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  He nodded. “Yes, I noticed. As a matter of fact, I asked Reba Guthri about you. She’s my assistant, and she knows everything about everybody, more or less. She holds that I never read the interesting parts of the Chronicle. We keep a file of the paper, so I went back and read the story.”

  Relieved that she wouldn’t have to go through the details, Barbara said somewhat apologetically, “I know you don’t have anything in the way of confession, but I have to talk to someone about it—and I know I have no right to come and beard you about this—”

  “You have every right. Please.”

  “Thank you. I won’t bore you with all the details. This is what was not in any of the stories.”

  “Would you like something to drink, Barbara? May I call you Barbara? No one here calls me Mr. Carter. I’m Phil to everyone.”

  “Certainly.”

  “I have coffee or Coke or plain water.”

  “I’ll have water, if it’s no trouble.”

  He rose from behind his desk and took a cup of water from the cooler. “Please go on.”

  “Well, as I said, this was not in the papers. The man—Robert Jones is his name—he’s a black man, a college graduate and a civil engineer who hasn’t worked at his trade since graduation for reasons that are more or less obvious—well, he turned to burglary. He picked the lock of my front door and woke me at two in the morning. No rape or any threat of rape. We talked. I told him where the jewelry was, in my bedside table.”

  She paused, and Carter said, “Why not in a vault?”

  “I suppose I don’t care enough about things,” she replied, and Carter reflected that she certainly did care about clothes, dressed as she was in a longish pleated beige skirt and an ivory-colored cashmere sweater. “I always felt that if someone needed the jewelry badly enough to steal it, then let him have it or anything else in the house.”

  She paused again, and Carter waited.

  “He said something.”

  “Yes?”

  “I have to use his words. Please forgive me. He said, ‘You liberal do-gooders give me a pain in the ass. It’s burning out there, and you sit here with your fuckin’ jewels. So thank you for nothing.’”

  Carter did not react at all to this, and Barbara sighed. “I shouldn’t have come here,” she said. “I have no right to lay this on you.”

  “You have every right.” She was silent for a long moment, and then Carter said, “But you didn’t call the police.” There was something in her gray eyes that Carter felt was searching him for what was inside of him.

  “No. That’s the crux of it. He took everything I had in the way of real jewelry, and that included a heavy gold signet ring. It had a sort of leopard carved on it, which was Pop’s corporate seal, and his name was engraved inside the ring. It was left to me in my father’s will. I told him—”

  “Jones?”

  “Yes, I told him that if he left me the ring, he could have the rest.”

  “You actually told him that?” Carter asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Did he threaten you? Hurt you in any way?”

  “No. He had a gun. At least, I thought it was a gun, but it was a plastic toy. You don’t think very clearly under such circumstances.”

  “And the jewelry was actually worth more than a hundred thousand dollars, as the paper said?”

  “I suppose so.”

  “And he left you the ring?”

  “Yes. He flung it on my bed.”

  Carter was silent for a while, and Barbara started to rise. “No,” Carter said. “Stay a bit. I think we have more to talk about.”

  “I’m taking up too much of your time.”

  “That’s what my time is for. You’re a rich woman, Barbara, and you can afford the gift—if that was your intent.”

  “I’m not that rich. My grandfather left me a great deal of money, but I put it into a foundation, and while I’m on the board, I can’t use any of it for myself. I earn my own living, books, screenplays occasionally, and my newspaper and magazine work. My house on Green Street was a gift from a dear friend of my father. I live modestly, and I am not an idiot who has delusions that would lead me to give a hundred thousand dollars to a thief. I didn’t call the police or make any charges because I could not live with sending a black man like this Jones to prison. I have been in prison, as I’m sure you know. I couldn’t sleep or have a day of contentment knowing that I had taken fifteen years of a man’s life. The jewels are not worth fifteen years of a human life. But I lied. He stole the jewels, that’s the long and short of it. He whimpered that the only work he could find was washing dishes and cleaning toilets. For six months in prison I cleaned toilets!” Barbara’s voice choked up. “And I damn well didn’t whimper!” she managed, and then stood up to leave.

