the world, the old peeling shingles, dim lamps that meant home. No one was going to see me. No one would ever know I'd been here. All the things Martin had said were turning round and round inside me. Not a bad person, Lisa, just a different person, and maybe someday that person would have the courage my father had not merely to live by what he believed, but to talk about it, admit it, challenge the world with it. And maybe when that happened, the pain would stop for reasons that would never be clear. Right now just settle for the fear going away, for the sadness melting, for another private farewell. Elliott was five minutes up the street.
It was just the kind of house I imagined it would be. One of those little stone cottages with the rounded door and the tower that made it a diminutive castle, hanging on to the edge of a cliff. Garden neglected; chinaberry tree almost blocking the front door; white daisies falling down on the flagstone path. Beyond I could see the ink-black water of the bay and the distant skyscrapers of San Francisco rising out of a layer of rosetinted fog. The two bridges arcing over the darkness, and to the far right the vague outline of the hills of Marin. All the familiar things and yet this was so unfamiliar. The real me in the real place. And the real him in there, because the upside-down, bathtub-style Porsche was rammed into the impossibly narrow driveway, and lights were on all over the little house. When I touched the knob, the door opened a little. Stone floors, big hole of a fireplace in the corner with the fire blazing, a few dim lamps scattered about under the low beam ceilings. And the leaded-glass windows showing the spectacular view of city, water, and night sky. Nice place. Beautiful place. Smell of burning wood.
Lots and lots of books on the walls. And Elliott sitting at the table in the little dining room, with a cigarette on his lip, talking on the phone. I pushed the door open just a little wider. He was saying something about Kathmandu. That he would probably leave Hong Kong before the end of the week and he wanted a full three days in Kathmandu. 'Then maybe Tokyo, I don't know.' He had on his bush jacket and a white turtleneck and he was very brown, hair streaked with white, like he'd been swimming and sunning the whole time we were apart. In fact, I could smell the sun on him almost, and he looked slightly out of place in these dark, wintry rooms. 'You come up with the assignment, fine,' he was saying. 'But if you don't, I'm going just the same. Call me. You know where I'll be.' He was loading a camera as best he could, reaching up to steady the phone receiver when it almost slipped. He clicked past the first few frames of exposed film. Then he saw me. And he didn't have time to hide the surprise. I tightened my grip on the doorknob as my whole arm started to shake. 'Yeah, get back to me,' he said and he hung up the phone. He stood up and he said very softly, 'You came.' I was shaking all over now. My knees were knocking. And the air from outside felt suddenly cold. 'Can I come in?' I asked. 'Sure,' he said. Still amazed. He wasn't even trying to be tough or mean. But then I'd just chased him over two thousand miles. Why should he be, I thought. He was just standing there looking at me, the camera around his neck, as I closed the door. 'The place is musty,' he said. 'It's been locked up for a couple of weeks. And the heat's not working. It's kind of ...'
'Why didn't you talk to me when you called?' instant flare of temper. 'Why did you talk to Richard instead of me? And then Scott comes in and tells me you called the night before and you were on your way.' Red to the roots of his hair. 'I felt like a goddamn eunuch waiting around there. I didn't know what I was waiting for.' Then the red started to fade a little. 'Besides, I was finished with The Club,' he said. Silence. 'Aren't