“I’ve been writing plays for experimental theater for the last three years. Now I’m working on a novel and some short stories. I’ve gone back to a more traditional style.” She smiled. “I’m trying to figure it out. I’m in transition,” Abby said and laughed.

“Sometimes that’s a good thing. It leaves you open to change. Sometimes you have to tear everything down to build a stronger structure. I find that to be true in life and movies too.”

“Then I’m right on track.” She laughed ruefully, and he smiled. He liked her, and he liked her parents too. They were good, honest people with talent and integrity, which were rare in Hollywood.

“Can I read anything you’ve written?” He was always looking for new material and found it in surprising places.

“My stuff isn’t representative of my current style and what I’m doing now. And my novel isn’t finished.”

“Have you ever written a screenplay?” She shook her head in answer. “It’s a pretty short jump from plays to screenplays—you’d probably find it easy. Can I see something you’re working on now? A few chapters of your novel?” He handed her his card before she could answer. “Send me something. You never know. I may know someone who’s doing something you’d be perfect for. That’s how it works. Networking. That’s how I met your mother, and I did some shows for her, which got me started. She gave me a chance.” Joan had always been brave about that, and had discovered some real talent, people who were famous now, and a few duds. She was willing to make mistakes, which made her more forgiving of others.

“Okay,” Abby said thoughtfully. He was very convincing, in a nice way, and very positive. She got pulled away by her mother then, to talk to someone else, an old friend of theirs she hadn’t seen since high school, who looked a hundred years old now, and was nearly unrecognizable after a face-lift. She was grateful her mother hadn’t had any work done and still looked like herself, even if slightly older.

Abby found Josh’s card in her pocket when she got undressed, and wondered if she should send him some short stories or a couple of chapters of her novel. She mentioned it to her mother the next morning when they had breakfast by the pool, sitting in the sun. Her father had gone to play golf, which he could still do with his bad knee.

“Why not?” her mother said easily. “He’s a very talented guy, and very open to new ideas. I knew we’d never keep him around for long. He’s too unconventional, and too creative, and he doesn’t like playing by network rules.” Her mother was good at doing that without compromising her talent or ideas, but not everyone could pull it off. She had a rare knack for walking a fine line between commercial and sheer genius, and the ratings showed it, despite what Ivan said about her. “Send him something,” Joan encouraged her. “Maybe he’ll have some good suggestions for you, and introduce you to someone making an indie movie, if that’s what you want.”

“Maybe it is,” Abby said, looking thoughtful. “I don’t know where I’ll wind up, maybe novels or film.” She knew she hadn’t reached her final goal yet. Her current writing was a work in progress.

Abby opened her computer that afternoon, and sent Josh an e-mail of the first two chapters of her book and one short story and said she’d enjoyed meeting him, and then forgot about it, and went shopping with her mother at Maxfield, and some of the vintage stores they both liked. Their wardrobes were very eclectic, and they loved borrowing strange pieces from each other.

The weekend flew by, and she was sad to go back to New York on Sunday. Her parents had told her that they were going to Mexico for Christmas and had invited her to join them, but she thought she should stay in New York and write, and she didn’t like Mexico as much as they did, she always got sick. In some ways, her parents acted like people who didn’t have children. They treated her more like a friend, and always had. But the flip side of that was that they accepted her independence and had always given her her freedom. They had always treated her like an adult, even as a child. And they were delighted to include her in anything they did now, but they had never adjusted their life to her. She was welcome to follow along, but they made their own plans, regardless of hers, like Mexico over Christmas.

She promised to come back soon, and her father drove her to the airport and hugged her tight when they got there.

“We love you, Abby,” he said, holding her for a moment. “Good luck with the writing.”

“Thank you, Dad,” she said with damp eyes. Even after the last three years of insanity with Ivan, which had been like joining a cult, they still believed in her. It was amazing, but that was the kind of people they were—always engaged in the artistic process, and profound believers in the power of the creative, even if they weren’t perfect parents. She loved them anyway. She waved as she walked into security, and a moment later she disappeared, and went to board her plane to New York. It had been a great four days.