  “Oh, sit down!” Carter said with some annoyance. “You wanted to talk, let’s talk. You lied—everyone lies. Without lies, human existence would be intolerable. What troubles you: being a liberal, being decent, losing your jewels? What troubles you: letting down your defenses, talking to a stranger? Would I have surrendered a hundred thousand dollars for fifteen years of a man’s life? I don’t know; but what you did was an act of decency and morality, and that should end it. On the other hand, there is a hole in your thinking. You would not have taken fifteen years of his life if you had called the police. It was his act to steal the jewels, and his moral responsibility. But that doesn’t lessen the decency of your action. So you lied. Have you never lied before? Tell me.”

  Her eyes brimming with tears, Barbara nodded. “I’m sorry, I cry very easily. I cry at animal pictures. Thank you. I have to go now.” Carter handed her a tissue, and she dabbed at her eyes. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Carter.” And with that, she fled from his office.

  IT WAS STILL EARLY IN THE DAY, and she hadn’t been to Highgate since the robbery. When Barbara got home she called Eloise, who was delighted. “Can you come for dinner? We’re having someone you’ll be pleased to meet.”

  “Who?” Barbara asked.

  “No. Let that be a surprise.”

  Barbara changed into jeans, a pullover, and walking shoes, packed a dress and a pair of black pumps in a bag, and climbed into her Volvo for the drive to Napa. It was little more than an hour’s drive, and she would be there by two, in time for a visit with Eloise before dinner. Thinking about her talk with Philip Carter, she felt a weight had dropped from her shoulders. It was not simply what he’d said, but the practical matter-of-fact manner of his approach to her problem. She had not been to Highgate since the theft, fearing the barrage of questions about the incident.

  It was a beautiful July day, cool and crisp, with a clean wind blowing from the Pacific and small white cumulus clouds sailing across the sky; and here she was, sixty-nine, and hale and hearty and looking forward to being with people she loved. It was by no means the worst of all possible worlds.

  Eloise, still round and pretty in her sixty-sixth year, was waiting for her. She had confessed to Barbara that she was tinting her blond hair. “Adam won’t let me grow old.” Now she embraced Barbara and admired her jeans. “I can’t wear jeans. I’m too fat.”

  “You’re not fat.”

  “I am, and I will not worship at this American altar of diet. You eat like a horse, Barbara, and you never gain an ounce.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Oh, my dear, you know what I mean. You’re not dainty. I grew up with the curse of being dainty. ‘Oh, what a dainty child! Oh, what a beautiful little dainty child!’ I was wearing those damn Mary Janes until I was sixteen. No one ever called you dainty.”

  “That’s true,” Barbara admitted. “I was all long bones with a bony face and freckles.”

  “You should bless the bones. Everyone wants them. Good bones and all that nonsense. We’ll put away your things, and then we’ll walk and talk. Are you hungry?”

  “After what you said?”

  In the kitchen Cathrena was making tortillas, rolling the dough into little
balls and then patting them out in the old manner.

  “I offered to buy her a tortilla machine. She wouldn’t have it.”

  “Because they are no good.” Cathrena snorted. “Did God want tortillas to be made in a machine? How many for dinner, señora?”

  Eloise counted on her fingers. “Eight, I think.”

  “You think, but you don’t know. I cook for twelve.”

  “She always cooks for twelve,” Eloise said as they went outside. “Put this on. The sun is strong today.” She handed Barbara a wide-brimmed white straw that she had in her hand. “Now, what is all this about you making a gift of a hundred thousand in jewels to a black thief? I never knew you had a fortune in jewelry. You never wear jewelry.”

  “Just what you read in the papers. Who’s coming to dinner?”

  “You tell me the inside story of the great jewelry caper, and I’ll tell you who’s coming to dinner.”

  “Darling,” Barbara assured her, “there is no inside story. I had a choice between sending a man to jail for fifteen years or insisting that I gave him the jewelry. That left me no choice in the matter.”

  “But why can’t he give them back to you?”

