“Hi, guys,” I said. “Come on in. You remember Robin, right?”

“Of course,” Jeremy said, waving both of his hands at us as he walked in.

Sergio gave me a hug, then said, “Hi, Robin.” Then he handed me a small white paper bag. “I brought you some cookies from the restaurant.”

My eyes widened as I opened the bag. “You brought cookies? Did you make them yourself?”

“Of course,” he said modestly. Sergio was a world-class chef whose pastries and desserts were the stuff of dreams.

“Thank you,” I whispered, overcome by the sight of the half dozen tiny, chocolate-laden, delicate puff-pastry circles all bundled up in plastic wrap. In a separate packet were fragile pastel-colored macaroons. I opened it up and handed one to Robin, who reverently placed it on the tip of her tongue and closed her eyes.

“We’re sorry to bug you,” Jeremy said, pacing around my workroom, staring at the shelves, “but I’m preparing for my performance-art debut at the Castro Street Fair in a couple weeks and I’m on the hunt for accessories. Do you have a boa or any girlie hats or big jewelry?”

“Big jewelry isn’t really my style,” I said, “but I probably have a hat you could use.”

“I have lots of pretty things at home,” Robin said, wiping a tiny cookie crumb from her lips.

“Your stuff is probably too nice for what he wants,” Sergio said, then whispered, “He’s presenting an homage to the homeless.”

“Yeah, the tackier, the better,” Jeremy said with a grin. “Ooh, what’s this?” He grabbed the funky Indian scarf and wrapped it around his neck. “Is it me?”

“It’s totally you,” Robin said.

“I love it,” he said, holding the material out and studying it. “It’s so scruffy.”

Sergio nodded in approval. “Very ethnic, with a touch of grunge.”

“It’s yours if you want it,” she said.