By the next morning, the realtor had prepared two folders with all the details of both rentals. She got on the phone bright and early, and called several of her clients who were looking for unusual rentals. She set up three appointments to show the gatehouse to bachelors, and another to show the guest wing to a young couple who had just moved to LA and were remodeling a house that was going to take at least another year, if not two, to finish. And shortly after that, her phone rang. It was Jimmy.

He sounded serious and quiet on the phone, and explained that he was looking for a rental. He didn't care where, just something small and easy to manage, with a decent kitchen. He wasn't cooking these days, but he realized that at some point he might like to start again. Other than sports, it was one of the few things that relaxed him. He also didn't care whether or not the place was furnished. He and Maggie had the basics, in terms of furniture, but they hadn't loved any of it, and he wouldn't have minded leaving it all in storage. In some ways, he thought it might remind him less of her, and be less painful, if even the furniture was different. In fact, as he thought about it, he realized he preferred it. The only reminder of Maggie he was taking with him were their pictures. Everything else that had been hers he was boxing up and putting away, so he didn't have to look at it every day.

The realtor asked if he had a preference of location, but he didn't. Hollywood, Beverly Hills, LA, Malibu. He said he liked the ocean, but that would remind him of her too. Everything did. It would have been hard to find something that didn't.

And when he didn't make a point about price, the realtor decided to take a chance, and told him about the gatehouse. She didn't mention the price to him, but described it, and after a moment's hesitation, he said he'd like to see it. She made an appointment with him for five o'clock that afternoon, and then asked him what part of town he worked in.

“Watts,” he said, sounding distracted, and as though to him there was nothing unusual about it, but the realtor looked instantly startled at her end.

“Oh. I see.” She wondered if he was African American, but obviously couldn't ask him, and also wondered if he could afford the rent. “Do you have a budget, Mr. O'Connor?”

“Not really,” he said quietly and then glanced at his watch. He had to run to an appointment with a family about two of their foster children. “I'll see you at five then.” But she was no longer quite so certain that he'd be the right tenant. Someone who worked in Watts was not going to be able to afford Cooper Winslow's gatehouse. And when she saw him late that afternoon, she was certain of it.

Jimmy arrived driving the beat-up Honda Civic that Maggie had insisted they buy, although he had wanted to spring for something a lot more jazzy when they moved to California. He had tried to explain to her that living in California was all about having a great car, but in the end, as usual, she convinced him otherwise. There was no way they could do the kind of work they did, and drive an expensive car, no matter how easily he could afford it. The fact that he came from money, very old money, and quite a lot of it, had always remained a well-kept secret, even among their friends.

He was wearing worn jeans with frayed edges and a torn knee, a faded Harvard sweatshirt that he'd had for a dozen years, and a battered pair of workboots. But in the places where he visited families, there were often rats and he didn't want to get bitten. But in contrast to his clothes, he was clean shaven, intelligent, obviously well educated, and had a recent haircut. He was an interesting conglomeration of conflicting elements, which confused the agent completely.

“What sort of work do you do, Mr. O'Connor?” she asked chattily as she unlocked the door to the gatehouse. She had already shown it three times that afternoon, but the first man she'd shown it to said it was too small, the second one thought it was too isolated, and the third one really wanted an apartment. So it was still free and clear, although she was certain now that Jimmy couldn't afford it. Not on a social worker's wages. But she had to show it to him anyway.

As they came through the hedge, she heard him catch his breath. It looked like an Irish cottage, and reminded him of the trips to Ireland he'd taken with Maggie. And the moment he stepped into the living room, he felt as though he could have been in Ireland or England. It was a perfect little house for a bachelor, it had a manly, unpretentious, unfussy feel to it, and he seemed pleased when he saw the kitchen. And he seemed satisfied with the bedroom too. But what he said he liked most of all was the feeling that he was out in the country somewhere. Unlike the man who had seen it that afternoon, he liked the isolation. It suited his mood.

“Will your wife want to see it?” the realtor asked, probing delicately to see if he was married. He was a good-looking guy, in great shape, and as she glanced at the sweatshirt, she wondered if he actually had gone to Harvard, or just bought the shirt at the Goodwill.