  “We’ll discuss that another time. Meanwhile, let’s walk. It’s a glorious day. I want to breathe this air and look at the vines and count the grapes.”

  “Count the grapes, indeed.”

  “And who is the mysterious guest?” Barbara asked.

  “First we’ll go to the bottling plant. I have to ask Adam about dinner tonight. He’s been in the bottling room all day—can you imagine, on a day like this? Last season, under the influence of Freddie, he agreed to buy a truckload of Sylvaner grapes—you know what Sylvaner is.”

  “I think I know—is it Franken Riesling? My dear, I didn’t grow up with wines as you did.”

  “Forgive me, Barbara! But few people know what Sylvaner is. Adam has such prejudice against white wine—he keeps tasting and tasting. The wine is delicious, but he feels that it’s humiliating to buy grapes from another grower. But we have to. The business is growing, and our acreage isn’t.”

  THE WET CHILL OF THE BOTTLING ROOM made Barbara shiver. Adam kissed her and offered a glass of wine. “Taste it,” he said moodily.

  “I’m not a good judge of Riesling, Adam.”

  “Sensible, but taste it anyway.”

  The wine was very good, fragrant, with a delicate flavor, just dry enough to favor the appetite. Barbara nodded.

  “About tonight and dinner, Adam,” Eloise said firmly, “we must talk.”

  “All right, talk.”

  “Shall I ask Joe and Sally? It’s not too late.”

  “Absolutely not! May Ling is a big girl—how old? She’s thirty-six, isn’t she?”

  “Thirty-seven, poor child.”

  “What do you mean, ‘poor child’? She’s beautiful and old enough to handle anything. None of Sally’s damn business.”

  “Adam, Sally’s your sister.”

  “I know who Sally is. Let Harry and May Ling have this night to themselves.”

  “Whatever you say, sir,” Eloise agreed, and then led Barbara out into the sunlight.

  “What’s all this mysterious business about Sally, and who is Harry?”

  “Look at it,” Eloise whispered. A butterfly whose wings were a splendid assortment of color had alighted on a vine. “Isn’t it marvelous? They are coming back since we stopped spraying and introduced counter-culture. Is there anything so beautiful? And since when do you not know white wine? Every time we have dinner out, you order white wine.”

  “I met a remarkable man today who convinced me that small lies are entirely permissible. Who is Harry?”

  “Freddie’s lawyer.”

  “Come on.”

  “There’s Candido,” Eloise said. “He’s dying to see you. The local Spanish rag devoted a whole page to Barbara Lavette and the thief. You are something in the Valley.”

  Candido was laying down the law to two men who were cultivating. He glanced up from his harangue and broke into a wide smile. “Señora,” he said with pleasure, “buenas tardes, mi alegro de verla!” Then he and Eloise engaged in an exchange in Spanish that amounted to his plea to be allowed to talk to Barbara for the sake of his wife. His wife lived on gossip.

  “Mañana, mañana,” Eloise said.

  “They work on Sunday?” Barbara asked as the women moved away.

  “Only at this time of the year. But they have the morning off for church and all day Saturday. It’s Adam’s one bow to his being Jewish.”

  They walked on, moving almost instinctively toward the bower on the hillside.

  “So Harry is Freddie’s lawyer. What has that to do with Sally?”

  “He wants to marry May Ling.” With no response on Barbara’s part, after a few moments Eloise asked, “Did you hear me?”

  “Yes—of course, but my mind slipped, and I told myself that May Ling is dead, so how could she marry anyone? I’m getting old, I suppose.”

  “May Ling dead? Barbara!”