—

When Claire got to San Francisco, nothing had changed. And the occupants of the house never changed either. Her parents’ house was a small, slightly shabby Victorian in Pacific Heights. It needed a coat of paint, but Sarah kept it looking fresh inside, even when she had to paint a room herself, which she sometimes did. And she used her least expensive upholsterers to re-cover the furniture so her husband wouldn’t complain about the expense. Her father looked depressed, and was grousing about the real estate market. He hadn’t sold a house in eighteen months, which Claire thought was due to his personality, not the economy. Who wanted to buy a house from someone who told you everything that was wrong with it and the world? And he hated the broker he worked for.

Her mother was making chirping noises, and had the house looking bright and pretty, with flowers in Claire’s bedroom. She had bought a turkey, which was slightly too big for them, as though they were expecting guests, but they no longer entertained, and rarely saw their old friends. Her father had eliminated them over the years, and her mother no longer tried to convince him to have a social life, so she met her women friends for lunch. She did a lot of reading at night. And no one ever mentioned the fact that her father drank too much, which contributed to his depression. He was never falling-down drunk, but three or four scotches at night were too many, and Claire and her mother knew it, and never said it out loud. They just let him do what he wanted, and after the second scotch, he sat alone in front of the TV, which he did every night until he went to bed.

Claire’s mother wanted to know all about George when Claire got there, and she could see how excited she was about him. He hadn’t called her yet from Aspen.

When Claire didn’t hear from him when she arrived, she assumed that George was already skiing, or afraid to intrude on her with her parents, and she was sure she would hear from him later that night. When she didn’t, she called him from her room on her cell, and the call went straight to voicemail. With the time difference between San Francisco and Aspen, she figured he was already asleep, so she left him a loving message.

He didn’t call the next day on Thanksgiving, probably for the same reason. He was skiing for sure that day, and he knew she would be having Thanksgiving dinner with her parents, and he didn’t know what time. Claire sent him a text, and he didn’t respond.

It didn’t start to worry her until the next day. They hadn’t spoken since he dropped her off late Tuesday night, which was very unusual for him. He liked to keep track of her all day, with calls and texts, and to know what she was doing. After three days of silence, she wondered if he hated holidays so much that he had retreated into his cave in a mild depression. She didn’t want to push him, or intrude or insist. So she sent him another loving text and said she missed him, without trying to make him feel guilty for not calling. He obviously needed space, and they would be home in two days, on Sunday night, and were planning to spend the night together.

Her mother’s questions about him continued through the weekend, and Claire tried to answer as honestly as she could, that she had no idea what the future would bring, but that it appeared to be serious for both of them, and he was wonderful to her. She didn’t tell her that he had asked her to be the mother of his children the night before she left, or that she hadn’t heard from him in three days. She was sure that that was a momentary aberration—they had never been closer than the night before she left for San Francisco.

On Saturday, she felt a mild flutter of panic, and began to worry about him, and that something might have happened. What if he was sick, or had been seriously injured skiing? He might have broken both his arms and couldn’t use his cell phone, or had a head injury, since he said he didn’t wear a helmet but was an avid skier. But she thought he would have had someone call her if he was hurt, or texted her himself if he was sick. She had to believe that holidays were even harder for him than she had thought. He had cut off all communication with her, and was obviously depressed. She was concerned that she might have offended him without realizing it, but nothing on their last night together indicated it. He had hardly been able to tear himself away from her when she got out of the car on Tuesday night, and an hour before that said he wanted to have babies with her. How angry could he have been, and over what? Clearly, his silence was not her fault, but it was alarming anyway.

She was careful not to let her mother see how upset she was, as she continued to field her questions, and gently deflect them. And by Saturday night, Claire tried calling him several times, and left him messages saying how worried she was about him and how much she loved him. He did not respond.