FINAL ARRANGEMENTS

by NIA RYAN

Copyright © 2010 Nia Ryan

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author's imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from the author.

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Edition: Smashwords 2010

Chapter 1

Oh wow, Shannon thought.

There was an amazing guy in the backyard. He was cleaning her father's pool. She couldn't stop staring at him, imagining he was somebody who'd played basketball sometime in his recent past, maybe even tried out for the Lakers.

He was wearing baggy shorts with cargo pockets topped off with a big green Hawaiian shirt with yellow parrots. He was dancing while he poured in some sort of chemical from a white plastic jug. His height, which she estimated at an astonishing seven feet, added a comicality to the presentation.

She hadn't known Dad hired a pool man. It had always been a point of pride for him to do things himself. He used to joke about his menial tasks. She remembered the way he said it, with a little smile. Shannon, my first job was when I was five years old, sweeping the porch for my mother. And now it's my last job. The only difference is, I do it better now. But not with as much interest or heart.

It would have hurt his pride to hire somebody. But perhaps his strength had lessened in his last year, the life force abated to the point where he had to get some help.

The water in the pool was low. The guy began filling it with the patio hose while glancing at his watch, deciding if he had enough time to wait for a hundred gallons or so to be added, an amount which would keep the skimmer from going dry and burning out the pump.

With a start she realized he didn't know Dad had passed away last night. And she wasn't sure of the protocol of such a thing. Did she simply go out and tell him? Or did she wait for the monthly bill to arrive and include a note with the payment: Please take some pumice to the tile next time. FYI--Joe Ireland is dead.

Chapter 2

She sat down on the couch and watched through the sliding glass doors as the guy cleaned the pool. Memories of the night before played out in her head. She remembered fighting for breath from fright, and sitting bolt upright in her bed, having been awakened by her brother's phone call in the dead of night.

"I'm still at the hospital," Phil said. "Dad's gone."

"Gone? What do you mean?"

"You know ... gone ... he didn't make it."

She'd rushed to the airport and grabbed the first midnight shuttle from San Francisco to Los Angeles, where the doctors at UCLA explained in detail why the 12 hours on the operating table had failed to restore Dad's tired heart. Phil drove her up from West Los Angeles to the San Fernando Valley to Dad's house, where she'd collapsed on the couch and grabbed a few fitful hours of sleep.

The memory evaporated, bringing her back to the here and now, which was filled, not with memories of the past, but instead the more immediate sight of the giant outside the window, standing on the far side of the swimming pool, he as completely oblivious to her presence as she was aware of his.

He was about finished and stood by the fence, coiling the hose. She would have to tell him about Dad. At the moment, however, she had nothing suitable to wear, having slept in her business suit, which was now hopelessly wrinkled.

She quickly returned to her room and opened the closet to a full rack of her mother's clothes. Cleaned and in plastic. Dad had never been able to give them away, even though it had been two years since Mom died. She threw on her mother's old-fashioned robe which completely covered the wrinkled suit before making her way to the sliding doors which opened onto the pool. It was now or never. She stepped out in full view of the pool man, who stopped dancing. He looked at her, and she at him, at his bright blue eyes, a nose a bit too wide, setting off a clean-shaven face which seemed permanently fixed on the friendly setting, perhaps because of prominent dimples and lips upturned at the edges, the lips not too thin and not too full.

"You're Shannon," he said. His voice was medium timbre, of a tone which suggested he was not of the whining variety, nor yet was the type to issue the stentorian commands typical of other big men. This was not a guy who bellowed at sporting events, or yelled at the kids. It was the voice of a man who probably favored reason over brute force, a pleasant, earthy voice, and it suited him.

Not to mention the great tan, doubtless perfected by thousands of hours spent in the reflected glare of countless swimming pools. She noticed his teeth were less than perfectly straight, hadn't had the benefit, as hers had, of orthodontia, one thing her father had splurged on. The slight gap between the front incisors was somewhat charming, cute, even. Dear Lord, I'm cataloguing him, she thought. It must be the shock of Dad's passing.

"Yes, I'm Shannon. How did you know?"

"There's a resemblance to your father."

"Dad showed you my picture," she said. A statement, not a question.

"Yes. But I must say, Shannon, it didn't do you justice. Your eyes are much greener. And your long red hair is absolutely stunning in person. I take it your Dad explained everything to you. Is that why you're here?"

His words landed like a hammer blow, reminding him of why she was here. Her father was dead. She was here to make the final arrangements. For a brief instant, she wondered if she had the strength to continue standing.

He dropped the hose in the pool and walked towards her, hand outstretched in greeting, perhaps not understanding the reason for her silence.

"Where are my manners? I'm Johnny Murphy. But please, my friends call me Stretch."

Up close, she was forced to tilt her head straight back to continue the eye contact. It was time to tell him. The first time she told someone of her father's passing would be the hardest, because once the words were out to a complete stranger, it somehow made it final. Made it real in a way keeping it all inside never could. Even if it was simply a matter of informing her father's hired servant. Later on, it would be easier to make this admission when forced to announce her father's passing to other relatives, co-workers, State officials, bankers, lawyers, and the rest of the Lilliputian myriad whose business it was to be kept informed of the passing of the people they'd kept strapped down while still alive.

He was getting closer.

She found herself bracing for whatever run-of-the-mill faux sympathetic comment it was he chose to offer, it being important as a means for clearing the air of sentiment in order to get straight at the business of officially processing the death of Joe Ireland.

"Mr. Murphy--,"

"Stretch. Please." His hand floated toward hers. Fingers twice as long as her own. And three times as thick. Rough hands.

"Okay. Stretch. I ... my dad passed away last night."

The handshake never made it. There. It was out. And it wasn't so bad, really. The sun continued to burn off the early morning Los Angeles haze. The world continued revolving without shudder or shimmy. Rivers hastened their way to the sea.

It was just a few quiet words escaping into the air, but words which had a powerful effect all the same. Stretch Murphy's piercing blue eyes focused on something inside himself.

For some reason, she felt ashamed. As though she had admitted a terrible personal weakness. I have no father. I am alone. I am suffering. I am something abnormal. Please look away when I am passing by. My father is dead.

She waited for whatever stock phrase Stretch would offer to get them both past the point where it was an issue, and free them to get on with the business of deciding what to do about cleaning the blasted pool in the weeks ahead while the estate was being settled.

"I have no words," he said finally, his eyes focusing on hers. "I know all the standard phrases. But somehow none of them seem to fit. All I can tell you is I'm terribly, terribly sorry for your loss. Your father was a great man. A man I am proud to have known. I considered him a friend. I can't believe he's gone." The man seemed to be shrinking before her.

With a start, she realized he was going down to one knee. "It's a shame he won't be there to give you away when we get married," he said.

Of all the things he could have said, this was the most unexpected. It's a shame he won't be there to give you away when we get married. It was something in his eyes, and the way he'd gone to one knee as he said it.

"Excuse me? When we what?"

"When we get married. That is why you came down, isn't it?"

"I don't know what you mean. Is this a joke?"

Stretch appeared genuinely hurt by her comment. But then, slowly, understanding began to spread over his somewhat uneven features, and he began to rise once again to both feet.

"He didn't tell you, did he?" Stretch Murphy said.

"Tell me what?"

"About the arrangement. About us getting married. He was supposed to tell you this week. I thought you were here to meet me and my folks. We're supposed to have the ceremony this Saturday and celebrate at Ireland 32 afterward. My dad's reserved the main room just for us. There will be lots of great Irish food and traditional dancers and everything. My mom's going to make her famous Irish dumplings."

With that, she managed to get back inside and lock the door. She ran to her cell phone and dialed Phil.

"There's a guy in the back yard," she said. "He's saying some strange things. Should I call the police?"

"Is he about 10 feet tall?" Phil said.

"That's him."

"He calls himself Stretch," Phil replied. "He's a friend of Dad's. Been helping Dad with the pool. He's okay. Nothing to worry about."

Phil's voice was gravelly, and slurred. There was a lot of background noise, like people talking and yelling.

"Phil are you okay? Where are you? You sound funny."

"I haven't been home since I dropped you off last night," he said.

"You haven't been drinking, have you?"

"Naw, I called my sponsor and we stayed up all night."

"The big guy outside is babbling about marrying me," Shannon said.

"I don't know anything about that. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to crash. Call me later."

She put the phone down and went back to the window. The guy was still there, but sitting at the patio table with a big frown on his face. She paced a bit, wondering how long he would sit there. She looked again. He was still there.

It occurred to her he was sitting there because she had upset him, had simply slammed the door in his face.

I'm not being a good Christian, she thought. I've hurt his feelings. Phil says he's okay. Is there any chance what he's saying might be true? There's only one way to find out.

She opened the door and stepped out again.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I think we had a misunderstanding."

"Oh, no!" Stretch exclaimed. "There's no way I can make you understand what's going on if your father didn't tell you first. I dump it on you ice cold, you'll never believe me!"

I'll just let him talk for a minute, she thought.

"Would you like to explain it to me?"

"Yes, but this is going to sound all wrong. The timing is terrible. Joe couldn't have passed away at a worse time. You see, your dad had this idea. When I first met him, he said he wished I could meet you. He wanted to find a husband for you, because he said you were unable to find anyone for yourself, that you were putting your job and your career in front of the things that really mattered in life.

That does sound like something Dad would say, she thought.

"But then he took it a step further," Stretch continued. He met with my parents, and they all arranged for us to get married. A formal arrangement between the two families. Your father even brought in his lawyer and we all filled out papers and everything, spelling out the amount of the dowry, and everything."

"A dowry? Did you say a dowry? That's ridiculous."

And it was. Beyond absurd. Yet, weird as it was, the man seemed so genuine, so sincere. Highly believable, except for the subject matter of which he spoke--the two of them getting married by formal arrangement of the parents. An arrangement as archaic as it was ridiculous. It was his fantasy of an arranged marriage which was the crack in his armor, illustrating to all the world that Stretch Murphy was not normal.

"Shannon, you must think I'm off my rocker. I can see it in your eyes."

"Hush. I'm thinking."

She had heard of people who put on a great facade, appeared perfectly normal, right up to the moment they made some ridiculous observation. She wondered if Stretch Murphy was one of these.

Out of curiosity, she decided to play along for the moment.

"So we're getting married," Shannon said. "Dad arranged it with your parents. I guess that settles it, then. Just name the time and place, and I'll meet you at the church."

"I understand your surprise," he said. "But there's no need to mock."

"Why do you think I'm mocking? Why don't you think I'm serious?"

"I know you're mocking, because I'll admit when I first heard about it, I was skeptical myself. Especially in this day and age. But as time went by, the more your dad discussed the idea, it grew on me. So, what do you say? Does the idea of marrying me appeal to you? Gosh, this is awkward. The way your dad had it planned, we weren't supposed to have to go through this awkward part. We were simply going to see each other for the first time at the ceremony itself. But now, I have to know. Are you even the least bit open to marrying me?"

"Sure," Shannon replied. "If my father said it was a good idea, why shouldn't we get married? By the way, if you don't mind my asking, exactly how did my father bring the subject of our getting married to your attention?"

She had to give him credit. He was sticking to his story. She knew from her Psych 101 course in college that some people who were otherwise perfectly normal constructed elaborate yet logical fantasies, of the kind where once you accepted the first statement, you were in the trap, and there was no way out but to give in to the whole thing. And it didn't matter if you reacted to the opening ruse affirmatively or negatively. The fact that you reacted at all rendered you instantly captured.

"It was almost six months ago," he said. "We were right in the middle of a chess game. I was thinking about checking his King and Queen simultaneously with a knight fork when he first mentioned it. He said he had a single daughter who needed to get married."

"He did? What else did he say?"

"Your dad told me that in the days of old, all marriages between royalty were arranged. He believed it was still an idea with a lot of merit. As our game wore on, he suggested arranged marriage between me and you."

"He did all that? Right in the middle of a chess game?"

Stretch nodded.

"Been playing chess long, Stretch?"

"No. Only about a year. And not really playing. More like taking lessons, really. Your dad was the only person I played with. That's why I carry a portable game with me so I can study the moves on my own."

"That's something we have in common, Stretch," she said. "Chess. I'm was in the middle of a chess game with my Dad. A game he won't be able to finish. He taught me the moves when I was seven or eight. When I moved to Pacific Heights, we started playing by mail. I think I had him beat, but I was waiting for his next move to come. The move never arrived. And now, I guess it never will."

On this last note, her voice had faltered badly. From somewhere had come a choking sob, somewhere down deep, where the little girl part of her resided.

Chapter 3

"Do you want to talk about it?" Stretch said. "About your dad's passing?"

Something inside her said, Yes, I want to talk about it! Yes! I want to know why this terrible thing has happened to me. Who should I talk to? The guy who cleans the pool? What kind of a joke is God playing on me? Shouldn't I be making an appointment with my pastor, or a therapist, or grief counselor? Relying on a specialist to guide me through? Somebody who understands these things and takes my insurance to pay for it?

But she found herself under the pressure of the little girl inside, who needed to talk about the loss of her father to somebody. In a way, perhaps it would be easier to talk to this perfect stranger. He was, she was forced to admit, very attractive. Aside from that, he was here right now, and she needed to talk now. He was in the right place at the right time. She really had no one else at the moment.

"Yes, Stretch. I'd like to talk about it."

"Over coffee?"

Why not? A simple gesture of hospitality, a ritual of being kind to strangers which had been a hallmark of Dad's life.

"Yes. Coffee it is. How do you take it, Stretch?"

"Black. With two sugars. Your dad always made great coffee for our game. And he always had pound cake."

"I'll put on a pot. And there may even be some pound cake. I'll check the fridge. Are you sure you have time?"

"Are you kidding?" he said. "The world doesn't exactly turn on my schedule, if you know what I mean. I'll finish up my work while the coffee's brewing. If you like, we can sit out here. If it's more comfortable for you. I know I make people nervous sometimes when I come into their house. They're always worried I'll bump my head or something."

"Do you? Bump your head?"

He smiled. The smile was a winner. It flat out endeared him to her. The thought of being with him forever took on possibilities.

"Sometimes," he said. "But not too often. I've gotten very good at ducking. And I'm careful never to back up without looking first."

"I know everyone asks you, but how tall are you?"

"Seven feet even."

"Gracious. Okay. I'm going to call you Stretch. Black with two sugars it is, Stretch."

It gave her something to do. She'd once read a book about how to help people who were grieving, and one suggestion was to have the grieving person do something for you. It helped them to feel needed. As she scooped the coffee into the filter and added water to the machine, she had to admit they were right. She was glad to have something to do.

She poured the fresh dripped coffee into the thermos Dad had kept on the counter. In the fridge was a half loaf of yellow pound cake, still fresh inside a plastic bag. She sliced it and arranged the slices on two plates, set up a tray with mugs, spoons, napkins, sugar, a jar of orange marmalade and a couple of packets of powdered creamer for herself and took it and the thermos out back to the table under the arbor.

Might as well do it right. The way Dad always did. After all, I'm his daughter.

They sat down and busied themselves preparing their mugs. When it seemed the perfect moment for each to test the brew, Stretch Murphy prayed. Not asking her permission first. Just doing it. Another endearing trait. The man was a free spirit. Unhampered by the usual conventions.

"Father in Heaven, we know you had a good reason for taking Joe. And an equally good reason for leaving us behind. We pray you make Joe at home, and help Shannon here, to find the strength to make the final arrangements. Also, help Shannon be open to the idea of our getting married. And for myself, I pray you let Joe and me finish the chess game when I finally see him again. And don't give him any pointers. In Jesus name, amen."

Stretch caught her eye. "Sorry," he said. "That was kinda stupid, about the chess game. But I really thought I had a chance to win. I wanted the victory. Joe has beat me the last five times. Okay. I made that up about the last five times. He always beat me. The man was without a shred of mercy when it came to his chess game."

"Dad liked to win," she agreed.

"Look." He pulled a worn paperback from a cargo pocket, a yellow sticky note protruding from its innards. The book, Chess Without Mercy, was by some author with an unpronounceable Russian last name. "I was reading this to try and find a sneaky way to win."

"It's funny," Shannon said. "In our mail game, I was winning too. Likewise something he never allowed, even though I was his own daughter. And now I know why I was winning. Dad knew it was going to be our last game together. He was letting me win."

"Oh. Yeh. I can see it now. About two moves ago, last week, he made a really dumb mistake. I couldn't believe my luck. But now I understand. He knew he was dying. Wanted to give me a mercy win before he left. He was throwing the game."

"Do you always do that?" Shannon asked.

"Do what?"

"Pray like that."

"Like what?"

"You know. Just start in and talk to God like he was somebody sitting right here, somebody ordinary. You didn't bow your head or close your eyes."

"You mean I didn't pray with my head down and my face all scrunched up and my eyes shut, as though I was somehow trying to beam a thought wave to Heaven? Or as if I had a sudden onset of migraine?"

In spite of herself, Shannon smiled. It was true, the way most Christians, including herself, prayed.

"I mean, after all," Stretch continued, "Isn't God sitting right here? I always thought He was."

Shannon carefully tasted a small dab of marmalade, found it good, and slathered a slice of pound cake with it.

"I've never seen anybody do that," Stretch said. "Put it on your pound cake. Why did you taste it first?"

"The stuff is probably over two years old. From when my mother was still alive. Dad has kept this jar in the fridge all this time. I learned about it from my mother. She put it on practically everything, even in her scrambled eggs. Used it like most people use margarine. It wasn't until I was in high school I learned other people rarely ate it."

Stretch tried some on his slice. "Your mother was ... wrong. Bless her soul. It tastes horrible with pound cake." He took his table knife and began scraping it off.

"It's an acquired taste."

"Most definitely. But I can tell you, Shannon, that the marmalade isn't two years old. Your dad ate the stuff on a regular basis. Mainly on English muffins."

She frowned at the revelation. It seemed the man knew her father better than she did. Where had she been the last two years, not to notice even basic facts about her father's existence? He was religious. Apparently a Christian. She decided to test his spiritual acumen.

"Stretch, you said you believe God is here with us. Do you think it's true? I know everyone thinks and says that, but what does it mean, really? Practically speaking, what good does it do for God to be sitting right here? Or is it just some stupid idea people have?"

"It's a mystery," Stretch said. "I mean, He's on His throne, but He's also here, because the Holy Spirit is here. Jesus is also here whenever two or more are gathered. So, they're at the same time someplace specific, but they're also everywhere."

"But what good does it do us to have Him sitting right here, spying on us?"

"I know why you're baiting me," he said. "You're mad at God. As to what good it does to have God sitting right here, who knows?"

"But Who's on first?" Shannon said, attempting to lighten the mood, and sorry she'd been caught baiting.

"No, Who's on second."

Their laughter was brief, turning quickly into tears for Shannon, who hadn't planned on doing any weeping in front of Stretch, but found herself suddenly releasing a whole lot of something inside she hadn't really known was there, or at least hadn't known how much of it needed to come out.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I had no intention of dumping out all my grief right in front of you. But I just couldn't control it. That old Abbot and Costello pun. It was the sort of thing Dad would have said. He was a constant punster."

"I'm the same way about my feelings," Stretch said. "I don't think I'm feeling anything, and suddenly, there it is. And always at the wrong time and place. By the way, the coffee is good. You haven't touched yours. Maybe it will help."

She took a sip. It was good. And additional nibbles of the marmalade adulterated pound cake weren't so bad either, so much a comfort in fact, she quickly down a couple of the slices before saying another word, washing down the bites with strong swallows of coffee.

"Oh," she said. "I just made a pig out of myself right in front of you. Well, get over it. I'm grieving. I'm not going to sit here and nibble just to be ladylike."

"No need," Stretch said. "In fact, I was impressed by your little display. It was very real. Very earthy. You eat like your Dad."

"Oh please don't tell me that. Dad always took his glasses off and practically put his face in his food … oh, my gosh, I just did the same thing! I hated to watch him eat. Especially when we were in public."

Stretch didn't reply, simply sipped his coffee and watched her.

"So do you think God is here right now?" She said. "Watching us pig out?"

Stretch smiled. "I like to think God doesn't have any part of the universe running wildly out of control."

He took a ball-point from his shirt pocket and fished out a card from the back pocket of his shorts. "By the way, here's my card. I'm writing my personal number on the back." He handed her a shiny blue business card with all the pertinent information and the name of the business in bright gold lettering:

THE POOL GUY

BECAUSE YOU NEVER KNOW

WHAT'S IN THE WATER

1-800-POOLGUY

"That's the name of your little pool cleaning business? The Pool Guy?"

He nodded.

"But what's it mean, You never know what's in the water?"

"It's my slogan. It's why you call the pool guy. Because you never know. Haven't you seen my ad on TV? The one where I'm pumicing a live hippo underwater?"

That did it. He lost all credibility. Now she was certain his story was just something he made up in his head.

The detail about the hippo completely slam-dunked any notion she had that he was entirely normal. She studied his face, but it was hard to get a reading. Perhaps he sometimes saw hippos and other creatures in the pools he cleaned. Most likely, he didn't know he'd just slipped into a fantasy.

"You're kidding, right? About the hippo?"

"I found a hippo in a pool once," he said. "In Beverly Hills. The beast had escaped from its wallow next door and was hiding in the pool of a famous country western singer. That's when I got the idea for the commercial about me and the hippo. Ever since that commercial, I've had more business than I know what to do with."

"I don't know whether you are serious or kidding," she said.

"I'm not kidding about you calling me if you need me," he said.

"What should I need you for?" Other than to finalize the details of obtaining for myself a pre-arranged husband, that is, she thought.

"Whatever you need me for, before the wedding, I'm available. Help of any kind in the next few days. I can help you plan the funeral for Joe."

"Why would you do that for me?"

"God would want me to. No, change that. Because I'd like to help. Look, I know you don't really want to get married. But perhaps if we get to know each other better, you'll give some thought to the marriage. Spending a little time with me might give you more to think about."

"You're very religious, aren't you, Stretch?"

"You say that as if it were a bad thing. It isn't. Yes, I'm religious, if it means putting God first. Most days, anyway. When I'm not mad or angry at Him."

"Do you go to church every week?"

He nodded.

"More than once a week?"

"Yes."

"Thought so. Should I confess? I do, too. But I've been so busy at my job I've missed the last four weeks. Instead, I've been sleeping in until almost noon and then zoning out the rest of the afternoon watching old movies. Does that make me horrible?"

"Yes."

"Stretch, did I hear you right? Did you just say yes? Did you just say I was horrible?"

"But it's reversible. You can come to church with me tomorrow night. You'll feel like a new creature."

"A new creature? Like a hippo in your Beverly Hills swimming pool?"

"You're funny. I like that. But no swimming pools. Come to church with me tomorrow night. I'll pick you up here at 6:30."

"Not so fast. Tell me first you're not a holy roller."

"Would it matter if I was?"

"Yes. I was baptized and raised a proper Presbyterian. I'm not going to somebody's living room in Reseda and roll around on the floor."

"If it makes any difference, there'll probably be about four or five hundred ordinary people there. And to my knowledge, none of them have actually rolled any great distance. Nothing over 50 feet. But wait and see."

"No. What church are we going to? I have to know in advance."

"Church on the Way," he said.

"That huge place on Sherman Way?"

He nodded.

"It's not my denomination."

"Does that matter so much to you?"

"I guess not. Not that I'm indifferent, but I mean we're all one in God's eyes, right?"

He stood up, towering over her. "By the way. What was so important you skipped church four Sundays in a row?"

"My job."

"But what specifically?"

"We're working on landing a huge account. A former Soviet-era Russian general expatriated to our country. A charismatic international client with an astronomical personal net worth. This guy hangs out with people like T. Boone Pickens. Made up of real money, not inflated startup stocks. My firm is working with the State of California on some tax issues. I've been commuting from San Francisco to Sacramento every Saturday for meetings with the Lieutenant Governor's staff."

"Only in America," Stretch replied. "What firm do you work for?"

"The firm of Brunstetter and Griffen. We're a boutique investment firm with offices specializing in tax planning for high net worth individuals. I bet you've never heard of us."

"A bet nobody would take. After all, why should a simple pool guy like me have any dealings with the Brunstetters and Griffens of this world?"