  “No, no, but for just a moment, the name meant her grandmother. It’s a tangled web, isn’t it? May Ling—May Ling my niece is her namesake. The first May Ling was this wonderful Chinese lady, my dad’s second wife. I don’t think you ever met her, but I knew her very well. She was as delicate and as beautiful as some ancient ivory carving, and my brother Joe is their son. She was killed in the Hawaiian Islands—during Pearl Harbor. I don’t think my dad ever got over it. She was the daughter of my father’s business manager, Feng Wo, who was also an important Chinese scholar who translated the Natural Way of Lao-tzu and Chuang-tzu, which I have been rereading and trying to understand. You know, for the past six months or so I’ve been writing the history of the family, starting with my grandparents and with Dad’s father and mother, who died in the earthquake—”

  “Barbara, hold on, take a deep breath, you’ve lost me. I’ve been married to Adam for thirty-six years, and I still can’t get the family relationships straight.”

  “Then you’ll have to read my book. My grandparents on Dad’s side were northern Italian, and Dad’s grandfather was French, whereby the name Lavette. Adam’s father was Jewish. Adam’s mother, Clair, was raised by her father, who was a Protestant of some sort. His family name was Harvey, but she never knew who her mother was. My brother Joe is half Chinese, and he married Adam’s sister, Sally; and so their daughter, May Ling, is part Chinese and part Jewish and part all sorts of other things—but you should know all that after all these years—”

  “Enough!” Eloise cried.

  “All right. Now tell me about this Harry, who is Freddie’s lawyer and in love with May Ling.”

  “That was to be the surprise. His name is Harry Lefkowitz.”

  Barbara stared at her and asked slowly, “Did you say Harry Lefkowitz?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “No. Not at all. That was the surprise. You’re surprised.”

  “I certainly am.”

  “Why? A little new blood wouldn’t hurt this family.”

  “How long has this been going on?” Barbara asked.

  “Almost a year.”

  Barbara dropped onto the bench and shook her head dumbly. “He never said a word.”

  “He’s a lawyer. What would you expect?”

  “Oh, you’re deceitful, Ellie. Totally deceitful, asking me what was the inside story of the theft.”

  “No. We haven’t seen him since then. Freddie saw him and invited him here tonight to meet you.”

  “Isn’t he married?”

  “No. He was His wife died seven years ago.”

  “But he’s old!” Barbara protested.

  “No, my dear. He’s fifty. You and I are old. May Ling is thirty-seven.”

  “Let me digest this. You say this has been going on for a year—but you never told me word one about it.”

  “I’m not a gossip.”

  Barbara burst out laughing. />
  “Thank you.”

  “We’re both gossips, Ellie. We love gossip. Gossip is everything personal, sensational, or outrageous, and everything else that’s politically incorrect.”

  “What’s happened to you today?” Eloise wondered. “You’re actually happy.”

  “Sort of.” She paused and thought about it. “Harry Lefkowitz… At first I thought he was a bit slippery—you know, Abner Berman says he has a reputation for defending big corporate thieves—but on the other hand, there’s something about him—”

  “Freddie thinks he’s the smartest lawyer in San Francisco. He doesn’t look like much—I mean, when you first meet him—but he grows on you.”

  “How did it happen? I mean, how did he meet May Ling?”

  “Oh, we were being sued over some acreage that Freddie bought—an open tract between Highgate and Spinnaker’s place, an acre or two that Spinnaker had no use for and Adam wanted, and then someone called Hernandez turns up with a claim that goes back to 1842—and Harry was here, and he and Freddie began to climb over the disputed land, and Harry fell and sprained an ankle. He was in a lot of pain, and Freddie got him into a car and took him to Joe’s surgery in Napa. You know, May Ling acts as his receptionist and nurse—she got her degree last year—and since Joe was at the hospital, she X-rayed the ankle and bandaged it, and lo and behold, Harry was in love. When he learned she wasn’t married, he began turning up at Napa every weekend. He takes her into the city on her days off or meets her here. He’s been showering her with gifts, and whether he’s proposed or not, I don’t know. They’re both very private people.”

  “And how does Freddie feel about it?”

  “Grateful. He’s been avoiding May Ling since the divorce, full of guilt. Anyway, they’re second or third cousins, and Freddie is just not made for being a husband, so it’s just as well. Or are they first cousins? I simply can’t keep it straight.”

  “But Freddie feels he’s off the hook?” Barbara asked. “People are very interesting. And what’s Sally’s objection?”