Two days later, I called her and asked her out again.

She said, “I’ve got the afternoon off, was planning to relax at home. Why don’t you come over and we can eat here? That is, if you’re willing to take the risk.”

“Big risk?”

“Who cares? You’re the adrenaline-guy.”

“Good point,” I said. “Can I bring something?”

“Flowers are always appropriate. Not that I’m suggesting- I’m kidding, just bring yourself. And let’s keep it casual, okay?”

She lived in a single-story Spanish house on Fourteenth Street, just south of Montana, within walking distance of her office. The alarm sign on the lawn was conspicuous, and the black Jag convertible was parked behind an iron gate that cut the porte cochere from the street. As I approached the front door, a motion-sensing light went on. Woman-living-alone precautions. Woman-who-had-been-molested-twenty-years-ago precautions.

As I parked, I thought about Robin moving back to Venice, all by herself. Correction: not alone anymore… stop, fool.

I rang the bell and waited, bouquet in hand. Figuring roses would be too forward, I’d chosen a dozen white peonies. Casual had come down to an olive polo shirt and jeans and running shoes.

Allison came to the door in a lime polo shirt and jeans and running shoes.

She took one look at me, said, “Do you believe this?” Then she cracked up.

As I sat in her compact white kitchen, she cooked mushroom and chicken liver omelettes and took a chilled salad out of the fridge. Sourdough, white wine, an ice bucket and a six-pack of Diet Coke filled out the menu.

The kitchen opened to a vest-pocket backyard and we ate outside on a trellis-topped patio. The garden was used-brick pathways and a patch of grass surrounded by high privet hedges.