"You couldn't have had any with Brunstetter. He's been dead for over 20 years. But surely you've heard of Ronald Q. Griffen? Mr. Wall Street West? Everybody has heard of him. The man has shaken the hand of every President since Eisenhower. He even gives the President advice."

"Never heard of the man."

"You never read Time magazine? He was their Man of the Year last year."

"Nope. I know I should feel guilty, somehow, but I don't read Time. I do read a lot of Superman comics, though. Is Ronald Q. Griffen featured in any of those?"

"You get right down to business, don't you, Stretch? In only 10 seconds, you've managed to reduce the founder of my company to a comic book character."

"Any reason I shouldn't?"

"Lots. But the main one is, you know nothing about me. You know nothing about what I do for a living. You think I simply cater to rich old men. You couldn't be more wrong. It's vastly more complicated than you might think. I spent my first year with the firm behind a computer running investment scenarios seven days a week, 12 hours a day. It took me over a year to begin to understand how all the pieces fit, in spite of the fact I hold a Master's from UCLA B-School."

"Out pops the credential. Okay. I'm sorry I was sarcastic. I didn't mean to belittle your achievements. I'm a lunkhead who only graduated from Birmingham High School and took a few night classes at Valley College. You're right. I don't know you. And I just lied. I didn't graduate from Birmingham. Not officially. I dropped out when I was 17. But I did get my G.E.D. later. And I did take some accounting classes at Valley."

"Sorry about the degree bragging. I just think you should realize you don't know me, and you shouldn't stereotype. You don't even know what religion I am. If you're going to marry someone you've never met, you should at least know that."

"You were baptized Presbyterian, you just said. And I don't need to know anything more about you. I'm relying on your father's recommendation for the marriage, instead of my own judgment. I'm relying on his wisdom because he loves you and would never suggest any marital arrangement he felt would do you harm. Just as he relied on the judgment of my parents when they recommended me to be your husband. He knew my parents only want what's best for me."

The arranged marriage logic was there again. She knew it was all in his head, but it sounded so plausible when he explained it. She couldn't disagree with the fact that if her father had indeed arranged for a marriage partner, that Dad would have done his utmost to find someone outstanding for his only daughter. On the surface, Stretch was rather outstanding. He was good looking and smart. Except she was pretty sure Dad had done no such thing. It was all in Stretch's mind.

"I said I was raised Presbyterian," she said. "But how do you know I haven't converted to something else? Like maybe a Moony, or a Hindu or something? Or maybe Ted Turner converted me into a non-believer like himself when I helped his cousin put together a tax advantaged investment portfolio. After all, I have been living in San Francisco."

"Your dad is a conservative Presbyterian. If you'd changed your faith, he would have told me. He talked about you constantly when we played chess. But he said you'd been avoiding him since your mother died. You hardly ever came to see him anymore, and when you did, you didn't stay very long."

"Dad never mentioned you," Shannon said. "How long have you known him?"

"A year."

"I can't for the life of me understand why he never mentioned you."

"Who knows?" Stretch replied. "Maybe he was waiting for the exact right time. Maybe there's a lot of things your dad never told you."

"But he told you he was going to arrange for us to get married this Saturday. Isn't that cutting it a little close? Don't you think he would have tried to tell me about you a bit sooner?"

"Yes. A little sooner anyways. Is it a problem for you? Being notified that you have a soon-to-be husband at the last minute?"

The thought of this perfect stranger, soaking up all the details of her life from her father, and constructing an elaborate fantasy around the details gave rise to the furious side of her.

"It is a problem. Because you have no right," she said. "No right! And you can put your marriage plans right back where they came from. Because my father would have done no such foolish thing. And another thing--" The phone rang inside the house. "--Saved by the bell. Wait here. It's probably my brother. I'll be right back. We're not finished."

Oh Lord, I just screamed! She ran to the kitchen and took the call on the wall phone, the 20 year old instrument which had never been upgraded and was heavy as a barbell. "Phil?"

It wasn't her brother Phil. "Shannon, we've got a problem," a high pitched, overexcited female voice said. It was Phil's wife, Minda, a girl her brother had met and married while finishing a Navy tour of duty in the Philippines six years before.

"What is it, Minda?"

"Shannon, Phil drank. He didn't come home last night and showed up her this morning yelling and upset. He scared me and the children. I had to have the sitter take the kids out of the house."

Bad news. Phil's marital history consisted of a very rocky first two years with Minda, a period in which there were numerous police visits to their home, and one short separation following Phil doing a great deal of damage to other people while driving under the influence. Phil had spent time in the County lockup, during which period of sober introspection he had decided to join the ranks of recovering alcoholics.

Of course, initially it had been mandatory that he attend AA as a condition of a five-year probation handed down by the Judge. But he had taken it to heart, made a lot of new AA friends, and had been clean and sober for the last four years, faithfully working his 12 Steps and making many amends to those he had wronged, putting together against great odds a loving home.

Phil was only one month away from having his driving license returned to him by the State. The simple phrase, "Phil drank", spoke volumes in all it implied. Spoke of a sudden and great falling in the lives of the two women.

"Minda, did he hit you?"

"... sort of."

"Are you bleeding or anything?"

"No. He was so dizzy I was able to get away from most of it."

"Where is he, Minda?"

"Here. On the couch. Passed out."

"Shannon calculated the time it would take to drive to Phil's condo in Encino. The traffic at this time of the morning wouldn't be too bad. "Okay, Minda, I'll be over in 30 minutes." She headed out back.

"Stretch," she called, "I--"

--Stretch was gone. There was a note on the back of his business card, left beside the pound cake. DON'T FORGET--CHURCH TOMORROW NIGHT.

Church service with Stretch Murphy tomorrow night. An eternity away. Feeling utterly alone, she went back inside. Devoid of inner resources. The hours of the upcoming day suddenly seeming to be of a total tonnage which would prove impossible to carry.

She sat down. Is this a bad dream? Can anything be worse? Perhaps I'll awaken, safe in my Pacific Heights flat, and call Dad and tell him all about the nightmare.

What does one do, she mused, when one's strength is gone, when hope is simply a concept other people depend on, a flimsy crutch propping up the weak while the cunning, the ruthless and the mean run their sadistic version of the world with fists of iron. Well, maybe there is something I can do. I can pray. God is everywhere. Stretch sat right here at the table and declared it to be so.

"Then do something!" she shouted at God. "Do something!"

The shout echoed in the empty house. The coming apart of her spirit had lasted about 10 seconds, ending in a worthless shout at God. It had collapsed without the dust rising. She had to pull herself together. Get dressed. But in what?

She couldn't continue wearing the business suit she'd flown down in. She could try and iron it, but lacked the energy for such an undertaking. For the moment, it appeared she'd have to wear her mother's old clothes. Sensible beige shoes. Sensible tan slacks and peach blouse. Everything smelling faintly musty.

In her old closet was a large straw purse on a long strap. Something not sensible. Mom's old beach bag. It somehow seemed to fit the L.A. scene better than the beige clutch she'd brought with her on the flight down. She dumped the contents of the clutch into the straw purse. And there was a hat, a floppy straw affair, with a silk rose in the brim. In the mirror, with the hat on, she realized she looked just like her mother. Which came as a shock. Something was changing her, and she wasn't sure she liked the feeling.

The world had become a little smaller somehow in the last 24 hours. A little more uncertain. She understood what the central emotion was. Anger at God, who was, if Stretch were correct, standing right beside her, feeling the brunt of all that pent up anger. Might as well tell Him how she felt.

I know you're here beside me, God, she prayed. I can't hide anything from you. You know I'm still angry about Mom dying of cancer. And now this. Dad is gone, too. Stretch said you must have had a good reason, but I can't see what it was. Besides, what does he know? He lives in a fantasy world. How am I supposed to believe You know what you're doing when things like this happen?

With this grim questioning completed, she grabbed her large straw purse and set herself as best she could for the ugly task ahead of bringing what little strength she had left into the fray created by her father's death and her brother's catastrophic moral failure. And wondered if any effort, of any magnitude at all from this point forward, would ever be enough again. In her heart, she was almost certain it wouldn't.

Chapter 4

The drive across town to Phil and Minda's condo could have been worse, but for some unfathomable reason, perhaps using the same logic by which he'd purchased the new roof, a couple of months earlier, Dad had purchased a new vehicle, which she'd decided to commandeer for the duration of her visit. The huge luxury edition Suburban, dark blue in color and looking for all the world like the sort of vehicle the SWAT team preferred, gave her the feeling she was somehow insulated and isolated from the typically frantic Valley traffic. There'd been a praise tape in the dash and halfway through 'Majesty', while sitting in traffic on Ventura Boulevard, the urge to pray was suddenly overwhelming.

"I'm sorry I said I was angry with you, Lord," she said aloud. "And I'm sorry for shouting at you to do something, but I'm feeling kind of helpless at the moment ... and small. Like something's been disconnected inside of me. There is so much to do when there's a death in the family, and there's no script for any of it. I guess I was counting on Phil to handle things. Depending on my brother to make all the arrangements. But now Phil's fallen off the wagon. Exactly what am I supposed to do about it? Or about any of this?"

Into her head popped an image of Stretch Murphy. The man had about him such an air of assurance, of strength and calm. The Pool Guy. Where was he now? In whose back yard, cleaning what manner of pool? Interacting in what way from the many choices doubtless presented to him as a man whose job it was to enter dozens of peoples lives every week? People who needed their messes cleaned up and had plenty of money to hire somebody to do it for them. Who'd found Stretch Murphy to be their best choice from the hundreds of choices available. Because they felt he brought something to the job others lacked.

Which was what? What did people look for in a pool cleaner, anyway? She had to admit she had no idea. Honesty, she supposed. In a city where robberies were as high as the daily total of Big Macs consumed, this was important. The Pool Guy had a key to everybody's back yard. So honesty was the primary criteria. That, plus some sort of skill set involving the ability to keep the pool from turning green. Perhaps the two items were related in some fashion. Maybe there was a Zen to the whole process which led to many word of mouth referrals, built a book of business any entrepreneur would envy. His name is Stretch Murphy. Costs a little extra, but you can trust him. He won't set you up to be ripped off. And your water will never turn green. Stretch was honest. Except for one thing. A tendency to invent bizarre fantasies. Such as the one about her dad setting up an arranged marriage. However, if not taken to extremes, the fantasy tendency was probably harmless.

She couldn't keep on pretending with him, however. Leading him to believe she was seriously thinking it over. That would be cruel. She'd simply tell him that since Dad had died, the thing was null and void. The problem was, at the moment, if she were totally honest, she had to admit Stretch was her only available friend. She'd lost contact with her old girlfriends in L.A. and hadn't made any new ones. Everybody she knew was now in the Bay Area and were people she associated only with work.

I need a friend, Shannon thought. Even if he spends his days cleaning other people's swimming pools and inventing a fantasy to fit each person he comes into contact with.

It was settled then. He could be her friend in this present crisis, and she could be his fantasy number 6,273, or however many it was of them he had going. It was a tradeoff, but a necessary one. She needed his help, and she might as well start right now. Situational ethics intact, Shannon turned north off Ventura Boulevard and pulled into the Gelson's parking lot and called the number on his card.

"Pool Guy," he answered, after only one ring.

"It's me."

"Hi, Me."

"Do you know who this is?"

"Of course I do, Shannon."

"Were you serious about calling you if I needed help? Because I'm falling apart. If you weren't serious, it's okay. I'll completely understand if you didn't really mean it. If you were just being polite. And I'm sorry I screamed at you about the marriage thing."

"Where are you?"

"I'm pulling into Gelson's. On Ventura."

"I'll meet you in 20 minutes, in their coffee shop. Save me a seat at the counter."

"We just had coffee."

"We'll have some more. It's shaping up to be a 10-cup day."

She lucked out on a parking spot near the entrance and was soon blown away, as she always was, by the 30 foot long bakery counter, filled with things which until seen, could not even be imagined by the purely mortal mind, such confectioneries doubtless originating in the minds of the pastry chefs via direct Divine inspiration.

One such goody, about the size of a dinner roll, housed in a paper thin, butter-soaked and delicately crisped shell, filled with chocolate creme sauce and topped with slivered almonds and candied apricots, weakened her resistance. She snapped up two of them on an impulse buy and found herself sitting with them and a couple of large coffees, forcing herself not to begin eating until Stretch arrived, a noble resistance which lasted about 30 seconds until she sneaked a bite. At which point, there was nothing she could do but eat them both and get rid of the evidence just as he came walking in.

"Love the hat," he said.

"Do you ever get used to it?" she asked him as he towered over her.

"To what? Meeting a beautiful girl for coffee?"

"No. To being stared at because you're so tall."

"They're staring? I've never noticed."

"Kidding again."

"Yes. By the way, how was the pastry?"

"What pastry?"

"The one which left chocolate sauce all over your chin."

Shannon sighed and reached for a napkin. "I can't believe I ate two of them. I was going to wait until you got here, but I took one nibble and inhaled them both. It must be the stress."

"Which ones were they?"

"They call them angel crowns."

Stretch went to the counter and ordered a half dozen more.

"Sugar it will be," he said. "Extraordinary times call for extraordinary measures." He prayed. "Father, we know you are with us. And we thank you for our angel crowns. May they give us the boost we need to carry on with the tasks before us. Amen."

"Stretch, you stepped over the line."

"By ordering six of them? I figured you've already had two. Four for me, and two more for you, so we'll be even."

"No. I'm not talking about sugar. I'm talking about what you said before. You called me a beautiful girl. I think you've gotten the wrong idea. I phoned you because you offered to help and I happen to be having a bit of a struggle. I hope you're not getting the wrong idea."

"And which wrong idea may that be?"

"That I'm someone you can win over with compliments and treats. The way a high school kid might do. If you haven't noticed, I'm a mature woman." Oh, she thought, I can't believe I just wavered on my decision to set him straight. I just continued his fantasy for fear he might leave me alone in my time of need.

"You are beautiful. But you're right. I shouldn't have said what I said. It's completely the wrong time and place. I apologize. I don't even know why I said what I said. It just popped out of my mouth when I saw you. Shannon ... you are beautiful. I couldn't help myself. But since it bothers you, I'll try to be more of a gentleman."

Shannon ... you are beautiful. The statement zinged inside her, in a place she didn't want it to. What was going on? Was she that desperate, that pathetic? She was playing a game with the man, taking advantage of his confusion. And yet, was she? What was she really doing? Trying to set up the rules of their newly formed relationship? On the day her father died?

"No, Stretch," she found herself saying. "I don't want you to change. I'll try to be more understanding. You paid me a compliment and I should at least thank you." What am I doing? Dear Lord! I was fishing, pretending to find offense because he called me beautiful. I was testing the waters to see if there was anything there. Encouraging him to be interested in me. Oh! And it's not because I'm playing a game just to play one. I find him attractive ... that's it ... I'm drawn to him. I'm in a bad way emotionally, and I've fallen into this guy's fantasy. He's rubbing off on me.

"I'm glad we cleared that up, Stretch," she heard herself saying, as though it was coming from someone else. "I don't want to get off on the wrong foot with you. Because I'm just here to make the final arrangements for my dad, and then I'll be gone. I'm sorry. I've been leading you on because right now I need a friend. But I've thought it over. I'm not available to marry you."

"You have someone," he said, and stuffed an entire angel crown into his mouth, chewing somewhat glumly a few times before swallowing the thing almost whole.

It was a way out. She decided to take it. A small white lie to turn off his fantasy. "Yes. I'm seeing someone. One of my former clients. A very wealthy young man. Related to one of the City's oldest families. He's a runner. We're both training together to run the San Francisco Marathon in July." I just lied to him! Why? Would it have been so terrible to have admitted there was no one in my life? I've been without anybody serious for over two years? Spending most of my weekends driving to Sacramento, playing at being the important businesswoman? She felt dizzy. A sugar rush? Or guilt from having lied so easily, so boldly? No! Because she was attracted to him. Horrors! It didn't matter whether or not he was living in fantasy land ... he was attractive anyway!

"I'm not," he said.

"You're not what?" She felt disoriented, as though awakening from a particularly deep sleep, her body half paralyzed from intense dreaming.

"I'm not seeing anybody," he said. "It's because I decided to spend a year without being in a relationship. I'm trying to discern my vocation in life. I've been spending most of my free time working with the youth minister at my church. Trying to decide whether or not to enter the ministry."

Another fantasy. He probably cleans the youth minister's pool! "And how long do you think that will take? To decide?"

"Don't know. It's a scary decision. It'll mean at least four years of higher education. Quitting the pool business."

"Is that such a big deal? Giving up cleaning pools?"

"Oh, I don't clean pools."

"Now I really don't get it, Stretch. Because that's exactly what you were doing this morning. You were cleaning my father's pool."

"No. I was visiting your father. We had our date to play chess."

"But I saw you pouring in some chemicals."

"I always do. But not for pay. Just because it's in my nature. Because your dad wasn't very good at cleaning his pool."

"You're not the guy who cleans my dad's pool?"

"You're dad always cleaned it himself. I think he thought it was too extravagant to hire someone to do it. But, you should know."

"Then what do you do if you don't clean pools? I mean, you are "The Pool Guy", aren't you? That's what it says on your card."

"Yeh, that's me. I'm The Pool Guy. But I don't clean them. I'm the owner of the business. I run it with my parents. I drum up the business by making commercials and doing follow-up sales calls on the leads we get. My mother keeps the books and my father manages the area managers who manage the guys who do the cleaning. But enough about me. What's important is deciding what we're going to do about the final arrangements you've got to make this week."

"Well, I'm glad you brought that up, Stretch. Because here's the thing. I'm just not up to arranging anything. I feel hopelessly incapable of dealing with any of it."

"Then we'll have to call on the other members of the family. No need you should have to do everything yourself."

"Stretch, there are no other members of the family. At least none who can help. All of our relatives live on the Eastern seaboard. A bunch of cousins I haven't seen since I was a child. Dad was the last of his brothers. Phil and I are the only Irelands out here."

"Then your brother Phil can take care of everything. After all he should. It's his responsibility as well."

"Are you going to eat this last angel crown? Because the four I just had weren't enough."

"We'll split it." He cut it in half with a plastic knife and slid her half towards her on it's wax paper and she took a bite. Anyone watching us would think it was just a guy and a girl enjoying a sugar ritual while getting to know one another, she thought. They'd have no idea. No idea at all.

Aside from the occasional stares Stretch got for his size, nobody was watching them, per se. Shannon watched the patrons of Gelson's move about the store as if in a dream with their carts, selecting carefully from this or that assortment of foodstuffs far beyond those required for mere subsistence of life. If you were into generic, you didn't shop at Gelson's where labeling definitely mattered.

To a Gelsonite, labeling was everything, from the cars they drove to the designer labels covering their hides. Gelson's was a place which offered a taste of the good life to the denizens of the Encino Hills, where upscale, modernistic hedonism, and various divisions of the entertainment industry were happily married together in a socioeconomic pastiche which powered the dream machine of the world's imagination.

"Nobody shops here, Stretch," she said.

"Come again?"

"Nobody really shops here. They come in for something special they can't get anywhere else. But you don't see carts full of the stuff ordinary people buy. Like, how many bags of beans and rice do you think they sell in a week? Three?"

"Because they aren't ordinary people like us. They're movie people."

Shannon nodded. She thought of her father, a plain but moral man who never shopped at Gelson's, and felt the loss of him, a loss which grew heavier at her own inner fatigue and helplessness to complete the final arrangements on her own. And at the thought of the arrangements left undone, she thought of the fall of her brother. His collapse in the wake of the pain from his father's death.

"Stretch, my brother Phil is an alcoholic. He's been clean and sober for four years. Last night, he drank. His wife--"

"--Minda?"

"--Minda. Stretch, do you know everything about my family?"

"Your dad talked a lot about Minda when we played chess. He loved her a lot. Minda is Philippino. It's a nickname which means jewel. Your brother met her when he was stationed over there in the Navy as part of his job as a SEAL."

"Did Dad tell you Phil was dishonorably discharged?"

"No. No, he didn't."

"For fighting. And drinking. And other things." Shannon sighed. This perfect stranger, it seemed, knew everything about her, but not about Phil. "Anyway, Minda called me this morning. Phil came home this morning and started acting wild and scared his children. He's passed out on the couch at their condo about a mile from here. I was on my way over there when I realized I just couldn't face it. That's why I called you. This whole thing has put me at wit's end. My brother is a loser. He doesn't even work full-time. They live on Minda's earnings. She's an RN at Encino Hospital."

"He doesn't work at all?"

"Just seasonal construction jobs. He claims it's because he doesn't have his driver's license. But the truth is, all he does is hang out at AA meetings and play pinball at the Alano club. He doesn't even help all that much with the kids. They're in daycare and school while he's at his meetings."

"I don't feel comfortable criticizing your brother," Stretch said. "It sounds like he needs a job, though. Do you want me to give him a job in my warehouse or something?"

"Where's the warehouse?"

"Out on San Fernando Road near Paxton. But it's a straight shot on the bus so he wouldn't have to worry about driving. Can he operate a forklift?"

This guy's smart, she thought. His story is flawless. Except for the part about the hippo. "No, don't help him. He needs to help himself. He's had enough handouts. He won't appreciate the job if he doesn't have to work to get it."

"Shall I order us something else?"

"No. And don't avoid what I'm saying. Will you go with me to my brother's place? That's why I called you in the first place."

"No."

"No?"

"No."

"But that's why I called you. To go with me to my brother's condo."

"And do what once we get there?" he asked.

"His wife is in hysterics. She needs someone to comfort her. To protect her, even."

"Then she'll have to call on the police and then get her family involved."

"I'm her family," Shannon said. "She can't call the police. They'll violate his parole and then he'll go to prison."

"You're too busy grieving to comfort anybody else. I meant her other family. She'll have to call on them for support."

"But they're all in the Philippines."

"It's a small world nowadays," Stretch replied. "They have this new thing they call an airplane. She'll have to fly home and take the children with her."

"She can't do that. They might let a terrorist with bombs in his shoes get on board. And she'd miss the funeral. She and my father were very close. And the grandkids will need to say good-bye to their grandpa."

"The grandkids don't need to see your father's body lying in it's coffin. No child needs to. Neither does your brother's wife. She'll have to miss the funeral. I'm sure your father won't mind."

Shannon sipped her coffee, washing down another bite of chocolate and candied apricots. She was eating the stuff mechanically, now, the exotic flavors no longer able to excite her fatigued taste buds. She might as well have been chewing cardboard for all it mattered. It was almost like the way her life had gone. From exciting and full of life to dull and dusty as death in only a few bites. "What was that?" she said.

"What was what?"

She noticed up close Stretch had a few crow's feet appearing around his eyes. Putting him at somewhere around 30 years old. Which made him about the same age as herself, which happened to be the near side of 28. "You know what. That little verbal tennis match we just had. What was that? And how old are you?" She really wanted to know. And wondered how a guy who invented stories the way he did could be so extremely quick verbally and logically.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I treated you like a child. I guess I've spent too much time working with the youth at church. I work with the High School Seniors who have short attention spans and need simple directions to help them find their way out of the immature little mazes they so uncannily construct. And I'm almost 30. Okay, I am 30."

"Uncannily construct? Are you saying that's what I've just done? Acted immaturely?"

He smiled ruefully. "Not exactly. Your situation is not something you've constructed. It's more something you've been thrust into against your will. You couldn't control your dad's passing, and you couldn't control your brother's response to it. Which is why I suggested you leave your brother alone. Messing with his head right now is a trip you aren't prepared to take. What you need to do is keep things simple. Take simple baby steps. And you can't save Minda, either. Right now, everybody is down for the count."

"You're a paragon of wisdom, aren't you? Did you learn all that from cleaning pools?"

"The Bible," he replied. "Solomon said, Get wisdom. Well, I read it and I got it."

"How much of the Bible have you read?"

"All of it. Cover to cover. Four times."

"Quote me something. But make it something not everybody knows."

"Remember now thy creator in the days of thy youth," he said, "while the evil days come not, or the years draw nigh when thou shalt say, I have no pleasure in them. Ecclesiastes 12, verse 1. I always quote that one to my young people. Solomon also warns young men against joining gangs, you know."

She pointed to the cell phone clipped to his belt. "Call Forest Lawn."

"Beg your pardon?"