“No, she…” he started to say in answer to the question about his wife, and then didn't. “I'm… I'd be living here alone.” He still couldn't bring himself to say “widowed.” It sliced right through his heart like a knife each time he tried it. And “single” sounded pathetic and dishonest. At times, he still wanted to say he was married. He would have still been wearing his wedding band if he'd had one. Maggie had never given him one, and the one she'd worn had been buried with her. “I like it,” he said quietly, walking through all the rooms again, and opening all the closets. Being on the estate seemed a little grand to him, but he wondered if he could tell people he was house-sitting, or paid to work on the grounds, if he brought anyone home from work.

There were a lot of stories he could tell if he had to, and had over the years. But what he liked best about it was that he knew Maggie would have loved it. It was just her kind of place, although she would never have agreed to live there, because she couldn't afford her share. It made him smile, thinking of it, and he was tempted to take it. But he decided to wait and sleep on the decision, and promised to call the realtor the next day. “I'd like to think about it,” he said, as they left, and she was sure he was just saving face. From his car and his clothes and his job, she knew he couldn't afford it. But he seemed like a nice man, and she was pleasant to him. You never knew who you were dealing with. She had been in the business long enough to know that. Sometimes the people who looked the least reputable or the most poverty stricken turned out to be the heirs of enormous fortunes. She had learned that early on in the business, so she was gracious to him.

As Jimmy drove home, he thought about the gatehouse. It was a beautiful little place, and it seemed like a peaceful retreat from the world. He would have loved to live there with Maggie, and wondered if that would bother him. It was hard to know what was best anymore. There was nowhere he could hide from his sorrow. And when he got home, he went back to his packing, just to distract himself. The apartment was already fairly empty. He made himself a bowl of soup, and sat staring silently out the window.

He lay awake for most of the night, thinking about Maggie, about what she would advise him. He had thought of taking an apartment on the edge of Watts, which would be practical certainly, and the dangers didn't alarm him particularly. Or maybe just an ordinary apartment somewhere in LA. But as he lay in bed that night, he couldn't stop thinking about the gatehouse. He could afford it, and he knew she would have loved it. He wondered if, for once in his life, he should indulge himself. And he liked the story about working on the grounds of the estate in exchange for reduced rent at the gatehouse. It seemed a plausible story. And besides, he loved the kitchen, the living room and fireplace, and garden all around him.

He called the realtor on her cell phone at eight in the morning, while he was shaving. “I'll take it.” He actually smiled as he said it. It was the first time he had smiled in weeks, but he was suddenly excited about the gatehouse. It was perfect for him.

“You will?” She sounded startled. She'd been sure she wouldn't hear from him again, and she wondered if he had understood the price when she quoted it to him. “It's ten thousand dollars a month, Mr. O'Connor. That won't be a problem?” She didn't have the guts to quote him more than that, and she'd been beginning to wonder if it was going to be harder to rent than she had thought. It had a very definite and most unusual flavor.

It wasn't for everyone, living in isolation on an estate, but he seemed to love that about it.

“It'll be fine,” he reassured her. “Do I need to drop off a check to secure it, or a deposit?” Now that he'd made up his mind, he didn't want to lose it.

“Well, no… I… we'll have to do a reference check first.” She was sure that would do him in, but by law, she had to go through the process, no matter how ineligible he seemed.

“I don't want to lose it if someone else comes along in the meantime.” He sounded worried. He was no longer as casual about life as he had been. He noticed lately that he got anxious more easily, about things that before he'd never even thought of. Maggie had always done all the worrying for him, now it was all his.

“I'll hold it for you, of course. You have first rights on it.”

“How long will the reference check take?”

“No more than a few days. The banks are a little slow with credit checks these days.”

“I'll tell you what, why don't you call my banker?” He gave her the name of the head of private banking at BofA. “Maybe he can move things along a little faster.” Jimmy was always discreet, but he also knew that once she called him, things would move like greased lightning. His credit was not an issue, and had never been.