"Call Forest Lawn. I realized you're right. If I'm going to get through this, I've got to take simple baby steps. So my first step is to have you call Forest Lawn and make us an appointment. Once you do this, I'm going to let you take me back to the house and keep me company while I search through my dad's papers. We'll have to see if we can find a copy of his will."

"No need. He keeps it at his lawyer's office. But he does have a safe deposit box you should open."

"He told you that?"

Stretch nodded.

Shannon knew about the box. Dad had made her a signatory. "Could you please make the call I asked you to? And I still need to go to Dad's and look through his things."

"Forest Lawn it is, then."

"Meanwhile, I'll call Minda. She was expecting me over an hour ago."

Minda answered on the third ring. "Shannon, he's up. He went out for more booze. I tried to stop him and he cursed me. I'm afraid of what he might do when he gets back. When are you coming?"

"I'm not coming over, Minda."

"Shannon!"

"Minda, listen to me carefully. Grab your purse and passports and any money or credit cards you have and get in your car and get out of the house. Get your kids from the sitter's and go straight to the Philippines."

"Shannon?"

"Minda. You are in danger. Leave the house now. I'll stay on the phone with you while you grab your stuff and get in the car."

"Shannon ... I ... I'm scared."

"Of course you are. But you've got to think of the kids. This is no time for personal feelings."

"Okay. But don't hang up until I'm in the car."

She waited for what seemed like an eternity, while Minda scurried around, grabbing this and grabbing that and finally made it to the safety of the car.

"Okay," Minda said. "I left him a note telling what I'm doing. I'm out of the house. I'm going for the kids."

"No. Don't leave a note. Call me when you're on the plane," Shannon said.

"We won't be at the funeral."

"I know."

"Good-bye, Shannon. Pray for me."

"I will."

There. A mountain moved. On simple advice from The Pool Guy. A high school dropout with the debating skills of a congressman, who was 30 years old but still wanted to tell people he was 29. She watched the people shopping some more. The movie people, he called them.

"Forest Lawn's a go at 2 o'clock," he said.

"What's it all about, Stretch?"

"What do you mean?"

"Minda's flying to the Philippines. My brother's broken his sobriety pledge. My father's gone. We're sitting with a bunch of movie people. What's going on?"

"It's almost the end of time," he said.

"That's your explanation? It's the end of time?"

"Sure. You don't agree?"

"Hardly. No man knows when the end of time will be, not the day or the hour."

"Look around you, Shannon. It's right in front of your face. You're in a market filled with movie people. These are the people who appear among us right at the end of time."

"A funny way of looking at it."

"Is it? It's a sign of the end. Jude wrote about the people he called the dreamers.

"It's all passing away? Like in a dream?"

"You're laughing at me."

"No. I just couldn't resist the pun. But surely you don't think these movie people are going to bring about the end of the world. Surely you don't see them that way."

"I see them as a gaggle of conspiritants joined together only by a desire to see just how far down their concoctions of the darkest possible turnings and shadows can take us."

There it is, she thought. Now she understood his power. He was a genius, not with numbers, but with words. "Whew. You better go ahead and become a pastor, Stretch. In fact, a preacher, or a prophet. Because what just came out of your mouth wasn't human."

"Don't you agree with what I just said?"

"Maybe. No. I don't mean no. I mean, yes. You're right. What's happening is evil. Yes. But people should be worrying about their own personal dying day instead of the end of the world. Because once you die, that's the end of time for you. Look at my Dad. He was here one day, gone the next."

"Well said."

"Why are we talking about this?"

"Because you thought of your father," he said. "And what a good, sweet man he was. And how you will miss him and what he stood for. How the world is a lesser place without him."

"And to avoid thinking about him, I asked you your opinion of the movie industry."

"Yes. You asked me. And it helped you. For the brief instant we were talking, your pain was gone. For that brief instant. We took it away."

"Keep talking like that," she said, "And I might marry you at that. But we'd better get going."

"I know. I'm dawdling. I liked what you just said. Can I hold out some hope?"

"Why not, Stretch? And I'm dawdling, too. The thought of going back to Dad's isn't one I'm looking forward to."

"I'll help you," he said. "You're not alone."

"Right. God is with us."

He took her by the elbow, his hand rough and warm.

"And I'm with you."

In spite of herself, and how wrong she knew it was, she had to admit he was a comfort.

Chapter 5

"This is your car?" she said.

"Yes."

"A Mercedes?"

It was magnificent, silver, and a convertible to boot, with red and black leather upholstery. She wondered where he'd gotten it from. Not the small convertible, but the big one, which she knew from her past dealings with a wealthy client to have a 12-cylinder motor and cost somewhere in the neighborhood of 160,000 dollars. Hopefully it wasn't stolen. The car was the priciest machine at the moment to grace the Gelson's lot. Not an easy achievement in this neighborhood, an honor he wouldn't hold all day. Not considering the odds that at any moment his position could be usurped by a big fat Bentley, like the red one driven by Fabio, or a Maserati, of the kind favored by Rod Stewart, which would exude, even while parked, a sort of fierce, decadent ferility. There was a paper bag on the passenger seat.

"What's in that bag?"

"My portable chess game. It folds up, but I find it easier to keep the pieces in a bag. I take it everywhere."

"Stretch, are your parents rich?"

"They're rich in faith, but not particularly in money. My dad worked for Bendix as a mechanic and shop foreman for 30 years. And now he works for me as my senior manager. But only because he needs something to do, something to get him out of the house a couple of days a week."

"If your parents aren't rich, then where did you get this expensive car?"

"Simonson Mercedes in Santa Monica."

"Not where, how?"

"The same way everybody does. I bought it. My accountant begged me to buy it. He said I needed a write-off. He was running out of places to put all the money I was making."

"An accountant? I thought you said your mother kept your books."

"Well, she oversees things, such as the collecting of the receipts and such. But I have an accountant for most of it. And a tax attorney. He paid for his services the day he got me off the accrual system and doubled my deductions."

Shannon sighed. Questioning Stretch would never break the fantasy. It was time to be completely honest. "Stretch, before we go a step further, I have to tell you something. And when I do, if you choose to walk away, I'll understand. You can drive away and leave me standing here at the entrance to this supermarket and I won't say a thing."

"I won't do that," he said.

"You might. Stretch, I realize that you have some sort of little problem. I know there's no tactful way to bring this up. I don't even know what they call it nowadays. I only bring this up because I want you to know I know about your situation, and because I don't want you to feel you have to hide it from me."

"Shannon--"

"--Don't interrupt. I have to get this out. I'm telling you this to set you free, Stretch. I know you're not a millionaire. I know you probably only make 10 bucks an hour cleaning pools. I know why you didn't finish High School, and that you probably don't really have your G.E.D. Of course, I have no idea where you got the Mercedes. I only hope it isn't stolen from one of your customers who's on vacation or something. The most important thing I want to tell you is, that I do find you attractive. And that your fantasy about us getting married by an arrangement of our parents is, I think, a very sweet and romantic one. Actually, I'm very taken by the idea of a completely platonic arrangement, one where the weaknesses of the flesh don't cloud one's ability to choose a partner with similar values. Although it's old-fashioned, archaic even, you've shown me that there's a lot of merit to the custom. I was realizing earlier that perhaps even Mary and Joseph had such a marriage, in the best Judaic tradition, as of that of Isaac and Rebecca. One completely selfless and devoted to God, where it was arranged by loving intermediaries."

"You're warming to the idea," he said. "And just think of the passion that will come when--"

"--Don't interrupt. Because I'm not warming, not like you think. I'm just saying that the fact that personal choice isn't part of an arranged marriage could be a tremendous asset. Especially in light of all the divorces which have come about with the advent of personal choice in choosing a mate. People who have to decide on choosing their own mates tend to let their passions run and they ignore the most important stuff, which is family and loyalty and commitment."

"The problem with the dating scene," he said, nodding in agreement, "is you wind up lighting the fire first and then go shopping for the fireplace. By the time you have the fireplace installed, the rest of your house has burned down. The fire being, of course, the emotional and physical involvement which occurs between two persons of the opposite sex."

"Clever analogy, Stretch. Two people are drawn together by physical attraction, but when the family problems begin, and there's no commitment, pop goes the divorce. But we've already gotten way off track."

"Right. We were discussing my apparent disconnect with reality."

"Yes. And I'm sorry to be so abrupt about it. So there. I've said it. I hope you won't hate me for telling you I know your secret. And believe me, I don't think less of you. I don't think I'm better than you, just--"

"--different," he said, finishing her sentence. "I'll follow you back."

"That's it? You'll follow me back? That's all you want to say? You don't want to say anything to what I just said?"

"No. I could say I don't think there's anything wrong with me, but that's what all the crazy people say, isn't it? If you're crazy, how do you know? So I won't say I'm not crazy. I'll follow you back to your dad's house." And he did.

The sight of him, behind her as they traveled down Ventura Boulevard, cruising with the top down, blue Dodger cap pulled down low, giving her a feeling she couldn't describe. Yes, she could. It was one of more than casual interest. And a certain shame she felt because part of her interest stemmed from the fact the man was not only single and available, but perhaps not on the same mental plane as she. Did such a thing have to matter as much as it did? Perhaps it would be desirable. Would make it easy for her to get along with, and control him. He didn't seem to have any meanness in him.

And it was possible he really was rich. Stranger things had been known to happen in the City of Angels. Even if he was living in a fantasy world, the car was some kind of indicator. He could be rich and clean pools at the same time. Or was his Mercedes simply a mirage, a vehicle with a heavy debt service, something which would disappear at the first frown of the Regional loan manager for whatever private bank Murphy's pool business was attached to? Assuming he even had a pool business. Doubtful, but possible. The man said he cleaned swimming pools. Of which there were beaucoup in L.A. Which needed cleaning all year round, even in the winter.

Murphy appeared to be well off, if one judged solely by demeanor. He looked relaxed. Cool and unpretentious. Very L.A. cool, toodling around in a huge Mercedes while wearing a baseball hat and Hawaiian shirt with green parrots. A man with other things on his mind besides toys. Who had met the basic requirements of life. Attained the basic needs and had moved on to the search for the dream, moved into the area where faith in something as yet only partially understood and far greater than himself was key to future accomplishments.

Which led to one other possibility, one she didn't want to entertain. That he was for real. Was exactly who he said he was. A man her very own father had chosen for her and with the consent of his parents, made a formal arrangement for them to marry. The fly in the ointment being that her father hadn't said one word about it to her. It was absurd, and even a little obscene. Her father had been gone from this earth less than a day, and she was suddenly having the prickly sensation something big was about to happen. Something huge. With a shiver, she understood the feeling. At this time in her life, a time when she was most vulnerable, at her absolute weakest point, at this very time, a man was entering her life.

Dear Lord, she said. Of all things to be happening. I've met someone. Who I find very attractive in spite his fantasizing. Of all the confusing things to come my way. And at a time when I'm least able to handle it. Why did he have to tell me he wrestled a hippopotamus? I could have worked with everything but that!

She avoided the San Diego Freeway and instead chose to creep northward up Sepulveda, taking her time, sitting at signal after signal, staying to the rightmost of the four northbound lanes, moving slower than the brutish pack of native drivers, delaying the moment when she'd find herself back at the house. And at this moment, a third possibility came to her. Maybe he was some sort of con man. Los Angeles was full of smooth talkers who only wanted your money. The intuition made a lot of the pieces fit together. Too many for comfort.

The urge to flee came upon her. A right turn at Vanowen would take her all the way to the Burbank Airport. From there--after the now typical arduous security check whereby they satisfied themselves she was not armed with tactical nuclear devices, toenail clippers, or other dangerous objects--a one-hour flight back to SF International. She'd cab back to her flat and collapse on her own couch, the one in front of the window facing Fillmore. At which point it would be a simple matter to collect herself, and make a few phone calls to the right people, who, though they be perfect strangers, would cremate Dad's earthly remains and ship them in an attractive urn to anywhere in the world she chose. The thought of her father's bones, sailing through the ether at 500 miles per hour in the airless baggage bin of a cargo plane made her cringe. She remembered reading somewhere they mixed the remains with sand so the loose pieces wouldn't rattle inside the urn.

Which was when she suddenly remembered something else very upsetting. She didn't turn right for the airport. And found herself a minute or so later pulling into the driveway of the Van Nuys house, waiting for the garage door to come up, watching Stretch park on the street and get out, realizing again just how big the man was, it constantly surprising her. He came alongside her as she shut off the Suburban and opened her door. A gentleman.

"Stretch, I need to tell you something kind of strange. Two years ago, when my mother died, Dad brought her cremated remains home. He was going to scatter the ashes up in the Sequoias someplace. At a meadow he and mother used to visit."

"And he never did it," Stretch said. "He never scattered her ashes."

"He told you?"

He nodded. "Your mom's ashes are somewhere inside. Do you know where he keeps them?"

"No," she said.

"Then we'll have to find them."

"Stretch, I can't do it. It's more than I can bear. I simply don't have the strength to go inside and look in all the closets for the box my mother is in."

"I understand. So what we're going to do is, we're going inside and you're going to watch TV while I search the house."

"Watch TV?"

"It's after 11. Judge Judy should be on."

"Oh please. Maybe there's an old movie on cable. No, wait. Dad didn't have cable. He was the last holdout in the Western Hemisphere. So I guess Judge Judy it will be. But first I have to know something. How is it you really came into Dad's life? And you better be completely honest with me. I'm going to watch your eyes. I'll know if you're lying."

"Shannon?"

"C'mon Stretch. I'm not a fool. This is all a bit too convenient. There you are, the day my father dies, hanging out in my backyard. With what may or may not be a phony business card. I almost believed you, but the car doesn't fit. Pool guys don't drive SL-600's. At first I thought you were a little off, but suddenly I'm wondering if you aren't some kind of con man. What kind of a game are you running? Are you some kind of sick scavenger who preys on lonely heirs? If so, you can forget it. My dad was not a rich man."

"Okay," he said. "I'm not going to fault you for not trusting me. We're not in Kansas anymore. It never hurts to be careful. Look, I met your dad while he was in the hospital last year for some tests. He was having trouble with his Parkinson's medication, so they kept him there for a few days to get the dosage corrected. I was working at the Medical Center as a volunteer. I noticed he had a portable chess set, and we got to talking and he showed me a few chess moves on the portable board he always carried around."

Another detail most people wouldn't know. Dad's portable board, a little cardboard arrangement which folded up into a square the size of a wallet.

"You? A hospital volunteer?"

"You should try it sometime. It's very rewarding. In fact, it was talking to your father which encouraged me to think about considering youth ministry as a vocation."

"My father encouraged you?"

"Yes. He's a very spiritual man."

"He was."

"Is. Still."

"Okay. Still. In his own quiet way. Which was maybe why I didn't see him very much the past two years. Dad was something of an anti-materialist. He told me I'd never have anything because I was always buying myself a new car. I never keep a car over two years. We had a fight over the Lexus SUV I leased last year. Of course, at the end, he goes out and buys a new Suburban."

"Lot's of elderly people buy Suburbans. It's because they can't see as well, and they feel safer surrounded by six tons of steel when they're out driving around."

"Anyway, Dad and I didn't see eye-to-eye on material riches. No. Wait. That's not the reason I didn't spend time with him."

"Because you wanted the world," Stretch said. "And he wanted something else for you."

"No. The arguments over the cars and things I bought were just an excuse to vent the fact that we were uncomfortable around each other. It was because I couldn't get over my mom's death, and neither could Dad. Mom was the center of the family. After she died, it was painfully evident Dad and I were practically strangers to each other. At least as far as our adult relationship went. And neither one of us could get over our grief over losing Mom. We cried our eyes out every time I came down. It was too painful for me. So I started making excuses not to come."

"You told him you were busy at work. You hold a Master's from UCLA. You've made the right connections. You're good at what you do. You live in Pacific Heights. You show the rich how to get richer. You're dating a wealthy San Franciscan."

"Is it so terrible?"

"Did I say it was?"

"Did Dad tell you I was going to be rich?"

"He said you were doing well at work. I didn't associate that with you being rich."

"Do you think I'm rich? Do you think I succeeded?"

"No."

"Why, because I'm a woman?"

"No. I know you're not rich yet because I can see it in your face. You're still hungry. You're like a hungry child. The rich don't have that hungry look."

"I will be rich, and very soon, and I won't be ashamed of it," she said.

"Do you feel guilty about wanting to have money?"

"No. Somebody has to be rich. If it weren't for the wealthy, there would be no jobs for the rest of us."

"Indeed," Stretch replied. "So by aspiring to become rich, you're actually helping the poor." His face revealed nothing.

"You're mocking me. I can feel it. And we're doing it again," she said.

"Doing what?"

"Tennis. We've just had a very vigorous back and forth. But I'm not sure who won the point."

"Was there something to be won?"

"I don't know. Was there?"

"Perhaps."

"Stretch ... are you rich?"

"Yes."

"Very, or just sort of."

"Oh, sort of medium, I'd say."

"From cleaning pools?"

"Yeh."

In spite of her premonitions, the image of Stretch Murphy as a con man just wasn't adding up. She was back to square one. Attracted to him almost against her will, knowing it was probably wrong.

"I lied," she said. "I'm not dating anyone. And haven't been for over two years. I had the same boyfriend since high school. He and I were both active Christians. We both taught Sunday school at Bel Air Presbyterian."

"Where they had the big scandal with their pastor?"

"We hung in there throughout that awful time," she said. "Besides, even Jesus picked Judas. It doesn't mean there's anything wrong with our faith. Anyway, my boyfriend was studying at UCLA for his Ph.D. in Clinical Psych. We were waiting to get married, until he finished his education and our careers were better established."

"How very modern," Stretch said.

"But two years ago, right after we both received our Masters, at about the same time my mother was dying, the whole thing fell apart. He told me he couldn't keep up with me, that he didn't want to wait until our careers were established to get married, that he wanted a family more than he wanted the big career. He decided to go into practice as a Licensed Clinical Social Worker at a place in Sherman Oaks. I guess I wasn't ready to get married and have children, so I took the job with Brunstetter and Griffen in San Francisco. He went and found somebody who was ready for a family. They've already given birth to their first child. I've been permanently off men since then. When I'm not working, which is almost all the time, I camp in front of the tube and eat junk food. Aside from going to church once a week, I have no life."

"You're missing Judge Judy," he said.

"Let's go in, then," she said.

"Okay."

"And I promise not to stare at how tall you look in my house."

"Or worry whether or not I'll bump my head?"

"Or that either."

She reached out and touched his forearm lightly. "Friends?"

"Always were," he said.

"Always?"

"God knew us before we were ever born."

"Stretch, do you really believe we were meant to be?"

"Yes. Don't you?"

"I don't know. I ... it's all so fantastic. I'll have to think about it."

They went in, she to the TV room to distract herself with Judge Judy, he upstairs to attempt to locate the boxed remains of Shannon's mother.

Judge Judy was working an easy mark, a sullen young girl with a twice-pierced tongue who'd stolen a hundred bucks from her grandmother's purse. She'd never watched the show before and found herself instantly addicted to the likable, sharp-tongued Jurist who dispensed motherly advice and the wrath of Moses with equal alacrity.

"I found it," Stretch said, walking into the TV room. His voice jolted her back to reality. "No urn. Just a small box wrapped in dusty white butcher paper on the top shelf of his closet. Do you want to see it?"

"No. Perhaps you wouldn't mind putting it in the Suburban for me. I'll take it with me to Forest Lawn."

"Shannon?"

She looked his way. He held it toward her. The box. He shook it. The loose remains rattled.

My God, she thought. Is this the way it must be for each and every one of us? To wind up as a box of loose debris and nothing more? After all the noise and light we give off, it all winds up buried?

"Why did you do that? Why did you show it to me when I asked you not to? And shake it like that?"

"You needed to see it, Shannon. It's time you started reconnecting."

"I should ask you to leave."

"I'll put it in the trunk of my car," he said. "Since I'll be driving us out there."

"No, you don't have to. You've done enough for one day."

"I want to. You've got a lot on your mind. It'll be safer if I drive. I'm staying with you until everything's done."

"Okay, Stretch."

Her phone chimed, necessitating a short run to her straw bag on the dinette.

"Shannon? Bob Archer." The wispy, high voice of her boss from Brunstetter and Griffen. Bringing sharply into focus the fact there was a whole other world she belonged to in addition to the one she was currently occupying.

"Hello, Bob."

"Shannon, you were going to call us this morning. When you didn't, we got a little worried."

"Bob, my father passed away last night. Or rather, early this morning. So if this can wait--"

"--Our deepest sympathies," Bob said, his voice smooth and even. "Listen, I'm sorry to call you like this, but we've got a bit of an emergency here. General Kremsky's office called. I've got some incredible news for you. I hope you're sitting down--the General is ready to sign. He's decided not to wait until his fiscal year closes in November after all."

"Bob, I --"

"--You don't have to say anything. I know you're knocked out by the news. And another thing, Shannon. The General had dinner with Mr. Griffen on Mr. Griffen's yacht last night and said it was your effort which brought him across. In fact, he said more. He said he won't sign a thing unless you are there to walk him through the process. Apparently, you're the only one he trusts."

"I understand," Shannon said. And she did, too. Expatriate General Ivan Kremsky had somehow parlayed a fortune made behind the iron curtain doing Heaven knew what to whom into an even larger fortune from post-communist era Russian raw materials shipping contracts. Had a net worth, it was said, of well above 20 billion dollars.

Although she'd introduced General Kremsky to the firm, winning her a position initially as junior player on a seasoned team working on developing the relationship, a work which had been going on for almost the entire two years Shannon had been with the firm, it had been Shannon's awesome good fortune to have been the one to find the key--by cutting a special energy tax credit with the State, Shannon had been single-handedly responsible for actually netting the Kremsky dollars.

Her bonus was going to be gigantic--a fractional percentage of the total investment slate, expected to be somewhere in the neighborhood of close to one billion dollars, with more to come if things went the way they were supposed to. The competition from their financial services competitors had been fierce, but it had been Shannon's coup when she'd done something the other's hadn't thought of--invited California's shrewd Lieutenant Governor into the picture and secured his cooperation to shelter Kremsky's short-term California energy investments from capital gains taxes. In a nutshell, the account was Shannon's big break. After which, her reputation as a winner established, there would be no looking back. Offers would come pouring in as the world opened it's arms to the newest star on the street.

"When do you think you'll be back?" Bob asked.

"What?"

"How soon will you be back?"

"Soon," she answered. "I'll have everything wrapped up here in a few days. Why don't you go ahead and set up the signing for Saturday? We can celebrate at Mr. Griffen's mansion in Atherton. We can sign Saturday afternoon and take the corporate chopper to the mansion for the party. You can have my secretary, Dave, get the invitations delivered. Dave will call Stanley Gatti and have him start putting the menu together. Just remember not to invite the United Way president, what's-his-name. Kremsky has a few problems getting along with the guy after the Boy Scout fiasco."

"Shannon? I know this isn't the best time to say this, and what with your father's passing and all, but Mr. Griffen expressed to me personally the signing must take place today. At the express wish of General Kremsky."

"Today?"

"Today. Mr. Griffen's exact words. And I must admit, he sounded a little flustered to hear you were out of town. The deal with the State energy bonds is time sensitive. If we don't sign today, we risk losing some of the hedge."

"Bob? Does Mr. Griffen know I'm away because my father died?"

"Well, not exactly. He knows your father was having surgery."

"Then you must call him and tell him what has happened."

"Shannon. I can't do it. You know how Mr. Griffen is. When the man speaks, the words appear immediately engraved on polished stone tablets. He said today. This isn't something that's negotiable. Again, I'm terribly sorry, but I must insist you return to the office immediately. Mr. Griffen made it very clear the firm will not keep General Kremsky waiting."

"But I--"

"--If you aren't here, if you in any way impede the signing of the Kremsky account, I have to tell you your prospects for continuing with the firm will be less than certain."

"You're threatening to fire me? After I landed you the account of the century? And from which my expected net bonus check should be well over two million dollars? Get Mr. Griffen on the 3-way."

"Shannon, please be reasonable. Calm down. I'm not threatening to fire you. Right now this is just between you and me. But if you bring Mr. Griffen in, you're taking a big risk. He was very--and I mean very upset you weren't in town. He doesn't really care what the reason is. If he knows you're in mourning for your dad, he might believe you're too unstable to handle the closing. That alone, at this critical time in your career, could really hurt you."

"This is an outrage, Bob."

"I'm calling you as your boss, but also as your friend. You don't want to go against Mr. Griffen. The man owns the plantation the rest of us work on. He'd bury you in a minute. There's not an attorney on the West Coast who'd want to defend you. I understand you're under a lot of stress. But you have to return now. It's a quick up and back. The whole thing will be over by Sunday. After, I'll personally authorize some well-deserved leave time for you. In the meanwhile, if you need help with your dad's funeral, I suppose we can contact somebody in the area to see to it."

"I have someone helping me. And you have no right to even offer to meddle in my personal affairs."

"It's settled, then. We've chartered a jet for you. And there's a car on the way over to take you to the Burbank airport. If you hustle we can start the staff meeting in two hours."

"Bob--"

But the line was dead.

Stretch was standing there. "Everything okay?" He moved closer. "Shannon? You're shaking like a leaf."

She looked up at him, at his big kindly face downturned towards her. Felt the measure of him, and wanted at that moment to bury herself in his arms. To be held without thought or feelings other than those connected to security, safety, and eternal hope. Somehow she found the strength to resist the plunge.

"Stretch, I've got to fly back to San Francisco."

"Fly back? When?"

"Right now. The company's sending a car here to pick me up."

"You can't do that. You've got to bury your father."

"He'll have to wait. I've got to go back to work. I'll lose two and a half million dollars if I don't."

"But what about your father?"

The front door flew open. Phil, looking disheveled and out of control. She could smell the alcohol from 10 feet away.

"What is this?" Phil shouted, words slurring. He fished in his pocket and pulled out a crumpled note and threw it at her. "I come home and find this note telling me you told Minda to take the kids to the Philippines?"

She left the note after I told her not to, Shannon thought.

Phil glared. "And who is this clown? Why is he always over here? Don't tell me he's your new boyfriend! Already trying to move in on our inheritance? What're you doing in my dad's house?"

Stretch stepped protectively in front of Shannon. "You better go home," he said to Phil.

"C'mon man," Phil said, taking a wide-legged stance and hunching his shoulders in a very menacing gesture. "I'm waiting."

This is beyond terrible, Shannon thought. And it was--to the point where it seemed the kitchen simply could not contain the bad vibrations.

"Phil, stop!" she said, as though calling him on it would somehow make him come to his senses. But her statement lacked conviction, the authority of her accusation coming out as it did in a hoarse squeak, like a frightened mouse might issue forth when faced with the sudden intrusion of a cat.

"At least I know what I am," Phil said. "I'm a drunk. But I'm not sure who you are. You used to be my little sister, but now you're just somebody who doesn't live here and hasn't been a part of this family for over two years. Now you have the nerve to come down here and act like you care about Dad, and tell Minda to leave me! It's time somebody brought you off your high horse, little Miss Pacific Heights."

"Oh!" Shannon felt like she'd been punched in the stomach. She held up the cell phone. "You hit Minda. That's why I told her to leave. And I'm not going to stand here and let you threaten me. I'm calling the cops. If you leave now, I won't call them. Don't forget you're on parole."

"You're not calling anybody." Phil talked through his teeth, jaw clenched, veins in forehead bulging. And then a look of total and complete surprise. "What is that? On the table? Is that the box with Mom's ashes? What are you doing! You're not supposed to touch those!"

"Shannon," Stretch said, in a low, calm voice. "Go outside."

She hesitated.

"Go," Stretch said.

Something about the way he said it, said one word. Go. She decided to follow the order, but before she could, Phil lunged forward towards her. At which point the most amazing thing happened. Her eyes were treated to the incredible sight of Stretch Murphy wrapping his thick, powerful fingers over Phil's wrists before twisting Phil around like a dance partner and forcing him to the floor.

It was over almost before it started. Phil, his features showing great surprise, as yet unable to quite believe just how easily he had been taken, lying face down, twisted into something of a human pretzel, with Stretch kneeling over him, a size 13 work boot planted squarely in the middle of Phil's back.

"Hey, man, lemme up," Phil whined. "Let me go before you break my arms off."

"Hold him, Stretch. I'm calling 911," Shannon said.

"So they can come out here and do what?" Stretch replied. "Throw your brother in the slammer?"

"It's a start."

"Shannon, this is a difficult time for Phil. He lost his father, his wife and kids, and his sobriety all in the past 24 hours. He needs help, not incarceration. I think we can work all this out without involving the cops, don't you?"

"Yeh, this has been very hard on me," Phil agreed. "But maybe you better call the cops, Sister, because when he lets me loose, I won't fall for your boyfriend's lucky judo moves again."

Stretch smiled. "Oh, it wasn't luck."

"What, then?"

"Twenty-seven years of judo training."

"Twenty-seven years?"

"That's right. I won my first regional tournament at age six. I teach street combat classes on Thursday nights at the Police Academy. You should come up some time for a free lesson. Or I can give you another lesson right now. But I can't promise to be nice, like before."

"In other words, I never had a chance," Phil said.

"Nope. Not even a small one."

Phil sighed. "Okay, Mr. vice grip. I give up. You gonna let me go, or what?"

"Are you ready to get back on the sobriety wagon and rejoin the human race? Do the right thing and start the process to get your wife and kids back?"

"Yes."

"First apologize to your sister," Stretch commanded.

"Sorry. Sister."

"Say it again. Without the sarcasm."

"Ouch. Okay, okay. Sorry, Shannon."

Stretch let him go and the two men got up warily, Phil rubbing his wrists carefully. Suddenly his face scrunched up and the tears squirted from his tightly shut lids.

"If I hadn't been so drunk, you never could've took me. And you shouldn't have touched Mom's ashes."

When nobody spoke, he headed for the stairs. "If anybody needs me, not that they should, I'll be in a cold shower. And maybe some coffee would be nice when I come back down. I want to be sober when I call Minda in the Philippines and beg her forgiveness." In a moment they could hear the sound of water running.

"Dear Lord," Shannon said. "And I thought you played basketball. Judo was the last thing I would have suspected."

"I did play basketball," Stretch said. "For Birmingham. I had a couple of 100 point games."

"We went to high school about the same time," Shannon said. "Of course, I went to Van Nuys. Can you believe I was one of the cheerleaders? But I don't remember you at any of the games we played at Birmingham. Are you sure you aren't a couple of years younger than I am?"

She studied his face, which had changed from jubilant to shades of dark introspection.

"Stretch? What are you thinking? Your face just clouded up."

"I shouldn't have treated Phil the way I just did. I could have used more restraint. I wanted to impress you."

The doorbell rang.

"Oh! It's the company car!" She'd forgotten all about it. The car to take her to the Burbank Airport. Through the kitchen window, they could see it, a white Lincoln limousine. Parked behind Stretch's Mercedes, blocking the driveway.

"I'll tell the driver to leave," Stretch said. "And then I think we'd better catch some lunch. We don't want to do Forest Lawn on an empty stomach."

"No! Go out back by the pool and wait for me."

"Out back? You're putting me out back? Like a dog?"

"Stretch, please. I need a minute. I need some space."

"Okay. I'll be under the arbor."

Shannon went to the door. A uniformed attendant in starched white ruffled shirt with black bossa nova tie. Shiny black shoes. Black trousers with silk piping down the sides. A woman, not a man.

"Ms. Ireland? I'm here to take you to the airport."

"Can you wait a minute? I ... I'm not exactly ready."

She shut the door and stood there, unable to find a meaningful sequence to any of the events which had recently transpired. Was the next step to simply walk out the door and get into the car? Leave behind everything? What on earth am I going to do? she thought. Hop in the limo and leave my mother sitting in a box on the kitchen table? Leave my dear father lying wherever it is the people at UCLA put the patients who've died on their tables? The morgue. That's where he is. I can't leave him lying there. But I wouldn't be. Not really. Because Dad isn't even there. He's gone to Heaven. Only his body is in the morgue. Like leftovers in the fridge. Does it really matter if I don't immediately attend to his final arrangements? The whole thing about the burial ritual is so archaic. Do I have to be involved? Must I personally supervise the burying of my dead? In this, the age of the internet and the supercomputer? By who's order must I stand beside a hole in the ground and contemplate the remains of my father?

She sucked in a deep breath. Because there stood before her not only the matter of her father's funeral, but the matter of General Kremsky's closing. And a commission of somewhere in the neighborhood of two and a half million dollars. Dear Lord, she prayed, surely you must have known about this moment. Or at least you for certain know of it now, since you're right here beside me. I don't know what to do. I don't know how to decide such a thing. Help me, please.

She waited. And waited some more. Upstairs she could hear Phil turning off the shower. She'd forgotten to make fresh coffee. Soon he'd be downstairs and no telling in what kind of mood. There was no answer from God. "Oh Lord," she said aloud, this time not shutting her eyes or bowing her head. "I'm not getting through. I feel like I'm all alone here."

"Shannon?" Phil called from somewhere upstairs. "Did you call me?"

"No!"

"I heard you say something. Did you make the coffee yet?"

"No!"

Follow me. And let the dead bury their own dead. There. The thought popped into her head. A thought from God, she supposed. From some dimly remembered bible story about a would-be follower of Jesus who had to go bury his father. Who took off and left Jesus standing there. Somebody Jesus failed to convince. But why would God put the image in her mind? She hadn't left Jesus to bury her father. And would it be considered the equivalent of leaving Jesus if she returned to San Francisco to complete the business deal? Were General Kremsky and the folks at Brunstetter and Griffen the dead she was returning home to bury?

Stay or go? Not an easy decision. There was the very significant matter of two and a half million dollars. A sum nobody in their right mind could ignore. In the first place, she wasn't hurting anybody by going back to work, by attending to her business affairs. After all, she had to continue living her life, had her entire future to think about. And in the second place, burying the dead was only a ritual for those left behind, to comfort them and give them closure. Or was it something more?

She wasn't sure if, strictly speaking, it was a religious commandment, or on the level of a pious duty to bury the dead. People were first souls, then spirits and then physical matter. The burial thing dealt with the physical matter portion of the triad. It was only the physical body of her father. Just a few pounds of assorted minerals, if the scientists were to be believed, the rest mostly water. He was no longer living in it. Of course, one day, according to scripture, the body would be reassembled and restored to better than mint condition, but that was later.

And Dad himself never buried Mother! Well, there it was, then. The answer, if not from God, at least from the example set previously by the parent in question. Like father, like daughter. The burial ritual could wait a few days. Or perhaps even longer. The burial of her mother had already waited two years.

But why do I feel so guilty about leaving? I won't be gone forever. Just a few days. Until Sunday. She felt as if she was in a dream. She walked back to the kitchen and grabbed her straw purse and floppy hat and went out front, to where the lady driver was stubbing out a cigarette out by the curb, taking advantage of Shannon's indecision to enjoy a small moment for herself.

"Are you ready, Ms. Ireland?"

"Yes."

"I'll get your luggage. Is it inside the door?"

"Never mind. There is no luggage. No wait. I have to grab my laptop." She ran into the bedroom grabbed the bag holding her ultra-light, super thin model, slipping the entire thing into her straw purse before running back to the front. "Let's just go. And quickly."

"Yes, ma'am. By the way, nice hat. Where did you get it?"

"From my mother. It's an antique."

"Great flower. Is it plastic or silk?"

"I have no idea."

As the car pulled away from the curb, Shannon looked back to the side yard gate, where she thought Stretch, having heard the limo start up, might come to see what was going on. But he wasn't there. He was still sitting under the arbor. Or maybe he was back to fiddling with the hose, adding some more water to her dad's pool. Waiting for her to come out and talk about it. Talk about the Christian thing to do. Of which he had strong opinions.

She should have told him she was leaving. But somehow, she couldn't. She was running away from him, unable to face his strong convictions. Later, she'd see him again. In a few days, in fact. They'd pick up where they left off. Continue with the final arrangements. Get Dad out of the morgue and into a nice sunny side plot on the hill overlooking Riverside Drive and Warner Studios. With Mother beside him.

No. She and Stretch wouldn't be doing those things together. Because she realized now if she left, she probably wouldn't be back. Things would be different immediately after the signing of General Kremsky. The world would be a different place. An expanding universe, one in which guys like Stretch Murphy, who fiddled with hoses and tried to learn to play chess from lonely old men, and who helped the daughters of those old men with funeral arrangements, wouldn't feel comfortable.

Their destinies were entirely different, she could see that now. Even if he was genuine, if he was for real, he would be making his vocational decision soon, probably selling his pool cleaning business and starting seminary, living in a one-room dormitory on some campus in a State where they grew corn 100,000 acres at a time. While the corn was growing, they watched their many tow-headed children parade prized sheep of assorted qualities at 4-H contests.

If Stretch was for real, where he was going, God, the Bible, and the weather report, not necessarily in that order, were all anybody was really interested in. She, on the other hand, would probably be off to New York. The financial capital of the entire world. A place where anything one imagined and many things one could not possibly imagine, would, and regularly did, happen. Where the term "laid back" simply did not apply.

She wondered what Stretch thought of the New York scene. Tried to picture the two of them, attending a large closing dinner someplace, maybe at one of the smaller but important boutique galleries. A gourmet feast for a couple of dozen world beaters.

They'd all be staring at him. Wondering if he played basketball. Wondering what other things he did they might find intriguing or useful. And then, during the soup course, he'd start praying out loud without bowing his head or closing his eyes and embarrass everyone. Totally insensitive to the fact none of them believed in God, or if they did, kept their God at home with the rest of the antiques. Later that evening, on the steps in front of the gallery, there would be a mugging attempt. Stretch would perform his lucky judo move and wrap the mugger into a pretzel and hold him face down in the gutter until the cops came. That night she'd hear him out on the balcony of their Bronxville condo. Angry because he'd bumped his head on the hanging plant. Wishing he were someplace where corn was growing. Fiddling with the hose. Wondering what life would have been like if he had been better at basketball.

If Stretch were for real. If he wasn't, he'd continue cleaning pools, continue to believe that all the things he dreamed of were just on the cusp of coming true. And even if she had started to believe that she could make a life with him, even if he were somehow different from everyone else, even if she thought she could bring him into her life, she understood that she could not. Her attraction had been just that--an attraction. But without real world substance.

He wasn't real. She remembered his remark about finding a hippopotamus in a swimming pool. That was the remark which told her everything. The one truly insane slip he had made thus far. In his totally strange but believable fantasy world, he had made that single bizarre statement and it was his undoing.

There. She had her answer from God. Stretch wasn't in his right mind. Because he actually believed that he'd seen a hippopotamus in a swimming pool. And having seen it, had jumped in and pumiced the beast clean. No, Stretch wasn't real--but he was special. She had to admit that.

"Sorry, Stretch," she said. "There was a spark ... in another lifetime, perhaps."

"Ma'am?" the driver said. "Did you say something?"

"Nothing. Nothing at all."

Chapter 6

The jet wasn't ready. It was supposed to be but it wasn't. Because by law there had to be a sky marshall on board and they didn't have one available. They would have one soon, one who was coming in on a flight from Salt Lake City. But it wouldn't be for at least an another hour. To pass the time, she stood at the counter and argued.

"Even though I'm the only passenger on the jet," Shannon said, "I have to have a sky marshall. Why? So in case I whip out a nail clipper or try to light my shoes, he can blow my head clean off?"

She was making a scene. Because she hated waiting in airports and the Burbank Airport was one of the more depressing ones to have to wait in. To start with, there was no lounge to speak of, nothing to cushion the shock, the nakedness one felt in an airport.

There was a somewhat seedy little snack bar, the sort of place where you had to brush the crumbs off the table yourself. She could have waited in the limo, which had it's own color satellite TV and killer stereo system. But she'd foolishly dismissed the limo at the curb, so confident was she the jet would be ready and waiting.

"I'm sorry," the guy who took the tickets and explained patiently the lateness of things said. "But we have strict Federal regulations."

"Do I look like a suicide bomber to you? I'm going to be late for my meeting and lose a commission of two and a half million dollars," she said. "Does that mean anything to you?"

"I'm very sorry. The sky marshall we planned on using ran out of available hours."

"What's that mean? Ran out of available hours. That isn't something someone can do unless they're dead. Until that happens, until we die, there are always hours available."

He handed her a coupon. Good for a free alcoholic beverage at the bar.

"This is going to make up for my delayed flight? A complimentary drink? I want to see your supervisor. No, never mind. I'm too tired to fight with you people. When the jet is ready, page me in the snack bar. No wait. Here's my cell phone number. Call me instead. I don't want my name blared out all over this airport. I'll be waiting for the call. If the entire Western Hemisphere doesn't run out of available hours meanwhile."

"Yes ma'am."

She managed to get a Coke with her complimentary drink coupon and sat in the corner, near the overhead TV, General Hospital, with Claire behind her desk in her fabulous office, bantering with her newest love interest, a middle-aged gopher with the street smarts of a bookie and the looks of a Greek god. A guy who in real life would never be a gopher, would be instead what he actually was--an actor who got paid countless thousands of dollars just for learning a few lines and looking better than anybody else in the world while delivering them.

She couldn't keep her mind on the plot, found herself instead counting the number of Cheshire Cat grins Claire delivered during the scene. It was
Claire's favorite facial response, and Shannon spent the better part of five minutes counting them, before the game collapsed under its own pointlessness.

Then it happened. The local area commercial which caught her complete interest. There he was. Stretch Murphy. Wearing a tuxedo, swimming underwater in a swimming pool, a huge block of volcanic stone in hand, pumicing the heavy, thick skin of an extremely large hippopotamus. A very funny commercial. The whole thing done tongue in cheek, the hippo obviously totally fake, with eyes rolling crazily and ears wiggling sideways flippity flip, the way hippos do. Along the bottom of the screen, a scrolling marquee: THE POOL GUY ... BECAUSE YOU NEVER KNOW WHAT'S IN THE WATER ...1-800-POOL GUY.

Stretch Murphy was real. The thought staggered her, filled her insides to overflowing, opening her up to an enormity of possibilities, as though she had suddenly inhaled the entire sky. Her cell phone rang. She fished it from her straw purse. Hurriedly. It had to be Stretch. Had to be. Calling at the moment she was viewing his commercial.

A sign, unasked for to be sure, but a sign from God nonetheless. To help her decide her life's course. To assist her in choosing from two diametrically opposed pathways. One which led eventually to Heaven. The other which led who knew where?

The choice would be easy. She chose Stretch. Her dad's amazing going away present to her. A pre-arranged husband, who drove a Mercedes and fancied yellow parrots on his green shirt. She could already see them at the altar on Saturday. It would be the most exciting moment of her life. And he was rich. She no longer needed the Kremsky deal. She was free. Truly and forevermore. Her phone rang. It had to be him, sensing her wavelength and calling at the exact moment her feelings for him hit the universe.

"Stretch! You weren't kidding about a hippo. Hey, forgive me for leaving the way I did, but I--"

"--Shannon?" Not Stretch. Bob Archer. Wispy voice. Her boss. If she'd been thrown off a building, she couldn't have landed any harder from an emotional standpoint.

"Bob?"

"Who's Stretch? And what about a hippo? Or did you say hypo? Never mind. Your private life is your own business. Shannon, where are you? Making your final approach, I hope."

"Not hardly. I'm still in Burbank."

"Very funny. Listen, have the car bring you to the office the minute you land. Kremsky's people called. They're moving up the agenda. The General wants to sign within the next hour before his flight leaves for San Diego. He's is down the street having lunch with Mr. Griffen at the Bohemian club, although for the life of me I don't know what they see in that place. The steaks are as tough as the leather in the antique chairs. As soon as they're finished with dessert, they're coming over."

"They are? But what about the people at State?"

"The people from legal are going to webcast us in with the people from State. My idea. Brilliant, wouldn't you say? They're posting the drafts to the site. That way, we can make the final revisions as soon as the General gets here. But we need you here to explain to him how the tax shelter is going to work. Not that I couldn't do it, but for some reason, he seems to trust only you. The guy still has that little iron curtain thing going in his head. Off the record, General Kremsky's probably a little paranoid."

"Bob? I wasn't joking. I'm still at the Burbank Airport."

The silence at the other end of cyberspace was total, as though something had gone wrong with the physics of sound in general, such that there would no longer be sound anymore, and an alternate substance would have to be found or else the entire world would henceforth have to do without it.

"Shannon?" Bob finally said, his voice even higher. "Why are you still in Burbank?"

"The jet couldn't leave without a sky marshall. And they were out of them. We're waiting for one to arrive from Salt Lake City."

"We ... we are waiting for a sky marshall?"

"Yes."

"Shannon. Help me out here. General Kremsky will be walking into our conference room somewhere within this next hour. A guy with a billion dollars to invest. And I'm going to tell him we can't go ahead because you were unavoidably detained by a sky marshall? Oh, that's going to inspire confidence in the man! Shannon, is there some reason you weren't able to contact me the instant you found out your flight was going to be delayed? Some reason you didn't want me to immediately charter another, more willing jet? One with it's own #@!!!# sky marshall?"

"I ... I don't know. I guess I forgot."

"You forgot."

"Yes. I forgot. I've just wasted a lot of time arguing with the officious little man who runs this place, and another 15 minutes here in the airport lounge nursing a coke and watching General Hospital. Is there some reason I'm supposed to feel bad about this? I'm only human. Bob, I shouldn't do this, but need I remind you my father passed away last night? I'm under a little stress here."

"Okay. I understand. You hate me and you want me dead. Fine. I'll just go up to the roof and jump. No, wait. The elevator shaft is closer. Shannon, what do you think is going to happen if I don't produce the General's signature this afternoon? What? Do you think Mr. Griffen is going to be happy with me? Do you think? Or are you !@###!!! thinking at all!" The tone had dropped from high upset to killing guttural, the sounds similar to those Nicole Simpson might have heard right before she was knocked unconscious by the infamous black-gloved fist to her head.

"Bob, you needn't speak to me this way."

"I will speak to you any way I wish. And you will not ever correct me again."

Something began to rise within Shannon. Something fierce, and angry. There were limits. And deep down, she knew, the limit had been reached. She was an Ireland. And Irelands, whatever else they might or might not be, were not toadies. Weren't for sale to the highest bidder, or anyone else who might take a fancy to see an Ireland in a subservient position.

Her father had taught her that. Better a crust with contentment than riches with strife, Dad had told her. Meaning no matter how much money is at stake, there is a time in the course of negotiations when, if the soul also is also to be added to the evil brewing in the pot, it is better to walk away than stay in the game. Better to live on the street than to lose one's soul and live in a mansion.

"Listen, you overinflated pork rind," she said calmly, while at the same time fighting the urge to scream. "I don't care how much money I have at stake here. Nobody speaks to me the way you just did. Besides all that, I just got engaged. His name is Stretch Murphy and he's wealthy, so I don't need the money from the Kremsky deal. But I am still a professional, so just this once, I am going to overlook your tone and your words. We are going to complete this deal on schedule. We are going to land General Kremsky's billion dollar slate and I am going to earn my one-quarter of one percent bonus for signing the account. We must be civil to one another. After the signing, you can cut me my check and we'll go our merry ways. But until then, we've got to use our heads and work together. I'll grab a cab and hightail it to the Sheraton Universal. They've got a full service networking facility. I've got my laptop with me. I'll hook into the webcast and work with the General from that vantage point."

There. She'd remained composed. Professional. Shown Archer how she behaved under extreme duress. Dad would have been proud. Correction. Dad was proud. Because she was sure he was watching over her still. Somewhere out there, in all the vast expanse of space, Dad's spirit was finding a way to be with her in this dark moment.

There was an unpleasant shriek on the other end of the line, terminating in total silence. A split second before the silence, she experienced a mental fantasy image the shriek was made by Archer at the exact instant an escaped lion had come up behind him and with a single, well-practiced toothy clampdown, removed his head.

The image quickly vanished, but it was a moment before she realized she was alone. Incredibly, Archer had terminated the call. And from the sound of it, she pieced together a picture of exactly how he'd done so. Not by simply pressing the end call button. But by destroying the phone itself. She pictured the device even now, lying in pieces on the floor of his office.

Something had just happened. Something had gone terribly wrong on every front she faced. The whys and the wherefores were not apparent. But what was apparent, a movement was afoot to crush her spirit, to take from her everything she possessed. Not only the outer, but the inner.

She looked up and her eyes focused on the TV, but not really seeing the action. Time passed. A half hour, maybe more, before she came back from the oblivion of shock. Claire, not grinning now, instead feigning unconsciousness, her features slack, being given CPR by her new love interest. It's like my own life, she thought. Except there's nobody rushing to my aid, to rescue me from the depths of disaster which have struck my world without warning. No. Stop panicking. There is someone. A very special someone.

She dialed the number, not caring about the desperateness of the act, or what would happen next. Just dialed it, not concerned about how it would look to herself or to anybody else, in the same way someone falling off a cliff could care less how comical or desperate they appeared to onlookers as they reached wildly around for something to grab all the way down.

"Pool Guy," Stretch Murphy said.

"It's me."

"Where are you?"

"I'm in the snack bar at the Burbank Airport. I think I just lost my job. I told off my boss and he hung up on me. I'm sitting here nursing a Coke. It's watered down and warm. All the ice has melted."

"I'm still in Van Nuys. I can be there in 30 minutes. Sooner if the traffic allows."

"Stretch, I--"

"--Don't say it. Don't say anything. Not now, not ever. It never happened. And even if it did, there's nothing to say. Get yourself another Coke."

"No. I have to say it."

"No you don't. I'm going to pray for you right now. Father in Heaven, we ask for you to take a strong hand in Shannon's life. We need immediate assistance with her job situation. We ask all roadblocks be removed and any enemies be struck down. For we wrestle not against flesh and blood, but against spirits in high places. We place our complete faith in you, Father, in your abilities. Thank you for answering this prayer in Jesus' name."

"Thanks, Stretch."

"Don't thank me. Have faith. We have a God who can create something out of nothing. Believe in your heart whatever's just happened can be reversed. No. Believe God is opening a new door and closing an old one."

"Okay. I'll try. I'm not entirely sure I'm up to it, though."

"Just believe as best you can. Now go and get yourself a fresh Coke with plenty of ice. As long as you stay where you are in the snack bar and wait for me, whatever just happened won't get any worse. And one more thing--"

The phone beeped. Call waiting.

"Call coming through?"

"Yes."

"Do you want to take it?"

"Stretch, can you hold on?"

"Yes."

"Shannon?" A deep voice, filled with gravel, speaking in heavily accented--but perfect--English. The only voice of its kind she knew of. A voice comfortable with absolute power, so much so the voice was seldom raised above the merest of whispers.

"General Kremsky?"

"Yes. I'm here in Mr. Archer's office. A few minutes ago, he informed me your father had passed away. I am deeply and sincerely sorry for your loss."

"Thank you. I'm afraid things haven't gone well for me today. I won't be attending the closing. I'm sorry."

"Don't be. I just explained the facts of life to Mr. Archer on that point. The man is a beast. He criticized you right in front of me. Said you should be expected to put the company business above that of your own personal needs. Imagine! Expecting someone to work when they should be paying their respects to their dead."

"General, I think you should know I've probably lost my job. My last conversation with Bob Archer didn't go in my favor. But I wish you all the best just the same. Griffen and Brunstetter is a good company. You won't be sorry you placed your business with them."

"You didn't lose your job. I just spoke with Griffen. About your new position."

"My what?"

"Your new job. Here, I'll put the big boss on. He can tell you."

"Shannon?" It was Ronald Q. Griffen. The old man of the firm. Who seldom came down from his personal heaven on earth to mix with the mere mortals. In fact, she'd spoken to him only once, at the annual Christmas party. That conversation had been somewhat awkward, after the manner of children meeting the department store Santa Claus for the first time.

"Hello, Mr. Griffen."

"Shannon, the General has asked me to appoint you as Griffen and Brunstetter's investment manager for his account. I have accepted his suggestion. Is this something you would be interested in? I am certain we can arrange the details of your compensation to your satisfaction."

"Mr. Griffen, I don't know what to say. It would be an honor to be the manager of the account. But I'm still in shock over the fact that a few minutes ago, I stood up for myself and lost my job, and now I'm being offered another one. I'm truly wondering if I'm still welcome at the firm. What does Bob Archer think of the idea?"

"Bob Archer isn't here."

"Oh. Well, when he comes back, I think I'd like to get his input before I can give you an answer."

"That will be hard to do, Shannon. Bob Archer no longer works for us. I just had security escort him out."

"You did?" She tried to imagine it. The firm employed security guards best described as apes in suits. Had they flung Archer over a shoulder and trotted him out to the street, or simply glared him into total submission and a hasty retreat.

"I can't believe Archer is gone," Shannon said.

"I can't employ someone I can't rely on," Griffen said. "He should have been more sensitive. He upset General Kremsky. That's a big no-no in my book."

"But he was going to be your successor."

"Not anymore. Would he respect my core values and run the firm the way I would after I'm gone? The man showed no sympathy over your bereavement. "

"You fired him because he called me away from my father's funeral?"

"Among other things. Let's just say Mr. Archer has accumulated some pretty bad joss, as our Chinese Ambassador friend up on the hill likes to say."

"But with Mr. Archer gone, who's going to supervise the signing?"

"I am."

Shannon almost gasped. Griffen handling a closing? For years, the man had served the firm, not as a hands-on money manager, but more as a powerful financial icon, a figurehead of Wall Street West. Having him actually mucking about in a closing was to Shannon somewhat like finding herself visiting the Sphinx with a tour group and suddenly realizing the thing had winked at her when nobody else was looking.

"Shannon, I've got to get cracking. I'm putting the General back on."

"Shannon," he, "Will you accept your new position?"

"Well, sir, I must say I'm overwhelmed. I want to say yes, but I feel I should think it over carefully before I do. I want to be sure I'm the right person for the job. And I'm sorry I can't be there right now to help you with the closing. But with Mr. Griffen looking things over for you, you certainly don't need me there. You're in good hands."

"I always am. How do you think I lived so long and gotten so rich? Because I have the right friends surrounding me. Now enough about all this. Shannon, after the signing today, I realize of course you are going to be a woman of independent means. And you will have other offers. But I ask you to consider staying on at Brunstetter and Griffen. I would consider it a personal favor. But first, you take care of your father. In fact, let me know when the burial is. I would like to attend."

"Thank you. I will."

"Shannon, when you get settled in your new office, please call me and let me know of your decision to stay on and manage my account."

"My new office?"

"Yes. The corner one where Mr. Archer used to work. Of course you will have to redecorate. The man had deplorable taste. In particular, I found his wall display of primitive masks rather unsightly."

The General was gone from the line. With a start, she realized she'd left Stretch hanging on hold the entire time.

"Stretch?"

"Still here," he said. "But a lot closer than I was before. My ETA is about 15 minutes."

"I'll be waiting," she said. "You'll never believe what just happened."

"Sure I would," he said. "We prayed and things took a turn for the best."

"That's exactly what happened."

"Just don't forget to give God the credit."

She ended the call and walked to the counter for another Coke. It was a lot to take in. Almost too much for anybody. Even an Ireland.

The phone rang.

"Ms. Ireland, your plane is ready."

"My plane?"

"Yes. The sky marshall is here. You're clear to taxi."

She'd almost forgotten she was still at the airport. So much had transpired in the past few minutes, it seemed a lifetime had gone by.

"Cancel it."

"Ma'am?"

"Cancel the plane."

"May I ask why?"

"It's beyond explaining," she said.

"I just need something to put in the cancellation report," the clerk said.

"Okay. Will this explanation suffice? Last night my father ran out of available hours."

"Ma'am?"

"My father passed away last night."

"Yes ma'am. I understand. My deepest sympathy. And I sincerely mean it."

As she ended the call, Shannon realized she was over the hurdle of telling people, especially strangers, about her father's passing. It was with something close to relief she was now able to receive their brief condolences. It was a sign progress was being made among all God's children. There was a new understanding, however fossilized and impersonal, that empathy still remained in the world, doing its work of keeping them all a part of each other, and shepherding them to their final destinations.

Chapter 7

Lunch with Stretch was crispy chicken tacos, french fries and gigantic Styrofoam cups of iced root beer, served in a cardboard box from a catering truck parked in front of the Bank of America across from the Warner studios in Toluca Lake. The sun was up but not too hot, making it a plus to be sitting in the large convertible roadster with the top down.

"There's enough fat in one of these to clog every artery in my body," Stretch said. "It's why they're so tasty."

"Ingested fat doesn't clog your arteries, because it's either burned or eliminated. Ingested sugar does all the clogging, when it's converted to fat at the end of the day. Anyway, as I was saying, it was eventually going to be Brunstetter, Griffen, and Archer," Shannon said, recapping the events of her encounter with General Kremsky and Mr. Griffen. "But now Archer's gone."

"Maybe it will wind up being Brunstetter, Griffen, and Ireland," Stretch said. "Ever think of that?"

"Not likely."

"And why not?"

"I'm something of a fluke. If my dad hadn't gotten an education and moved us to L.A., I'd be living on 90 acres in Tennessee with my truck driving husband and 10 children and hanging out my sheets on days when the wind isn't blowing red dust over everything."

"Doesn't sound half bad," Stretch said. "And it's probably the exact same way Mr. Griffen's mother used to dry his clothes."

In spite of herself, Shannon laughed. "Get real. What I'm trying to say is that deep down inside, I'm still a country girl. Even if I do become a millionaire, I won't be able to take the farmer's daughter out of my soul. I'll probably still make fresh homemade applesauce every fall like my Dad did."

"Nothing wrong with that. Most Americans have humble roots, and can remember somebody in their family hanging out those sheets."

"Not everybody. Do you realize there are people in the Encino Hills who have never slept on sheets which weren't ironed by somebody first?"

"Is there any other way?" Stretch said. "I like my creases sharp."

"Don't make me laugh. You're a bachelor. You probably don't even own any sheets. Even if you are a millionaire."

"I do own sheets. They cover my windows."

Shannon laughed again. "Stretch, I'm glad I didn't have to leave town--oh, I can't believe I said it. I don't know what's going on with me. I'm sad my father is gone, but I'm happy to be sitting here with you eating tacos and french fries."

He reached over and rested his hand on her wrist. "Me too, Shannon."

She pulled her arm away, saying nothing, but suddenly wondering what it would have felt like to have let his hand stay. No. It was too much, too soon. "At any rate," she continued, using words to keep up the illusion nothing in particular was going on, "I'm not blue-blooded enough to be a headliner at B & G."

"Shannon, it's God's world. But you act like the blue bloods own it."

"Because they do. Which is why it surprised me they put Archer out. Archer is young, but he comes from old money. His father owns half the real estate on the San Francisco waterfront, and--oh my gosh! I just realized, I never even asked you about my brother! After I left the house, did you and Phil see each other again after he went upstairs?"

"We did," Stretch said.

"And?"

"I can't talk about it."

"Why not?"

"Our conversation was private."

"He's my brother."

"Yes. But I promised him whatever we talked about would be between me and him."

"So you can't tell me anything?"

"I will tell you we're all going to dinner tonight. Phil's going to be sleeping the rest of the day."

"Dinner where?"

"I know a great rib joint on Sepulveda. It's called Dr. Hoggly Woggly's Tyler Texas Barbecue."

"I've been there. Dad used to take the whole family there every so often when we were kids. It's the place with the great sweet potato pie."

"Affirmative."

"I feel responsible for Phil," Shannon said. "For his getting drunk. I should have gone to him when he called me about dad's passing. I was being selfish, my body was craving sleep, and I wanted to be alone. But I should have been there for him. It was up to me."

"It's nobody's fault when an alcoholic drinks," Stretch said. "Besides, there's really no such thing as an alcoholic."

"I'm sure the folks at AA would be very interested in that theory," Shannon said.

"Our flesh became corrupt in the Garden of Eden," Stretch said. "It seeks it's own pleasures, whatever they may be. In your brother's case, alcohol seems to be his preferred escape. But it's pointless to hang a label on it. A sinner is a sinner. Plain and simple. And there's only one answer to sin. Repent, be baptized, and follow the Lord."

"AA might feel differently."

"No. Even AA admits they don't have the answer. They can only point the way to where they believe the answer lies, to a higher power. And we know who that is, don't we?"

"You've got a theory about everything, don't you?"

"Yes."

"You're kidding, right?"

"Yes."

"Wham. Another tennis match. Stretch, do you ever simply talk to folks, or is every conversation you have a sparring contest?"

Stretch took a long pull of root beer before eating some more of the tacos. To his credit, he didn't lick his fingers, or chew with his mouth full.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I didn't mean to come on like a pompous jerk."

"No," she said. "That's not what I meant. But it occurred to me whenever we talk, I wind up telling you more and more about myself but I learn nothing about you. Because you're hiding behind your religion."

"I am?"

"Yes. You're being phony."

"How can you tell?"

"I can tell by the way you eat. I know you want to lick your fingers and chew these tacos with your mouth open. But because I'm here, you're putting on some kind of show."

He nodded. "You're right."

"Then do it." Shannon took a big bite of taco, chewed a couple of times and opened her mouth and gaped at him."

"Whooo!" he hooted. "Now that's the way to eat!" At which point he stuffed an entire taco into his big mouth, crunching down contentedly and licking his fingers in the aftermath. "Shannon--you're smiling," he said.

And she was. "I'm thoroughly enjoying watching you be real," she said. "It's about time."

"No kidding."

"Stretch, I saw the hippo commercial. And I understood then that you weren't making up stories."

"Thank God for the hippo."

"Amen to that."

"Hippos are associated with water," he said. "Did you know the name hippopotamus means flying river horse?"

"So tell me, Stretch, why were you being so phony towards me just now?"

"When you left for the airport without saying good-bye, I thought it might have been something I'd done. So I've been putting on my best manners. I am trying to impress you, Shannon. To the point I'm about to burst inside."

"If you're looking for a way to reach me, you can start by being yourself."

"Okay."

"When did you make Jesus your savior?"

"When I was 14," he said. I read a book, Peace With God, by Billy Graham. That's when Jesus became my best friend."

"Tell me more."

He nodded. "I was something of a loner when I was a kid. When Jesus came into my life, I was no longer alone. I had my first true friend. Someone to pour out my heart to. Now, you tell me. When did you accept Jesus?"

"When I was seven."

"Seven?"

She nodded. "I was lying on the couch reading a children's bible. I think it must have been around Easter. I remember my mother was sewing. That's when we were still in Tennessee, when my Dad worked for Union Carbide in Oak Ridge. There was snow on the ground outside, but the living room was warm and toasty. I was reading about the crucifixion, and I started crying. That's when Jesus entered my heart. There was no falling down, or shouting hallelujah or anything like that. Just the simple acceptance of a child."

"And a little child shall lead them," Stretch said. "Nothing wrong with that. But you're not a real Tennessee farm girl, then."

"My mother was. She grew up on 90 acres of cows, corn and cotton near Memphis. She used to ride a horse to school. I spent every summer on that farm with my grandmother. She boiled her clothes in a big iron pot and lived in a house with no electricity. They were people of the earth. With unwavering faith."

"That's as real as it gets."

Shannon looked around. She wondered what her grandmother would think about her present situation. There were a great many people about, rushing along Toluca Avenue in their upscale vehicles. The heavy square buildings across the street, festooned with humongous billboards announcing this TV show or that was being produced somewhere inside, lent to the scene a touch of unreality, of which their own little tableaux, that of two unmarried persons scarfing down chicken tacos while sitting in a convertible Mercedes roadster, seemed equally unreal.

"It's not easy being real in a town which openly considers itself a dream factory. Which means it specializes in lying," she said. "But you impressed me already."

"When?"

"Earlier. When you went upstairs and came back clutching the remains of my mother in her cardboard box. The moment will stand out in my mind forever. And also the way you dance when you think nobody's watching. The way you bob your head. It was the first time I ever saw you. I'll never forget it."

"I care about you, Shannon," he said. "I'm sorry. It's totally the wrong time and place. In fact, we're totally the wrong two people. You're heading up the corporate ladder and I'm stuck in the Valley with my pool cleaning business, trying to decide if I'm called to serve God. But I have to tell you, even though this seems wrong and impossible, I feel very attracted to you. I guess the arranged marriage thing has fallen by the wayside, though. It was a great idea while it lasted. Maybe I shouldn't have gotten my hopes up."

"Stretch. When you talk like this, I have the craziest feelings. I feel like I'm falling. Yes, like I'm falling, and I want to reach out to you, to hold onto you."

"Shannon. You said I avoid talking about myself. That I haven't been real. You're right. So I'll tell you something. Even though I know the Lord, I am very lonely. I have been all alone for the past year. Not that I haven't been around people. But I've been very alone inside myself. I act like the big Christian, but lately it's all an act. The truth is, I have been praying every day like there's no tomorrow. I haven't been connecting. I haven't been able to feel anything. It's like inside myself, everything has gone dry. Even though I am able to help others, I can't seem to help myself."

"Dear Lord," Shannon said. "Stretch, I ... you shouldn't have told me. It's not fair. We only just met. And now you've told me this terrible secret about yourself. Right at the time I'm least emotionally able to respond."

"You're right," he said. "I'm sorry. I never should have dumped my problem on you."

"We're out of tacos."

"The truck is still there. How many more do you want?"

"No more. I just said it to try and change the subject. But it's a subject we need to finish."

"I've been praying to God for an answer to my life," he said. "And this morning, when I least expected it, I turned around ... and there you were. And something inside me said, This is it!"

His words landed inside her like tiny explosions. "What do you mean, This is it?"

He looked helplessly around, nonplused, as though hoping for some source of rescue, and finding none, resorted to the primal comfort and security of sipping his root beer. The straw hit air and there was a loud slurping sound.

"Sorry," he said.

"Don't change the subject," she said. "You just said you saw me and a voice told you This is it. I want you to explain."

He looked at her. "I'm making a total fool of myself," he said. "So why don't we drop it."

"No!"

He swallowed and said, in a raspy voice, "Something inside me told me when I saw you, you were for me. And I felt ... way deep down ... it was true. I can't shake the feeling, and it's killing me, because the whole thing is so impossible. I'm probably supposed to be making tracks to seminary, and now here you are, and my whole insides are turned upside down. There! I've told you! Satisfied?"

"No. What exactly is it about me you think is so great?"

"Your eyes. Your hair. Your mouth. The sound of your voice. The way you carry yourself. And the fact I feel like there's a little history, since I knew your father, however briefly. The way your father believed we would be good together. I don't know how to explain it. I feel connected to you. And the arranged marriage thing, I think I was just playing along with the idea, you know, to please your dad, and my parents. I really didn't think you'd go for it."

"But it was planned for this Saturday."

"That was a fleece. Setting the date like that. I knew there was no guarantee God would honor that date. I figured it highly likely you'd think the idea was ridiculous. Or that we'd hate each other the minute we met. I never dared believe fully it was real. I think I might have been living out a fantasy. But now that I've met you, and there's the merest whisper of chance it might be coming true, the whole thing is so huge I can't even breathe when I think about it."

She sat there without speaking for what seemed a very long time. Images came and went. Images of Stretch and her father playing chess. Images of General Kremsky, like a movie-star grandfather, with his dentist-perfect teeth and crown of silver white hair, laughing at a joke she told. Images of her former boss Bob Archer, on her first day of work, humiliating her in front of the entire office by sending her downstairs for coffee. Making her add the sugar and cream. Images of herself redecorating her new office where Bob Archer used to hold court. Images of Phil, returning to a smoke-filled AA room, a hangdog look on his face. Images of herself and Stretch Murphy at a Wednesday night service, singing their hearts out and praising God in loud, joyful voices. Images of wedding rings on their fingers. Images of herself in her first maternity dress.

"I'm just like you, Stretch," she said. "I'm very lonely inside. Do you know how I met General Kremsky? It was because one Sunday afternoon, shortly after I'd moved to Pacific Heights, I was so lonely I was crawling the walls, so I took the Muni over to Golden Gate Park. I saw this old man with white hair sitting by himself with a chess board over near the rose garden. He reminded me of my dad, so I said hello. He invited me to sit down, and we began to talk. We played a game of chess. We began meeting regularly after that. I used to take him a nice home-cooked lunch. Later, unbeknownst to me, he looked into my background and launched my career."

"You met a world billionaire in the park," Stretch said. "And cooked him lunch."

"Yes. And it has changed my entire life. Before I met General Kremsky, and won his trust, I was just another fledgling finance world wanna-be. Just another gopher for the big shots. I was fetching their coffee and crunching their numbers in exchange for being allowed to see how the game was played."

"But God had other plans. You showed Christian charity to an old man. You treated him as a human being even though he was a stranger. Now you're on your way to becoming a superstar."

"Yes."

"Are you still lonely?"

"Yes. Yes, Stretch. I am. I've been mostly all alone for the past couple of years."

"And suddenly, your dad dies and we're sitting here, eating tacos and having a moment."

"An L.A. moment," she said. "True confessions in Los Angeles. The City of dreamers. Which makes me wonder. This town is full of fantasies. Are we just projecting something onto each other? We must be. I hardly know you. Correction. I don't know you. I don't know anything about you. I don't know where you live, or who your parents are. Nothing. I don't know if you've ever been married, or what.

"Do you want to know those things?"

"Yes. No. I don't know. I don't know anything right now. I only know you're pretty good at one judo move, and you make funny commercials. And for some reason, I'm leaning on you. Because I don't have the courage to go to Forest Lawn by myself. Because my brother was supposed to be taking care of me and he isn't because he's sleeping off a hangover. So I'm using you. Is it because I need a big brother? Or is there something more, like you say, dropping in on us right out of the blue? What are we doing, Stretch?"

"We're being moved in a direction," he said. "Don't you see? We're doing what people have been doing on this planet for the last 6,000 years. We're seeing each other for the first time. We're waking up from our sleep, and here I am and there you are and we're seeing each other and we're saying, Oh! There you are! I didn't know I was looking for you, but now I see you, I know I was! It's what I've been trying to tell you. When I saw you for the first time this morning, it was like I had first awakened and there you were."

"Game, set, and match. Okay. We're going to Forest Lawn. We're going to make those final arrangements. And then we're going to do all the other things that have to be done when somebody dies. There'll be a finding of the will, and a reading of it, and a sifting through all the junk Dad has piled up in his house. And somewhere in the middle of all that, we're going to attend a Wednesday night church service, and you're going to prove to me you're for real. You're going to introduce me to your parents, and show me where you live, and all that other stuff we humans have been doing for the past 6,000 years."

Chapter 8

Stretch turned the key. For all its power, the roadster started and ran almost noiselessly. They pulled onto Toluca Avenue and headed east on Riverside, driving without talking, the sun shining hard on their backs. Everything around them was brown. The San Bernardino mountains, the smog--everything. Until they came to Forest Lawn. It was green. Gated, but open, and welcoming, an oasis in the middle of the city, not some overgrown half-acre on the outskirts of a small town nobody ever heard of. This was a show-stopping, tree-shaded park where the people of L.A. buried their dead with their feet facing to the east, and buried them in the hope that the show to come would be bigger and better than anything thus far seen in this life. In a city of dreams, where hope for something bigger and better never died, there was, within that expectation itself, enough hope resident in the people's hearts to carry the entire rest of the world straight into Heaven.

They parked near the mortuary and got out. Shannon looked around at the stately buildings, the meticulous attention to detail, the plantings of various flowers, shrubs and vines. She smelled fresh cut grass, and enjoyed the sound of a gentle breeze playing with the waters of a massive fountain reigned over by slick-stoned nyads from another era. The frenzy of Los Angeles seemed far away, as though they'd traveled to some other place in space and time.

It was a flawless stage set. There was no sense of urgency, or any impression of the behind the scenes workings of an industry which devoted itself to disposing of those who no longer required the use of their mortal coil and had therefore shuffled it off on their way to other more pressing domains.

"This place looks like the set from Gone With The Wind," Stretch said, referring to the white columns and general antebellum look of things.

"Oh Stretch," she said, taking his big rough hand into her own. "What a perfect place to be dead." Which was when the breakdown finally came. With great, gulping sobs, Shannon made her way to the wide, sweeping porch. The rush of grief, heat, and confusion seemed at first limitless, as though she was nothing more than a conduit for these passions, which had as their source all the stored up grief of the entire membership of the human race. But gradually, the feelings began to subside, the wellspring of emotion ceased to pump forth its sorrowful energies, and there fell over her a kind of peace, a blessed numbing of her mind and body. Through it all, Stretch sat beside her, saying nothing, simply putting his arm around her shoulder, letting her know she was not alone.

"I guess that was long overdue," she said. "The night Dad died, I couldn't cry. Now look at me, I need a Kleenex. My face is a wreck!"

With an easy gesture, Stretch produced a handkerchief. A very clean one, starched and pressed. Not something she would have expected him to have. It was turning out the man had a lot of things she wasn't expecting. Big things and little things.

She began to dab at her eyes, thankful she'd only applied a light amount of makeup that morning. "I don't dare take out a mirror," she said.

"You're beautiful, even when you cry," he said.

"You're a dream, Stretch. I know you're not real. That I'll wake up soon and this will all be over."

"I'm real."

"Sorry about the boo-hoo's just now."

"No need."

"It was like everything inside me was dusty and dry. Or like I'd swallowed a basketball and it was blocking everything deep inside me from getting out. When we arrived here, it became very real to me that we would be burying not only my dad, but my mother as well. That's when the tears finally came, I guess. The thought of their two graves, side by side. Buried together in California, a place neither of them came from. Like they are being buried in a foreign land. It makes me feel so lonely. So small, and powerless. My parents were the center of my life for so many years ... and now they're ... gone. The center of my life is gone. Everything I've been pursuing, everything I've wanted in my life suddenly seems so shallow. Stretch? Death is ... wrong. So very wrong. No matter what the preachers say about it."

"Death is terrible," he said.

"And how."

Stretch removed his hand from around her shoulder and kissed her lightly on top of her head. "I think Joe and Martha are going to like it here," he said.

"After we're married," she said, "we'll visit them often."

"Yes."

"Stretch?"

"Hmmm?"

"Did you hear what I just said."

"Yes."

"I just said the M-word."

"I know. Has a beautiful ring to it, don't you think?" They had reached the main entrance, but hesitated there, this more urgent matter pressing in on them.

"I've only known you for such a short time."

"True."

"It was a silly thing to say to you, Stretch. It popped out of my mouth by accident. I'm sorry. I'm feeling so ... I don't know what. Sort of wild. What with all that's happened today. When I took your hand just now, suddenly I had a feeling that I was connected to something greater than myself. Like all of a sudden from out of nowhere, there was this sensation that if the two of us were married, it would be the most natural thing in the world. I'm saying things, but I don't know if I'm saying it, or somebody else is saying it."

"Gosh," he said.

"That's all you've got to say about it? Gosh?"

"I ... yes. Gosh. Gosh, gosh, gosh, gosh."

"Stretch Murphy, what is happening here?"

"Here?"

"Yes. To us. Right here on this spot. In front of the door to the undertaker's parlor. There is something going on. We're being prodded, stirred to action in some strange way. I just said we were going to be married. Now that wasn't my idea at all. It came from someplace beyond myself. It had to have. Because we hardly know one another. That's all the time we've spent together on this planet. Six short hours. Actually less, if you count the couple of hours when I went to the airport. So make that four hours."

"The words of your mouth came from God," Stretch replied. "And the time frame of six hours, or four hours, means nothing. Because it's an arranged marriage. Our knowing one another personally is far less important than our commitment to establish and keep a Christian marriage, where each reveres the other as better than themselves."

"This whole thing. I want to believe it, but it's hard to accept."

"Is it? Did you know most marriages in other parts of the world are still arranged by the parents? Exactly the way it's been done since Biblical times?"

"That's all very well and good for them," Shannon said. "That whole agrarian village lifestyle thing. Where people never travel more than five miles from home their entire lives. But even for them it's disappearing. The ones who can are moving to New York to drive cabs. I don't know. I feel a surge of excitement and then I'm flooded with doubt."

"I know, Shannon," he said. "But just think, it wasn't until this century people got hung up on having their marriage partner be a personal choice instead of a family decision. And look at what a disaster it's been. Did you know the main cause of divorce today is problems with the in-laws? Because we've lost respect for our mothers and fathers. We no longer consider them in authority over us. So when people get married, getting along with the families is optional, and it turns into a squabble from the get go. But that rarely happens when the two families arrange the marriage."

"I never thought I'd say this," Shannon said. "But the longer I'm around you, the more reasonable the whole thing sounds. Even though at the same time its seems patently absurd."

"You'll see," Stretch said. "Your dad and my parents were right. They somehow knew you and I would be good together. There's just one problem."

"And that is?"

"I ... hate to have to tell you this. It's very awkward."

Here it comes, she thought. I knew it. I really and truly knew it. And what a fool I've been. Flirting with this dangerous idea, trying it on for size as though it was something I was actually capable of buying in to. This guy is some kind of a jerk who gets a cheap thrill pitching his hokey line to perfect strangers just to see if they'll bite. And when they do, as I just now appeared to have done, he drops them. Drops them hard, just to watch them fall. If he says what I think he's going to say next, I will experience the most humiliating moment of my life. He's already married. Or recently divorced with five kids. Or has a disease. What was I thinking?

"Wait," she said to him. "I don't want to hear whatever it is you were planning to say next. In fact, I want you to leave."

"Leave?"

"Just get in your car and go."

"But you never let me tell you what the problem was."

"Because I don't care. I've got enough problems as it is. And you're taking this entire discussion we've been having way too seriously. The truth is, if anything, I've been a victim of temporary insanity caused by all the going's on today."

He grinned, one she hadn't seen before, his left eye slightly closed, giving his face a lopsided, goofy appearance."

"I get it," he said. "You're scared, aren't you. You think I was about to dump you. Or have an intractable virus or something."

"Get real. You can't dump what you don't have."

"I wasn't going to. But there is a problem you should know about."

"Stretch, I--"

"--If I decide to go to seminary, I don't think we should be married until I get established. So I'd have to ask you to wait for me. Which would be a huge request, and one I couldn't reasonably expect you to say yes to. But if you did agree to wait for me, I promise I'd wait for you."

"That's it? That's your big confession?"

"Yes."

"You are completely out of your mind. Okay, Stretch. After all we have just discussed, I can't believe you actually said what you just said. Not that we are going to marry one another. I'm talking only hypothetically here. But may I ask why you can't get married if you decide to go to bible school?"

"Because I don't believe in birth control."

"Say again?"

"I don't believe in birth control. I believe that a Christian marriage must be open to the transmission of life. So as not to repudiate or degrade the natural gifts of the man and woman."

"That's a bizarre way to put it. You're talking about having kids, right?"

"Yes. Which means that if I decide to study to be a pastor, I'll be too busy to have children. Too busy studying to properly father them."

She looked around her. Was there anybody around who could rescue her from this lunacy? There were a few other persons about, including an old Japanese gardener fiddling with a rose bush, and, oddly, a couple of teenagers holding hands, talking in whispers at the other end of the enormous porch. None of them, she was certain, if asked to guess for a thousand years, would have been able to come up with the present conversational path she and Stretch had embarked on.

"Where do you get off telling me about your views on birth control?"

"Sorry. Sometimes I blurt things out when I shouldn't."

"It so happens, I don't particularly believe in it either," she replied. "I certainly don't believe in pre-marital sex. But I don't have it tattooed on my forehead so everybody knows what I think."

"But it's important for you to know my beliefs. Because I believe the number of children a couple has should be decided by God, not by a pharmaceutical company."

"Stretch, we're playing make-believe. Trying on something to see if it fits. Right now, we're like two little kids wearing their parents' clothes. We are acting ridiculous. And it bothers me that you seem to be taking this so seriously."

"Shannon, what if I told you I loved you?"

The words were soft in the air against the laughter of the teenagers on the other side of the fountain. Yet soft as they were, she could feel the power of them, as though the earth itself was in sympathetic vibration and was even now rocking slightly under her feet. No. Wait. The earth was rocking.

"Stretch? Do you feel the ground moving?"

He nodded in the affirmative and for a moment they froze, as did all Angelenos when they felt the first stirrings of a tremor. The unasked questions percolated up through the bedrock of their gut level instincts. Will it get any stronger? Is this the beginning of the end? Will the ground open at my feet and swallow me whole? The tremor subsided, duly noted and recorded by all present, as well as a great many scientists not present, the thing dismissed as simply one more of thousands of similar shakings lifetime L.A. residents had experienced.

"Earthquake," he said. "Rolling toward us from the east. Maybe a 3 or 4 on the scale. Epicenter someplace far away, like maybe Joshua Tree national park, or the mountains around Lake Arrowhead."

"Did you see the columns swaying? I always feel a little woozy when we have one of these things."

"We were talking about love," Stretch said. "And the ground moved under our feet."

"You didn't say you loved me," she said. "You were simply posing the possibility of you saying so."

"But the earth actually moved. It's a sign from God. Perhaps I should say it."

"What good would it do? It couldn't possibly be true."

"Why not?"

"Because you've only known me less than a day. Love takes time. And besides, according to your theory, an arranged marriage has nothing to do with love."

"I love you, Shannon," he said. "There. I said it. No matter how foolish it makes me look. No matter how strange I may seem. Since I met you this morning, my entire life has changed."

"You love me as a Christian sister in the Lord," she said.

"No. The other kind of love."

His words tumbled into her, into a vacant spot which, until he said them, she hadn't known even existed. That the blank spot existed, and that it had now been filled with some sort of indefinable substance was a new thing, one she wasn't ready to face on any level whatsoever.

"We're here to bury my father," she said.

"Yes. We should go in. It's already after 2 o'clock."

"Before we go in, tell me one thing."

"Okay."

"Stretch, if I said I couldn't wait to marry you, if I asked you not to choose divinity school, what would you do?"

"I ... I'm not sure. I guess I'd have to pray about it. Or talk to my pastor."

"You wouldn't simply give in to my wishes as your potential future arranged spouse?"

"Shannon ... it's not that ... it's ... it's--

"--Never mind," Shannon said. "Because I'm not going to ask you. Not now, not ever. Now take me by the elbow and let's go inside and get to work."

"Wait. We should finish this."

"It's finished. You balked. That was your answer. Deal with it. Now let's go."

"This is weird," he said. "I should have told you. I should have said I'd give up the call for you."

"Stretch, are you going to help me bury my father or not!"

This statement, delivered with a high degree of cooling rasp, cleared the air of all tomfoolery, and bucked Stretch up to where he was able to get a grip and attend to the matter at hand.

He led her through the tall, wide doors and the two were instantly amazed at the splendor of the place. It was as though they had suddenly come upon a small anteroom belonging to God, where the Almighty appeared from time to time to attend to minor matters pending in the region. At this point they were approached by a well-dressed man who was obviously not God, but from the cut and quality of his suit, and the shine on his shoes perhaps worked for Him, and was used to meeting all kinds of people who entered the doors for the first time. The man's experience in greeting the bereaved survivors of loved ones was evidenced by the fact that he flinched not at the appearance they made, in particular as regarded Stretch's overall height, her floppy hat, or the impossibly loud yellow parrots on Stretch's shirt.

"May I help you?" he said. There was a solemnity to the greeting, sounding as though he was addressing royalty.

"I ... we're here to see about arranging a funeral. We had a 2 o'clock appointment to see somebody."

"You're Ms. Ireland?"

"Yes. The funeral is for my mom and dad. I guess it will be a small funeral. Just a few friends and immediate family and relatives. But we want a spot in the sun. For the burial, I mean. And I hope it doesn't cost too much. I guess you charge a little more since you've got the best location and everything, but I don't want to spend too much. Dad was a frugal man. But we need a good place, because they aren't from here. This wasn't where they were originally from, so they won't be as comfortable being buried all by themselves, with a bunch of strangers, you know. Did I mention Mom will be buried with him, actually, maybe she'll be beside him, or actually in the coffin with him, or however you can do it, whatever's legal, that is. Because Mom's still in her box, the same one she was in two years ago. She's out in the car now, but we can bring her in and--"

"--Shannon! Shannon!" Stretch, moving close to her, putting a strong, comforting arm around her. "C'mon, let's go to the man's office and sit down. Your legs are shaking. It's going to be okay."

Shannon had been sheltered from the process of preparing her mother for burial, and thus was ill equipped for the job at hand. Two years ago, Phil had taken care of the business, had volunteered for the duty, and at Dad's request, had arranged for the casket, the flowers, the church memorial--all of it done simply and in good taste--save for the remains still being in their cardboard box.

The funeral planner was a man who introduced himself as Edwin Markham, a slim individual with a dry handshake and frameless spectacles floating in front of watery blue eyes. He led them to a comfortable office. Shannon realized that funerals didn't just happen, that instead they were planned meticulously and down to the last detail. With this realization there came to the surface of her interior being a host of fears, chief of which was continuing to face up to the fact that her father was gone.

Dad Ireland had been a family man, not an aspirant to the type A, alienating behaviors of high ambition, but more a man who preferred to be at home with his family, and counted his wealth in his children rather than the currency of this present world. Joe Ireland counted her, and Phil, and Phil's children as more precious than rubies, more valuable than diamonds. He had been content to spend what he earned to further their life experience. Dad had fed them, clothed them, educated them, and been an example of the faith. An unusual man, a man who'd never divorced, or drank alcohol, or gambled. Aside from a small tendency to swear out loud at times of extreme stress, Dad lived a clean, quiet, humble life.

She realized suddenly what an unusual man he actually was--a man of the twentieth and 21st centuries who never smoked cigarettes, or chased after the pomps and illusions of a world adrift far from any sensible moral kilter.

She wondered what sophomoric and unctuous routine the ghost-eyed funeral director Markham, would pull on her, aware that she was totally at his mercy in this business, she being deeply spaced out by her grief and disorientation--and he a man who'd processed countless thousands of such as she, a man who behind the scenes toted up figures, assessed the bottom line and perhaps even accrued monthly and annual bonuses from the corporation based on his ability to eke out certain percentages of spending above the norm.

"I can't do this," she suddenly said to Markham and Stretch.

But Markham responded to this declaration of helplessness by officiously gripping a gold Cross ball-point and producing from a side desk drawer a legal-size multi-part fill-in form. "Your father's full name?"

"Joseph Ireland."

"Middle name?"

"None."

"Your full name?"

"Shannon Elizabeth Ireland."

"Your mother's full name?"

"Martha Elizabeth Cowan Ireland."

"Your mother was of Scots ancestry?"

"Yes. And English. It's why we were all raised Presbyterian, even though we're mostly Irish."

"And you mentioned something about her ashes."

"We brought them with us. Dad never had them buried, or interred, or whatever you call it. But now it's time. She's probably in your records somewhere. We had you do the funeral for her about two years ago."

Markham half-smiled and nodded, as though this admission of a mother in a cardboard box was an everyday confession. And probably it was nothing to top some of the stories he'd no doubt heard, stories involving the use of laboratory facilities, pharmacological compounds, and next generation alloys. He did not ask her to elaborate.

"Hey," Stretch interjected. "There's no clock in this room. No way to tell the passage of time."

Markham likewise did not pick up the ball on that comment, either, remaining comfortably in control, steering the process back to the next box on the form.

"Your father's date of birth?"

"June 30, 1939."

"And where was he born?"

"He was ... uh, oh. Somerville, Tennessee. Sounds kind of rinky dink, doesn't it? It was another world. Did you know he and his friends used to ride horses through the woods to hang out at other small towns? He went all the way to New York on a scholarship for his engineering degree from Clarkson, but came back to Tennessee to work for Union Carbide. He met my mother in Memphis when they put him in the hospital after he burned his feet. Mom was a student nurse. It turns out she grew up in Fayette County the same as he did, but they never met until he came back from college. I'm talking too much, aren't I?"

And so it went, for the better part of an hour. Form after form. As though they were filling out, not the details of a death, but a mortgage loan application. Without sanctimonious preamble, or pause to collect emotions, or small jokes to break the tensions. Just a straight ride through the details of a life lived and now fully spent. A life which would be formally returned to the earth in very short order, into a plot they'd picked out from a site map, much in the same way she had ofttimes before selected seats for the opera or a concert.

The dryness to the process she found comforting. Markham had somehow assessed her station in life, and came up with the correct assumption that she was a business woman accustomed to the waterless environs of data transmission and bottom lines. At the end of the hour, Shannon had in her possession a folder containing a variety of literature and a checklist of missing items required for the completion of the final arrangements. There was even a secure website address and a private e-mail address for the posting of important information, an option which Shannon found herself strangely grateful for. At which point, Markham led them both to the entrance of the casket room.

"Oh Lord," she said, as the door was open and the reality of the whole thing hit her right in the face. A wide assortment of coffins presented themselves, from every color perspective and design fashion, their hopeful rectangles, like architectural strays in some sort of impound facility for unwanted furniture, positioned hopefully at every possible angle and viewing height, each one with top fully open, as though to welcome some unexpected and wildly varied host of persons who would be arriving all at once, each to his or her own uniquely custom designed final home, the square footage of which would be less than that of even the smallest bathtub or coat closet formerly enjoyed by the casket's new occupant.

"Take your time," he said. "You'll note that we don't force you into a bargaining position at the time of your bereavement. Our caskets, like all of our services, are clearly priced, the price including all taxes and surcharges required by the various governing bodies."

"Just like buying a refrigerator. Do we get a free toaster?" Stretch said.

It was a bad joke, but Markham remained coolly neutral.

"Sorry," Stretch apologized. "And thanks for not laughing or frowning. I'm sure you've heard every bad joke there is. But it is a bit overwhelming. The fact that we all wind up in one of these things, no matter how hard we try to ignore the fact. When I was a kid, my friends used to joke that because I was so tall, the undertaker would cut my legs off to make me fit. Oh, gosh! I am sorry. I ... that was terrible! I guess I'm feeling the pressure more than I thought!"

"If you'd rather not tour the showroom," Markham replied, deftly reflecting Stretch's metaphysical concerns back to the world of the immediate, "I can show you a catalog, or you may visit our display at the website, and make your choice from there."

"Buying a coffin in cyberspace," Stretch said. "What about it, Shannon. Are you up for something like that?"

"We'll select our coffin here," she said.

"Our policy is to leave you alone to make your decision," Markham said. "But feel free to call me if you have any questions."

"Questions? I wouldn't know what to ask. It's not exactly like buying a used car now, is it? I mean, these things can't possibly come with any sort of lifetime guarantee. Oh. I didn't mean that the way it sounded. Man, everything we say in this place comes out like a bad pun."

Shannon tried to imagine the funeral service itself. There'd be flowers, and scented candles, and Dad's favorite preacher, Pastor Coughlan, the white haired old Presbyterian minister who always wore his Tam O'Shanter to funerals and weddings. She tried to imagine the diminutive Coughlan, shaking with Parkinson's, standing there like Father Time, presiding over the massive modernistic stylings of the Eterna Viktor. In spite of herself, she laughed. The laughter disintegrated into nervous giggling, which she with some difficulty stifled.

"I'm sorry," she said.

"Not at all," Markham replied.

"I don't know where that came from," Shannon said. "Maybe it's the pressure. I feel like a child, a frightened child.

Markham rested his hand on the sleek side of a huge, pod-shaped metallic container, lid open to reveal an almost alien architectural styling, the thing resting on a silver and gold scaffold against a background fresco of the hills of Tuscany, the burnished sides glowing like fire under the intense luminosity of a brace of cleverly aimed ceiling spots.

"That's very futurian," Stretch said. "Is it a casket? It looks more like something they'd pack the baby Super Boy in for his journey from Krypton to Earth."

Markham nodded. "This is our Eterna Viktor model," he said. "The case is made from a titanium alloy, with a zinc lining. It actually does come with a 500 year guarantee. The price is $55,000, which includes a special monthly monitoring service for the first 36 months. We actually line the burial site itself with a two-foot layer of concrete to meet the guarantee guidelines."

I can't for the life of me understand what sort of person would spend $55,000 for a coffin with a guarantee. I mean, what if the thing lasted only 300 years. There won't be anybody around by then to cash in on the guarantee. And what exactly is it that's being monitored?"

"We monitor the interior for changes. The guarantee is that the unit won't be penetrated by air or water for a minimum of 500 years. And since we seal it in a vacuum, it means that your loved one's remains will remain in pristine condition--almost as you last viewed them. And it's alarmed to protect against theft."

"Wow." This from Stretch. "The alarm. Is that a Hollywood thing?"

"Dad was more of the pine box type," Shannon said. "You know, like the kind of coffin you'd see in a Clint Eastwood movie. I mean, he was the kind of man who never even bought a current model year vehicle. Except for the last vehicle he purchased shortly before he died, which was something of a radical departure for him."

"I understand," Markham said. He walked over to a forlorn and miserable casket, set on a plain ledge against the wall without benefit of artful lighting or any sort of additional decoration. The thing was thin and square, covered with some sort of depressing gray felt material. "This is our lowest price model. We call it The Heritage. Priced at $2,000."

"Here's your pine box, Shannon," Stretch observed. "No, wait. They must have glued on the felt for some reason. Let me guess. It's not even real knotty pine. It's probably some kind of particle board."

Markham nodded. "It meets all State requirements," he said. "Some people on a budget like to spend a little less on the casket and a little more on the flower arrangements."

"I could never lay Dad to rest in something like that," Shannon said. "Could the designers have possibly picked out a more depressing shade of gray? I think Dad would've liked the simplicity of the pine box, but what will people say when they come to the funeral? They'll look at that thing and think I was too cheap to bury my own father properly. Eeek!"

"With plenty of flowers--"

"--No. I've made my decision. I think we'll simply have Dad cremated. That way we won't need a coffin. We'll just pick out something tasteful in an urn, and put the urn next to a picture of Dad at the service."

Markham smiled, as that of a knowing parent to a confused child. "State regulations require that the deceased be placed in a casket in any event," he said.

"In any event? You mean whether we cremate him or not."

"Yes."

"What happens to the casket if we have the remains cremated?"

"The casket itself is part of the cremation."

Oh Death, where is thy sting? The apostle had bravely penned the question, likening the mortal enemy to a scorpion. A question she could answer easily. She knew where the stinger of death was. It was broken off right in her heart. "Stretch? I'm feeling a little at a loss, here."

"Take a deep breath," Stretch said. "With me. Breathe in. Breathe out. Father in Heaven, please help us to carry this cross. Lord, we know you're with us, and that we're able to receive your grace right now. We ask in faith that you please give Shannon the strength to walk across this dark river."

"I'll be in my office if you have any questions," Markham said, departing noiselessly across the thick carpet and out the heavy door.

"I don't know what to do," Shannon said.

Stretch sighed. "It's a sales thing," he said.

"A what?"

"Markham got to you. He psyched you out. Probably does it to everybody just the way he did it to us right now. Used car dealers do it all the time. First they show you the most expensive car on the lot, then they show you a real clunker. You wind up buying something in the middle. Nobody buys the Eterna Viktor because it's $55,000. And likewise, nobody buys the Heritage, because it's made of particle board, it's an embarrassment to them. But what we wind up doing is buying something that's a lot more expensive than we planned. We can still feel good about it, though, because whatever we bought was a whole lot better looking than the pine box and a darn sight cheaper than the Eterna."

"Dear Lord."

"There's one over here." He led her to it. "The Oakhurst. Dignified. And only $7,500."

"No," she said.

"Okay," he said. "There's some more over here--"

"No. I'm buying the Eterna Viktor."

"Shannon--you can't cremate somebody in a $55,000 coffin."

"--There'll be no cremation. I'm going to give Dad the best send off a man can have. The man was an engineer. He'll appreciate being vacuum packed inside a zinc liner. His friends will marvel at the concrete walls lining the walls of the interment site. And Dad'll also enjoy ..."

The tears that came from this surge of feelings were different than those she was used to. They came in large, steady drops, which kept tempo for a cascade of emotional images which flurried inside her. Images of Joe, slicing Swiss cheese to make sandwiches for a family picnic. Napping on the sofa after a hard day's work. Taking her to the Seafood Broiler, then embarrassing her by removing his glasses to better peer closely at his trout looking for stray bones. Hugging her hard after her first fender bender in the new car. Smiling at her as she successfully held her breath underwater for one minute in the pool. Sitting in the bleachers on a rainy Friday night as she cheered her heart out for the football team.

"I'm sorry," she said, accepting yet another clean hanky Stretch offered her from one of his cargo pockets. "You're so thoughtful."

"I loaded up on them earlier. I've got as many as you need."

"Thank you, Stretch. "I need to go outside and get some air. Tell Markham we'll take the Oakwood."

"Amen to that. I'll get your mother's ashes from the car, and then I'll tell Markham," Stretch said, as they walked out to the car.

Chapter 9

The outside air was overly warm as the afternoon sun fingered the lapels of the hillside. Stretch popped the trunk, fetched the box with the remains of Mom, and jogged it back inside, later emerging at a slower gait, with a somber expression forming about his lips. Inside the cockpit, he hit the one-touch convertible top button, forcing the top to whine overhead and settle with expert precision into place. The freeze-dried air from the vents was cool and clean and Shannon found herself inhaling greedily, as though she'd been limiting her ration of it the entire time she'd been inside the facility. Stretch looked at her.

"I wish you could've seen the look on Markham's face when I told him you'd take the Eterna."

"You what?"

"I guess I couldn't resist a little prank, so I told him you'd take the Eterna Viktor," Stretch said.

"Stretch, that was wrong."

"I know. His face fell 10 feet when I told him I was only kidding. He's probably never sold one in his life."

"I don't know, Stretch. We are awfully close to Hollywood. Maybe he sells them by the gross to all the new age people up in the hills."

"Don't make fun of my neighbors."

"You live in the Hollywood Hills?"

"Yes."

"Where?"

"Spring Oak Drive. Just off Canyon, about halfway up the hill."

An expensive location. Where many of the movie people lived. She wondered if perhaps he wasn't rich after all. The only question remaining was exactly how rich. "Do you think your neighbors buy Eterna Viktors? Do you, Stretch?"

"Maybe. I doubt it. I think they're all into being frozen until the technology to make them immortal is developed."

"That's a laugh. And in direct contradiction to the Bible."

"I don't know. When Jesus comes to rule and reign, some of us will live a thousand years. Maybe it'll be because of the new technology."

"Now you're being ridiculous. They'll live the thousand years because sin will be taken out of our bodies. There won't be any more evil microbes to enter our cells and hijack our DNA."

"What happens after the thousand years?"

"Then they'll have to die to be resurrected. It's appointed unto us but once to die, and then comes Judgment Day. But nothing would surprise me anymore."

"It's after four," he said. "How are you holding up?"

"At the nearest gas station, pull in," she said. "I need a Coke and a bag of barbecue Fritos in the worst way. My throat is completely parched."

He hit the Chevron on Buena Vista. They went in and purchased Cokes, well-chilled, and a big bag of Fritos and began to crunch the chips and drink the Coke before they even made it to the counter.

"I can see why this drink has spread all the way to China," Stretch said. "It's just like the commercial says. The real thing."

"Yes. I sometimes feel sorry for people who lived before it was invented. Who drank only water and had an average life span of 40 years. Stretch, you looked kind of sad coming out of the Mortuary for the second time." She watched Stretch hand over a ten-dollar bill and receive very little change in return from the highway robber who ran the convenience store.

"Markham gave me a receipt for your mother," he said. "I nearly broke down at that, for some reason. Up until then, I was fairly strong. Imagine. Getting a receipt for somebody's mother."

"Can we talk about something else? I'm sorry, but I'm exhausted," she said.

"I'll take you home. You'll feel better after a nap."

"No. I can't go back there. Not after all that's happened. It's too depressing staying there. Take me to the Sheraton. I'm going to get a room high up on the 21st floor, an expensive room with a view towards the Hollywood side. I need the comfort of something impersonal. I'm also in dire need of some major pampering. I'm going swimming in their fabulous lagoon shaped garden swimming pool and then I'm going to take a hot jacuzzi and get a massage and try and do something with my hair before I meet you for dinner."

"Fair enough," he said. "Dress casual. It's only Dr. Hoggly Woggly's. Most of the time you'll be up to your elbows in barbecue sauce and covered by one of their big plastic bibs."

"I'll probably pick up a simple outfit and some sandals in one of the shops," she said. "And I'm going to need other basic essentials. That's why I want to stay there. It's a miniature city. I'm going to make it my command post for the duration."

"See you tonight, then," he said.

"Stretch? Thank you. And I mean that. I couldn't have gotten through this day without you."

"It was nothing."

"Yes it was. You need to learn how to accept thanks. Oh, and another thing. Don't tell my brother where I'm staying. Not until we can be sure he's back on the wagon. Which we'll know if he shows up for the dinner tonight."

"Okay." Stretch maneuvered expertly through the thickening traffic and in no time at all, Shannon found herself alone, clutching a plastic room key in the cool polish of the Sheraton lobby, where they'd anticipated her every need.

With the help of a personal shopper referred to her by the concierge, she dictated the list of items she'd need, on impulse grabbed a likely swimsuit from a colorful rack of them, and headed for the elevator.

The suite, opened onto a breathtaking panorama of southern and westerly views, the smog-tinged mix of valley flatlands and rounded mountain knolls which had been home for so much of her life. It still is home, she thought. I left it, but it never left me. I'll always be an Angeleno. Maybe I should face the fact and return. Give up San Francisco for good. I can do it. I can come home and try and put things back the way they were.

She dialed a number.

"Brunstetter and Griffen," a dry but rich male voice answered. David Bergstrom, their intern, who was summering with them before finishing up his Masters from the University of San Francisco. A bright young man who'd attended Boston College, worked formidable hours and had impressed them all. A young man who reminded her that not so long ago she had been in his position, doing everything she'd been asked, praying she'd make the grade. It all seemed like a thousand years ago.

"David? It's Shannon."

"Hi," he said. "How's things in L.A. going?"

"Rough. But I'm coping. Are you working on anything special at the moment?"

"Just the usual gopher stuff surrounding the Kremsky signing."

"When you can get a free minute, I've got a special project for you. Something a little unusual."

"I'm up for that," he said.

"I want you to pull up all the information you can on a business based in Los Angeles called The Pool Guy. The owner's name is John Murphy."

"The guy who wrestles the hippopotamus," David said.

"You've seen that?"

"I was in Santa Monica two weeks ago visiting some friends. We were watching an old Bogey flick on Night Owl Theater when I saw the commercial. Very funny stuff. So what's the deal? Did you meet him? Is there really a pool guy, or is it just a gimmick?"

"Yes. I met him today. He's very real. He was a friend of my father's."

"Is he rich? Looking to invest? Are you going to sign him up with us?"

"David, I need you to keep this between us for the moment. I'm asking you to check him out as a personal favor. I want a full workup. I want credit history, bank affiliations, where he went to high school, who his friends were, photos, you name it. I need to know if the guy's legit."

"Interesting. Should I say ooh-la-la yet?"

"Not yet."

"How soon do you need the report?"

"Tomorrow afternoon if you can swing it. Whatever information you come up with, just e-mail it to me."

"I'll start tonight," he said.

"No," she said. "Go out and have fun tonight."

"Now that doesn't sound like the Shannon Ireland I work for."

"I've changed in ways you can't possibly imagine in the past 24 hours. Believe me, life is short. You're too young to spend all your time working the way you have. You can stop trying to impress me. You know I'm going to recommend you to the firm the minute you graduate."

David laughed. "And not just because I make good coffee, I hope."

"Not on your life. In fact, your coffee is mediocre. Now do as I say and take the evening off. Life is too short to spend it all on work."

"I'll give you a progress report in the morning," he said, obviously intending to work late in spite of her advice.

"Thank you, David."

"Good-night, Shannon."

She dropped heavily onto the couch, feeling the strength leave her frame. And on an impulse, speed dialed her father. Four rings later, the recording cut in. This is Joe. I'm probably here, but I'm too old to run to the phone anymore. I'll call you back as soon as I can. Better leave your name and number, too, because my memory's shot. Bye, now.

Awww Dad, she thought. You funny man. My life is changed, now. In ways I don't even yet understand. I was strong, but now I'm vulnerable. I didn't think I needed you, the way I did when I was a little girl. But now there are so many questions I wish I could ask you.

Before she could cut the connection, call waiting chimed.

"Yes?"

"Ms. Ireland? Ed Markham here from Forest Lawn. I thought you should know there may be a significant delay in the final arrangements."

"Oh?"

"Yes, it seems the county coroner has taken possession of your father. And unfortunately, so they tell me, they are quite backed up and may not release him back to us for the better part of a week. Perhaps not until next Monday."

"May I ... may I ask why?"

"Apparently, it's standard protocol when a patient dies on the operating table. The Medical Center ordered the county to perform a third-party post mortem to verify your father's death wasn't due to any malpractice on the part of their surgical team. They won't issue the death certificate until they've satisfied themselves his death was unavoidable."

"We have to wait a week for that? What am I going to do in the meanwhile? Sit around my hotel just so a bunch of inept surgeons can cover their under-insured backsides? Can't we just tell the Medical Center we don't intend to sue? Can't we sign a waiver or something? I don't want those County people touching my father!"

"I'm sorry, but the County was quite firm."

"This is outrageous. They have hijacked my father. Can we get a lawyer to force them to release his body?"

"That would be most unusual. In my opinion, we'll simply have to wait."

"Do you people have any idea what it's like to lose a loved one? And now I have to live with the image of my father lying in the County morgue. I should be suing them for mental duress."

Markham showed a fair amount of poise at this remark, in that he didn't answer back, nor did he try to effect any sort of phony conciliatory tone. He simply remained silent.

"Okay," Shannon finally said. At which point the hotel phone warbled. "Look, Markham, somebody's trying to call me on the hotel phone. I'll be in touch."

She grabbed the conventional phone. "Yes?"

"It's me," Stretch said. "Call me a fool, but about the time I hit the intersection of Lankershim and Magnolia, something told me you needed me."

"Something told you right," she said. "I'm falling apart, here. You'll never believe the news I just got. Now I know how the survivors in New York must have felt waiting to see if the bodies of their loved ones were going to be recovered."

"What happened?"

"I'll tell you when I see you. By the way, where are you?"

"Here," he said. "In the fabulous lobby. Thrilled to know you're somewhere high above me."

"I should be scolding you, Stretch. But I'm happy you're here."

"I'll be staying close by for as long as you need me. I'm not even going home. I just booked myself a room. Not the luxury playpen you're in, but a cheap one. Phone me anytime in 1225. Or if you want to be alone, that's okay, too. No pressure."

"You are a dream."

"I'll be out by the pool if you feel like company," he said.

"I do feel like. But don't let any hippos in the water. Give me an hour. My eyes are burning, maybe from the smog. I'm just going to stretch out on the couch here and close them for a minute."

"Shannon?"

"Yes?"

"I'm going to help you get through this."

"Okay. I'm going to believe you."

A knock on the door. "Stretch, I've got to go. My shopper is at the door." And she was, a slim, peppy young woman with short black hair, wearing a black skirt, black stockings and black silk blouse, whose badge sported the name Christa. She bustled in, pushing a cart filled with necessaries. Christa was a young woman with high cheekbones and a great deal of poise. Shannon sighed. In Los Angeles, there were more beautiful women per acre than anywhere else in the world. Christa was no exception, probably an aspiring actress, holding down this menial day job until she had her big break. "Keeping you busy today, Christa?" Shannon asked her.

"Major busy," Christa said. "Not only do I work here 5 days a week, but one night a week I attend the University of Phoenix, then there's my study group on Thursday nights. I live with my mother and my son, so the rest of my time goes into taking care of them. Needless to say, my social life is totally on hold."

"How old is your son? What's his name?"

Christa smiled and lowered her eyelids, keeping her lips together, the way young women did when asked about their pride and joy, as if embarrassed that their sudden surge of pride at the thought of their child would rush out of their soul and overwhelm the other woman should they open their mouth too soon. "He's four this month," she said. "His name is Matthew. And he's quite a handful. I'm starting to get worried he's wearing out my mom. She takes care of him while I'm working and going to school."

A single mom, Shannon thought. Who, as Stretch would probably say, was most likely from a broken marriage. A result of a personal choice of soul mate based upon passion instead of family agreement.

She considered this soberly. It should have been a personal disaster, but the child which had come as a result had doubtless brought many graces into the young woman's life, chief of which was the inner joy she'd seen on her face, and secondly was an accompanying spirit of industry which was pushing Christa to heights she'd probably never have obtained otherwise.

"Forgive me for asking," Shannon said. "Are you a single mom?"

"Yes."

"Do you find it difficult?"

"I married young, right out of high school. My husband was a carpenter. He built these beautiful custom spiral staircases. He was on a job last September in Malibu when he was taken from me by a drunk driver on the PCH in broad daylight. They think the driver was drunk because she'd lost somebody in the WTC attack."

Has everybody lost somebody these days? Shannon thought, as she watched Christa lay out the clothing and personal item choices she'd made for Shannon on the bed. Jeans and a nice beige tee for the trip to Hoggly Woggly's, sensible cotton pajamas, a pair of Nike running shoes and running outfit, a conservative black skirt, with top and jacket of lightweight summer wool for the funeral, along with matching shoes and hat, the old fashioned kind with sweeping brim and netting, a pair of cheap sandals for the pool, and a host of other items designed to make life bearable for the next few days, including an impulse buy, a small stuffed bear named Tedricka, whose big brown eyes had begged her company.

"Oh. I'm ... I'm sorry. About your husband's death."

"It's okay," Christa said. "I know he's in heaven. I tell my son we'll all be together again someday. He's probably up there offering suggestions for improvement to Jacob's ladder. And it's like they say, life goes on. I never thought I'd ever remarry, but lately I've come to realize it's not entirely out of the question. Not that I could replace the father of my son, but--"

"--so what are you studying in school," Shannon said, interrupting this discussion of what life held for those who'd lost somebody. She felt inside herself a slight amount of panic rising up, to which she responded by grabbing Tedricka and stroking her furry topknot.

"I'm a finance major," Christa said. "I hope to enter investment banking, or perhaps commercial real estate management. Real estate was the least likely field I would have considered, but last week, the people from Grubb & Ellis sent a rep to our class to make their pitch. They're international and--"

"--Christa, I didn't mean to interrupt you when you were talking about your husband. It's just that losing someone you love is the hardest thing there is. In fact, I'm here in town myself arranging a funeral. I lost my father last night. So I'm sorry I interrupted you. And it's a comfort to hear that life goes on at a time like this."

"I understand. And it's no big deal interrupting me. I tend to be something of a motor mouth at times. I'm sorry about your dad."

"Thanks. Christa. Forgive me for asking. And I may be way out of line ... but are you wearing all black because of your husband?"

Christa smiled slightly, looking past Shannon at some distant point on the horizon. "You're very perceptive. The answer is yes."

"That's beautiful, Christa. To honor him like that."

"Well, like I said, life goes on. I think the day is coming when I leave the black behind."

"Yes."

"I see you've got a swimsuit," Christa said, changing the subject. "Perhaps you should go for a swim. It helps keep the stress away."

"I think I will. I've got a friend waiting for me at the pool. Well, actually, it's a friend of my father's. He's helping me with the funeral. Perhaps you've heard of him. He's the guy who does The Pool Guy commercials."

Christa looked surprised. "That guy? He's here? At our pool?"

Shannon nodded, mildly amused at Stretch's notoriety in a town jaded from an oversaturation of stars. Somehow, Stretch had managed to capture the imagination of the city.

"I'm going to take a peek," Christa said. "I've heard he's over seven feet tall. He's really a riot. My mother and I always crack up whenever we see him in the pool with the hippo."

"He's a funny guy," Shannon said.

"Is he single? I know I shouldn't ask, you know. I'm not supposed to pry into the affairs of our guests."

The question caught Shannon off guard. "Yes. He's single--but he's engaged."

"Figures," Christa said. "The good ones always are. But I'm talking too much. Is there anything else you need before I go?"

Shannon extracted a business card from her purse. "Keep this," she said. "And call me when you graduate."

"You work for Brunstetter and Griffen? In San Francisco?"

"Yes. You've heard of them?"

"Who hasn't? The firm who engineered the coalition to bailout Argentina? Wow. I will call you. Promise me you won't forget me."

"I won't."

After Christa left, Shannon changed into her swimsuit and wrapped herself in the double thick terry robe provided by the hotel. She'd planned on a brief nap, but decided against it, fighting the urge to simply curl into a ball on the bed, insert thumb into mouth and remain that way the night long, until morning. A glance in the mirror told the story--dark circles beneath the eyes and a deep worry crease in her forehead.

I'm falling apart here, Lord, she prayed. And it scared me when Christa showed interest in Stretch. I don't know what is happening to me, or why. I just know it's happening. She waited for something, anything, listening to the silence within her. Listened, and heard ... nothing. There was only silence. I'm just like Stretch, she thought. I pray, but I'm not getting through. I'm dry. There's nothing inside me but the dust. Stretch and me, we're in this thing together. This thing called the Christian life. Where one must sometimes walk through the desert alone. Keeping the faith that the times of refreshing will come. Knowing that nothing escapes the Lord's attention.

Which was when she realized the truth. What she was feeling wasn't mere aridity of the soul. Dear Lord. Why haven't I seen it before? I'm lonely. Terribly lonely. And with this realization came a shock. That the loneliness wasn't simply the product of grieving over her dearly-departed father. No, it was something more. Something far more.

She hurried down the empty corridor to the elevator. Dear God, she thought, I'm lonely because I've met Stretch. I'm lonely in the way a woman is lonely when she doesn't have a man in her life. I'm lonely--not just for any man--but for him.

With a shiver, she boarded the elevator and began the descent to meet him.

Chapter 10

The poolside Baja Lounge for some reason was closed, and there was nobody else about. Stretch was in the pool when she arrived, wearing a ridiculously baggy pair of bright green trunks, submerged in the deep end, thrashing the water wildly in a vain attempt to propel himself to the surface, sinking with each stroke, and coming up gasping and wild-eyed, mouth gaping, sucking in air like an emphysema victim trying to run the 100 yard dash.

"Very funny," she said. It took her a good 10 seconds to realize he was drowning, which introduced into her system enough adrenaline to kill a horse. She'd never been a girl scout, and had no idea what to do. Her first instinct was to yell for help, but there was nobody about. She could jump in and try to save him, but an image of Stretch thrashing about and taking them both to the bottom quelled her nerve for that option.

There were a couple of items hanging from a low wall, a round life preserver attached to a generous amount of rope, and a noose at the end of a long pole. As she grabbed the life preserver and tossed it towards him, Stretch sank to the bottom, exhaling a great many bubbles on the way down, which was when she realized the true purpose of the noose on the end of the long pole. It could be thrust into the pool to snare Stretch. She poked the thing into the water and managed to catch it around his neck. He grabbed the pole with both hands and nearly pulled her in with it, she managing to avoid this by sitting down heavily at the edge and holding on to the pole with all her might. But it was a losing battle.

"Somebody! Help me! Help me!" Then she remembered a personal safety course she'd taken at the Y. Never shout help, they'd said. Shout FIRE! instead.

"Fire! Fire!"

Stretch, in his panic, was putting superhuman amounts of effort into pulling the pole this way and that, making it nearly impossible for her to hang on. She made a decision. She would have to let Stretch drown to the point where he passed out. Then she could try and reel him in and resuscitate him.

Christa ran out onto the decking, obviously having come to sneak a peak at The Pool Guy. "Where's the fire?"

"Help!" Shannon yelled. "He's drowning. I can't pull him out!"

Christa responded, grabbing the pole, and with a huge effort, both women managed to tow the thrashing man to the shallow end of the pool, whereupon, as soon as his feet came into contact with the solid bottom surface, he began to sort of run underwater, pushing the pole forward, until he came rising up like a human whale breaching the surface, with a loud screech, blowing and snorting. Shannon managed to lift the noose as he made his way shakily up the steps before laying out flat at the edge of the pool, head turned to one side, coughing out and wheezing in like a large human bellows.

"I'm going to get the house doctor," Christa said. "Or should I call the Fire Department?"

"This is no time to be funny," Shannon said.

"No," Stretch gasped. "Don't call anybody."

"It's your choice," Christa answered. "Wow, I can't believe this. Can't believe I just saved The Pool Guy from drowning. Wait'll my mother hears about this!"

"Christa!" Shannon surprised herself with the shout. The force behind it seemed to shrink the younger woman a couple of sizes. "You will tell no one what happened here. Do you understand!"

"I'll be going now," Christa responded, a slight frown forming.

This is ridiculous, Shannon thought. A turf battle at a time like this. One female lion chasing away another female lion.

"No wait," Shannon said. "I'm sorry I snapped. You saved his life. If you hadn't come along, I would have lost him."

"Not likely," Christa said, still frowning. "He would have passed out and then you could have dragged him to the shallow end and done mouth-to-mouth. You would have saved your man without my help." Without another word, Christa turned and walked with firm purpose through the doors.

Your man. The words began in her mind, echoing down through her soul. Yes, she thought. I would have saved him. Would have found a way.

After a time, Stretch moved into sort of a sitting position and looked at her.

"Shannon," he said hoarsely. "At first I wasn't sure it was you. I looked up from the bottom of the pool and saw a figure in white and a figure in black. I thought perhaps it hadn't been decided which angel was going to take me where."

"Stretch. You nearly drowned..."

He rose up slowly, towering over her, before walking to a lounge chair and wrapping himself in his hotel robe. "I was being stupid," he said. "Going backwards without looking. Doing a backstroke. I rammed my head straight into the coping. After that everything went blank. I had no idea where I was. Look, do you mind if I go back to my room? I think I need to lie down."

"Do you want me to call a doctor?"

"No," he said. "But I am going to call my pastor. Shannon ... this is going to sound very strange, but I saw something after I rammed my head."

"Let me see. She tenderly fingered his scalp, parting the golden blond hairs. Yes, you've got a pretty good knot there."

"Ouch. Don't touch it. Anyway, I saw something."

"Saw something?"

"Yes. I saw something."

"Tell me about it. What did you see?"

"I can't tell you. Not yet. I have to talk to my pastor first."

"Stretch ... did you see Jesus? Was it something like that?"

He looked at her, his bottom lip pushed out in concentration. "I saw your dad," he said.

"Dad?"

He nodded.

"It's understandable," Shannon said. "You thought you were dying, and we just came from the funeral home and everything. We're both under a lot of stress."

"Shannon," he said, placing his hands on her shoulders. "This was different. I thought I was going to drown. Had accepted it and given in. I guess I passed out. Then I saw your dad, but he was changed. He was my age. His hair was jet black and shiny. He was wearing a plaid wool shirt rolled up at the sleeves. We were walking along a pier. I think it was the Santa Monica pier, but we were the only two people there. And he was so happy and strong."

"That's great, Stretch. Perhaps for a minute you traveled to heaven. Or maybe he was allowed to appear to you in your hour of need. I just saw a show last week on PAX about people who have seen heaven when they almost died. One guy went to hell and Jesus plucked him from--"

"--Shannon! There's more."

"What?"

"He spoke to me."

"What did he say?"

"Three words," Stretch replied, looking past her to something she couldn't see. "But they seemed to carry all the love in the universe within them. It was like in those words I felt God, felt the truth of everything we profess to believe in our Christian faith. Three words. The number three. Which represents the Trinity. Oh, I see it now."

"What words? Stretch? What words? What did my dad say?"

"He said, Grab a gear."

"That's all? Grab a gear?"

"It confirmed everything," Stretch said. "Everything. After he said it, I became conscious again, and was able to grab on to the pole, you know, like a gearshift. It confirmed every ... cough, cough, ... thing."

"Everything about what?"

"Shannon, don't you see? Everything about us. About the Trinity. About Jesus and the Bible. About us being together. You and me. Husband and wife. He was telling me to grab a gear--that's what he meant--it's about us moving forward with his plan." A racking cough hit Stretch hard, doubling him over.

"Stretch, I'm calling the hotel doctor. You took in a lot of water."

"I'll be okay," he said. His hands were on his knees. He straightened up. "I'm going to my room now."

"You need a doctor. What if you get pneumonia?"

"I won't. I just need to rest for awhile. But we're still on for dinner."

"Yes. You need to rest. I'm going back to my room and do the same. Call me when you feel ready. Even if you don't feel like going out for dinner later, call me."

"Shannon, if only I hadn't been--"

"--Shhhh. You don't need to talk." She took his hand and they boarded the elevator in silence. It took but a moment to drop Stretch off on the 12th floor. By the time she got to her suite on the 21st floor, she felt the trembling in her knees. The adrenaline was wearing off, and in its aftermath there was a wobbly sensation, a hollowness throughout her, accompanied by a throat as dry as the Sahara. From the honor bar, she grabbed a Coke and took a huge swallow, glad for all the people who had made it possible for her to have it. The late afternoon sun was pouring in. She closed the curtains, muting the force of the rays, and sat down on the bed.

Dad was here, she thought.

Joe Ireland had met Stretch in his hour of need and strengthened him with a word. It was not impossible. She believed in the communion of saints. We could all help each other whether in heaven or on earth. She'd heard of similar occurrences before. Why, even the Apostle Paul had been caught up to the third heaven after being stoned to death. And St. John had personally witnessed the going's on in God's throne room, a glorious affair of choirs, peals of thunder, candlesticks, the mixing of chalices, and the serving of a great supper to a mighty throng under the altar presided over by the Lamb of God. In keeping with them, but on a smaller scale, Dad had somehow found a way to appear to Stretch and help him, at the same time delivering a message through Stretch to her. Or was it? There was something familiar about the phrase, but she couldn't recall why. She was too tired to ponder any of it now.

With a sigh, she stretched out on top of the covers and closed her eyes. She had saved her first life. She and another woman had joined forces to do it. It was, she thought, perhaps the first truly selfless act she had ever performed. For a minute or two, she thought only for the welfare of another human being. It had been a fulfilling instant, had shown her something deep inside herself she had not known existed. She knew now she would have died in the rescue attempt if necessary, and understood why. Because God had been with her, filling her with a noble charity for the drowning man.

There was a serene feeling of peace within her, and for an instant she felt a connection with the millions of souls living their lives around her. Souls depending on God when the going got rough. Souls who prayed daily for the well-being of others. She had a desire to thank them all for their prayers, for their faithfulness. Then sleep closed upon her with a rush of darkness. After that, there was nothing. She fell into a dream.

She was fifteen and a half, in the old Lincoln Town car she hated so much. Dad had continued driving it, long after the racier Japanese cars had come out. Now she would have to drive it, while her friends all drove racy-looking Celicas and Accords. Her first driving lesson with her father. The engine was running, but the car wasn't moving and she couldn't figure out why. Because it was still in Park.

"Grab a gear," Dad said.

She awoke with a start. Remembering that Dad, being an Engineer, and more comfortable with machines than people, had always spoke of life obliquely, in mechanical terms. Even when Mother was dying, Dad never spoke of it. But once, when Mother had about a week left to live, he had confided to Shannon he was worried about Mother's car. Worried that it was worn out. Now he was telling Stretch and herself both to grab a gear!

She looked at the bedside clock radio. A little after 7 p.m. She felt thick and heavy, which a call to room service for coffee post haste and a stinging hot shower followed by a brutally cold rinse alleviated enough for her to experience ravenousness. Which triggered a call to room 1225. Stretch answered softly.

"Been sleeping?" she said.

"Yes."

"Well get up. I'm hungry."

"Meet me in the lobby in 15 minutes," he said.

She called her brother's cell phone but there was no answer. Not a good sign.

The jeans selected by the personal shopper fit superbly well, snug but not too tight, but the beige T-shirt was floppy to the point where she found it necessary to tie off the bottom edge in a knot. Her hair, blown dry and slicked back with a touch of mousse, would have to do; she was too hungry to spend any more time on her appearance. She pulled on the straw hat and grabbed the straw purse, removing her laptop case and leaving it under the bed. As an afterthought, she stuffed Tedricka into the purse.

"Might as well take a friend," she said to the furry thing.

On the elevator ride down she remembered she'd forgotten to apply any lipstick and decided it was just as well. When one went for barbecue, lipstick was wasted anyways.

Stretch was standing in the lobby next to two people, the first being a short, barrel chested, blue-eyed older man with the lantern-jawed face and upturned nose of a leprechaun, wearing tan slacks and a white shirt open at the neck and rolled up at the sleeves. The second person, doubtless the man's wife, was a somewhat buxom lady with a good-natured expression, her long red hair wound up in a bun. She was likewise imbued with features heavily favoring things Irish, including the ski-jump nose and cat-like green eyes, wearing lipstick a shade of vermilion not in vogue since the 50's, the woman of equally stern bearing as the man, but a good six inches taller, dressed entirely wrong for summer in an ill-fitting Kelly green suit reminiscent of the Kennedy era, complete with a pearl necklace.

With a start she thought perhaps they were his parents, rejecting the thought. There was no way these two could have produced the likes of Stretch Murphy. By virtue of the fact they were both a couple of feet shorter. But for all her surmising, she had to admit to herself as she approached them, she didn't like the way the couple stared at her, with eyes wide and unblinking.

"Shannon," Stretch said. "I want you to meet my parents."

Dear Lord, Shannon thought. They look nothing like him. As 500,000 questions began to bubble to the surface of her mind, she, with a mighty effort, quelled most, if not all of them.

There was only one way to play the thing. Play along. So she swept past the odd couple, grabbed Stretch by the collar, pulled him down, and pecked him on the cheek, noting that had she slapped him hard on both cheeks, the blush could have been no greater through his terrific, even, tan. Her lips felt a smoothness, and the scent of his aftershave flooded her nostrils. Old Spice regular. As square as could be had in this day and age. And yet powerful.

"I'm Shannon Ireland," she said to the supposed parents. And was unsure of the protocol. Did she shake the father's hand? Or offer her cheek to be kissed? Bow? Curtsy? What? Or wait?

"Johnny, she's more beautiful than any of her pictures," the woman said, turning to her, extending a hand. "I'm Cece," she said. "This ugly lug is Ike, my husband."

"Dad's from Ireland," Stretch said, "but Mom isn't." As though that explained something about the two of them.

"Yes," Ike said. "I'm from Ireland. County Armagh."

"Where all the violence was?" Shannon asked.

Ike nodded. "Not an easy place to live, with the unemployment and all, but fortunately I had my work as a tail gunner on a bread truck. It seems so long ago, now. Like something out of a dream. I've been here in America for nearly 30 years now."

"Dad!" Stretch said. "I'm sick of that tail gunner joke. It's totally unfunny! You promised me you'd be civil tonight!"

Ike, appearing comically chastened, extended a leathery, blackened paw, which Shannon took, finding it to be the sort of hand one often found on those employed in the mechanic profession, hands toughened by years of contact with steel, the contact rendering them tough as the steel itself.

"Pleased to meet you, Ike."

"Call me Dad," he said. "And may I extend my deepest sympathy on the passing of your father."

"Thank you." Call him Dad? Could this be any more awkward? Stretch Murphy, the son of an Irish national and an American citizen? He looked nothing like his parents. Somebody wasn't telling the truth. Call him Dad? More awkward? No. It couldn't be.

"Let's get real," Shannon said. "We all know you two aren't Stretch's natural parents. You're too short."

The couple looked uneasily at each other, then at Stretch.

"I hired them," he said. "They're a couple of actors."

A dark expression passed over the elderly couple. "Son, you apologize to your mother," Ike said. "Now. This minute."

Stretch bent down and kissed Cece. "Sorry, Mom."

"I'm sorry, too," Shannon said. "I feel like a complete idiot. I had no right."

"We don't know why he turned out like he did," Ike said. "We did our best to raise him proper. And now, John," he continued, changing the subject, "What about this feast you promised us?"

The formalities thus dispensed, Stretch led them all outside, where a white Lincoln limo waited at the curb.

"Nice car," she said.

"I thought a limo might be appropriate," he said to her.

"Of course," Shannon said. "A limo is always the right choice. Especially when going out to a rib joint in the Valley. Oh darn, I forgot to wear that huge blue diamond Liz Taylor loaned me."

"I'm not trying to be a snob, I only meant that it would allow us the ambiance to get to know each other without worrying about the traffic."

"You're showing off for the lady, Johnny," Ike said. "And I can't say as I blame you. But it's a mistake going to a rib joint. You should be taking her someplace classy, like Ireland 32."

"Mother, is he going to be like this all night?"

"I know the place," Shannon said. A dump, she thought. An Irish pub on Oxnard street, out near the junior college. The sort of place which served green beer on St. Patty's day.

"He's been that way for 67 years," Cece stated. "Tonight will be no different."

"Okay," Ike said. "We'll go for the ribs."

"I tried to convince our son to have you over to our place," Cece said. "I was going to make his favorite--Irish dumplings."

"She makes the best Irish dumplings this side of Heaven," Stretch said. "But I wanted us to be free to talk."

They piled in and the limo pulled away from the curb, gliding down the hill and onto the freeway for the trip northward out to the city of Sepulveda, leaving behind the rich promise of the money-soaked foothills for the infinitely more noxious flatlands of ancient tract homes, cheap motels, transmission shops, and the best ribs on the planet. From the limousine bar, Stretch pulled out a bottle of sparkling cider and began pouring the stuff into long stemmed glasses.

"Normally one would serve champagne, but none of us drink," Stretch explained.

"The closest we'll be getting to champagne," Ike said. "Is when we christen my boat for it's maiden sail this fall."

"You have a boat?" Shannon said. Dear Lord, are these people for real? Who are they, really?

In spite of her suspicions, she liked the couple. Perhaps they were Stretch's parents. She had a choice. Remain suspicious, or believe them. Raised as she was to always give people the benefit of the doubt, she decided to believe them. This decision brought with it, immediate peace, as though the Lord was blessing her for it.

"He's been building a boat in his back yard for the past 15 years," Stretch explained. "It's his retirement present to himself. We've been waiting for the family boat ride for the past five years or so. Every year he says the boat is just about ready. Then another year goes by. But if and when the thing is ever finally finished, Ike's taking Mom and sailing for Ireland as soon as it's done."

"He's sailing no such place," Cece said. "Or if he does, he's going alone."

"I'd like to see the boat," Shannon said.

"The problem is," Stretch said, "that the boat is bigger than Ike's house. He'll have to tear his house down to get the boat out of the back yard. Or better yet, tear the house down and move into the boat."

"I'll deal with that when the time comes," Ike said. "Shannon, after dinner we'll stop by the house and I'll show it to you."

"And we've got Titanic on DVD," Cece said hopefully.

"I bought them a big screen TV last year," Stretch said.

"Titanic?" Ike said. "Who wants to watch a movie where it starts out with everybody eating lobsters and ends up with lobsters eating everybody?"

"Dad, must you?" Stretch said.

"Sorry."

"Listen you two," Stretch continued. "You're on your own after dinner, because we're dumping you guys and going out alone."

"Stretch, that's no way to talk to your parents," Shannon said. "Ike, we'll come over and see your boat right after we eat. And then we'll watch Titanic. Where do you live?"

"They live in Van Nuys," Stretch said, answering for them. "But not in as good a neighborhood as your Dad. They live in a cracker box over off Blucher Street. The same gray stucco house I grew up in. I tried to buy them a better place, but they refused. They still have our original furniture covered in plastic. Can you imagine?"

"We're not like our fancy pants son," Ike said. "Who has to live in the Hollywood Hills with all the thieves."

"The thieves live in the Holmby Hills," Stretch said. "My neighborhood is a bit more pedestrian. My next door neighbors are a lady bank manager and her retired cop husband with his police dog named Heinz."

"So how do you feel about having children?" Cece said.

"What?" Shannon replied. The question had flown from Cece's mouth like a rocket, without warning.

"Children. How do you feel about having them?"

"I ... uh ... well, I suppose--"

"Because you know our son will be wanting them."

"Mother! What a question!" This from Stretch, who wore an expression of extreme chagrin.

"It's an honest question," Cece retorted. "If you're going to build a house, it's best to start with the foundation."

"We're just going out for ribs," Stretch said.

"Not hardly," Cece said. "We all know why we're here."

A thick silence settled over the group as they made their way up the freeway, past the enormous brewery to the Roscoe exit and swooped east again towards the best ribs on the planet.

"I want them," Shannon said.

"What's that?" Ike said.

"Children. I want children. Lots of them. As many as I can produce. One after another, year in and year out, until my body simply gives out and won't supply another single living child no matter what. I want boys, girls, twins, you name it, I want them."

"Shannon--" Stretch, looking confused. "You're a professional. A yuppie. I had you figured for one or two kids tops. I was hoping to change your views over time. I--"

"--Not anymore," Shannon said. "I'm bailing out from all the money chasing. I've decided to listen to my dad's advice for once. We're going to get married and have a million kids. Ike and Cece are going to have grandkids crawling all over the place. Ike will take them sailing in his boat, and Cece will spend all her time picking out cute little outfits and toys for them. Every Christmas, there will be a mound of presents higher than the tree. We're going to do that because life is short. Because nobody knows just how much time they have. Because ... because ..."

Her tears fell hot and fast as the emptiness inside her rose up, expanding until there was nothing left but the bitter loneliness vibrating through her as she realized the central fact of her life--her father was dead and she was alone. Utterly, completely alone, in the place where loneliness hurt the most--in her soul. They pulled up to Dr. Hoggly Woggly's Tyler Texas Barbecue. The driver opened their door and immediately the air was strong with the scent of hickory and burning meat.

Chapter 11

There was sawdust on the floor, and a juke box serenading everybody with old George Jones and Ferlin Husky classics, and they sat at a huge, well-polished redwood picnic table inside, wearing bibs, piles of extra napkins everywhere, working their way through the massive platters of baby back ribs, accompanied by beans submerged in a tangy brown sugary sauce, piles of chilled, sweet cole slaw, and steaming buttered corn bread served with pitchers of iced tea.

They ate without speaking for the better part of 20 minutes, at the end of which all looked up at each other, as though awakening from a communal dream in which they'd all had a part in the sacrifice of some holy animal, after which they'd shared the beast with each other as a token of faith that the sacrifice would someday elevate them beyond this present sphere.

"Oink," Stretch said.

"Somebody had to say that," Shannon replied. "In honor of the poor little pig who gave his life for this incredible meal. Wow, I don't know why it is, but when one is grieving, a meal like this is just the thing."

"It's a lot of work laying the dead to rest," Ike said. "The smallest arrangement requires massive energy. Even though we know we have the blessed hope. I think it's because death is such a spiritual event. When one encounters it, we feel the awful weight of this earthly perishable body. Eating a good meal is a way to reassure our bodies that they aren't going to die themselves just yet. That's why Jesus fed the disciples on the beach after His resurrection. To reassure them that bodies would still be in fashion in the world to come. That meal on the beach was the first Irish wake. Of course, we've improved on it since."

Everybody laughed at Ike's tag line.

"That's right ... Dad," Shannon said. Everyone looked at her in surprise. She smiled. "Well, why not? Why shouldn't I call you Dad? Perhaps we should get it all on the table This is all about my father's cockeyed idea of an arranged marriage. Well, I've decided I'm up for it. I'm consenting." She looked at Stretch. "I'm yours," she said. "All yours. Completely, deeply. Forever."

He gulped, eyes wide. "You are?"

"Yes. Do you want me?"

"I ... yes. Yes."

"Okay then," she said, rising. "I'm going to let you seal it with a kiss now." She stood waiting, eyes closed, her hand on the edge of the table to steady herself. It seemed to take him forever to stand up and come around the table to her. In the background, George Jones crooned. Just because I told a friend about her. She felt his warmth and presence a split second before the touch of his lips. A mere brush.

"Too polite," she whispered. The next kiss was the real thing, sacramental in it's profundity, with an embrace to match, a comfort as solid as the meal they'd shared, but with a promise to the soul of greater things to come. When it was over, they stood back and surveyed each other. It was there, in his eyes. In that moment, she knew it was going to work. There was a fire, and a certainty.

"My man," she said simply. Dear God, she thought. It's true. I've found my man. And it's changed everything. Something was happening to the man before her. He was shrinking, somehow. No. Was he doing what she thought he was doing? Yes, he was. In seconds, he was down on one knee.

"Shannon," he croaked, taking her by the hand. "Will you marry me?"

The restaurant exploded with good natured clapping and not a few whistles. Which was when she felt the emotional rip tide of doubt flooding through everything inside her, sweeping away the forward momentum, leaving in it's aftermath a vast emptiness, and sense of dread, of fear, even, that she should be so completely carried away by the events of the past 48 hours.

Why didn't his parents look anything like him?

"Shannon? Will you?"

"I ... no ... Stretch. I can't play this game anymore. So you can tell your two friends here it didn't work. I know you're making all this up and I know they're not your parents. It didn't fool me. It didn't--"

She ran, as though running would extricate her from the currents, would take her to a place above it all, where she could regain her reason, where no such madness existed as arranged marriages and body-snatching coroners. A place where she was once again in control of life.

The sidewalk was noisy with traffic, the sun replaced by a thousand headlights. But the limo was still there, and she jumped in the back, sliding open the partition, ordering the driver to leave at once, which he did, pulling away from the curb, although not without some uncertainty of expression.

"Where to?"

"The Sheraton Universal. After you drop me off, you can return here for the rest of the party."

"Didn't work out with the big guy, huh?"

"That's none of your business."

He nodded. She slid the partition shut and settled back, staring out the window at everything, seeing nothing, wondering what had just happened. Pulling out her cell phone, she dialed Phil. Surprised to get an answer on the first ring.

"Shannon?"

"Phil, where've you been all day? You missed dinner. I just left Stretch Murphy in a restaurant. He'd been down on one knee, proposing. Phil ... I ran."

"What's he doing proposing to you? The man doesn't even know you!" His words were slurred.

"It's a long story. He took me to dinner with two phonies he claimed were his parents and ... Phil, are you still drinking?"

"And what if I am! His phony parents? What kind of garbage is this I'm hearing? Does the man not realize that we are in the process of burying our father? And our mother? I think the guy's a psycho. Shannon, you better stay at my place tonight. We'll watch a couple of old Bogart films and pop some Reddenbacker's with real butter jalapeno sauce. Why don't you join me?"

"No. You don't need the aggravation of adding my problems to your fallen serenity."

"Hey, I slipped one time. I'll make it back. I'm starting fresh tomorrow is all."

"You slipped one time. You hit Minda and made her leave you."

"She's coming back."

"When?"

"Six months. As long as I stay sober the entire time. Which I will. I'm starting tomorrow."

"You never called your sponsor."

"So what? What good would he do me now? He can't even remember what the stuff tastes like. I'll call him tomorrow."

"I'll be out of touch until tomorrow," she said. "I need a strong night's sleep, and I need to think about what's happening to me. Phil, when Stretch proposed, a part of me wanted to say yes. But apparently, an even stronger part of me decided to say no."

"When I find Stretch Murphy," Phil said, "I'm going to take him apart."

"You'll do no such thing. Phil, I ran away because I'm scared, not because I dislike the guy."

"I love you, Sis. But your problem, if I may say it, is you've spent too much of your life chasing money and position and too little learning about love and life."

"Thanks for the appraisal. Coming from an expert with a broken marriage. I love you too. Besides, aren't you AA'ers supposed to refrain from taking somebody else's inventory?"

"I'm not an AA'er. At least not until tomorrow. No. I didn't mean that in an unkind way. Look, I'm here if you need me."

"Okay," she said. "Look, I shouldn't even be talking to you because you've been drinking, but today, I went to Forest Lawn. I'll tell you about it later. But the bad thing is, the coroner took Dad's body and won't release it."

"Say again?"

"We'll talk about it more later. But tomorrow we need to go see Dad's lawyer and see about having the will read and all that stuff. Are you up for it?"

"One day at a time. Starting tomorrow. Tomorrow is the today you feared yesterday, and all that. Heh, heh."

"I hate you when you're drinking. But I love you anyway. Tomorrow, then. I'll call you."

"Good-night, Shannon."

She made her way back to her room, thought better of being isolated, and decided instead on the hotel lounge, an affair open onto the huge lobby, which gave her a much-needed feeling of space. Hors d'oeuvres were out of the question, she being stuffed to the gills with ribs. A double latte with extra whipped cream and cinnamon did not feel out of the question. For some reason, there were few patrons, and the place had a lonely feel to it, but the loneliness did not oppress her, it was instead a sort of psychic blanket she found comforting.

Dear Lord, she prayed, I don't know what's happening or why, but something's not right. It seems everything has gone wrong with everything, even though on the surface, life is proceeding abysmally normally, such as it is.

At which point, everything suddenly seemed clear. Life was in flux because she needed to make some decisions. Not decisions normally made, but large ones, of the kind which affected the course of one's life. Decisions such as where she truly stood on the subject of marriage, and children, and career, and where to live and whom to please, or whom not to please, as the case might be.

The process was unfamiliar to her. She, an expert in deciding things financial for others, realized suddenly she did not know how to make a decision for herself. Extracting a ball-point from her purse, and locating a convenient dry cocktail napkin, she penciled a few key words ... DECISION ... PROBLEM ... CHRONIC ... EASY.

First, she knew, she had to make a decision to make a decision--this seemed the obvious first step. Second, she would have to state the problem, if she could, if she could even think about what the problem was, and third, she had to decide if the problem was chronic, that is, a reoccurring problem with no easy solution, or was it a temporary problem with an easy solution?

Dear God, she thought. The problem isn't whether to marry Stretch Murphy or not. The real problem is me. I have no idea who I am or where I'm going. Or how to get there, even if I did know. The problem is, I don't know how to live life.

At the end of the prayer, she remembered a verse. In a multitude of counselors is much wisdom. She needed to reach out to somebody. But who? Who among all she knew was wise? Could be trusted? The answer came to her almost immediately.

She whipped out her cell phone and called General Kremsky. His bodyguard answered and put her through without much trouble.

"Shannon?" The voice sounded dry, tired, yet with a calm power.

"General, are you in San Diego?"

"I am."

"General, I need someone to give me some personal advice. I'm sitting here eating too much and smothering all the bad feelings with whipped cream, trying to solve a problem and I was praying, and your face just sort of popped into my head."

"Go ahead."

"I hope you don't mind me calling so late."

"Not at all. It doesn't matter what time it is. I give advice all day long, but it's the dry, boring kind one doles out to subordinates. It's refreshing to offer my favorite grandchild some fatherly words."

Grandchild. Somehow it fit. "I need you to tell me what to do. First of all, the County coroner hijacked my Dad's body and won't release him for at least a week. And that's driving everybody nuts."

"I'll make a phone call."

"You can do that?"

"It's done."

"Second, I think I just fell in love with a complete stranger. I almost said I'd marry him tonight. Until I realized I was probably making a huge mistake. I don't know anything about the man. Everything he's been telling me could be a lie. I'm having him checked out, but what I mean is, everything he's showing me about his true self could be a lie. All of a sudden, I got very paranoid. I even found myself thinking he had hired two actors to pretend to be his parents. The guy could be Charles Manson for all I know. I don't know what's happening here."

"Slow down."

"Okay."

"Is he Charles Manson? If so, I can take care of the matter for you. I'll send my bodyguard."

"No. He's not a psycho. He cleans swimming pools. He even has a commercial on TV."

"Then you just need help making a decision about love and life."

"Yes."

"Okay, first decide how big the decision is you have to make."

"It's big. It's huge."

"Why is it big?"

"Because I could wind up married, and that would change my entire life."

"Shannon," the General said, "You must have the courage to take your time even if you're getting a lot of pressure. Don't let your emotions make the decision."

"I've been thinking totally with my heart," she said.

"It's not a matter of the head or the heart, but of values. Core values must lie at the heart of your decision. Will your decision change those values? If it does, you will be unhappy forever."

"Okay. I don't know why I didn't think of all this before. I guess I'm not even sure what my core values are."

"Core values in marriage begin with a commitment to God, then to one another, then to the issue of children."

"General ... I ... I think this is all too much for me. To tell you the truth, I think my heart wants to go with marrying this guy. But for no good reason. I just like him."

"Liking somebody has nothing to do with marriage. You can't decide to marry somebody simply because you like them."

"Everybody does. Why shouldn't I?"

"Because marriage is for the long haul. It's a commitment to stand by somebody else no matter what cards you are dealt from that time on. Shannon, you've got to come down off the mountain first--don't make your big decision when you're at the height of some kind of emotional ecstasy, such as when an attractive man is courting you, not to mention mourning your father's recent passing."

"General, what's the most important thing you can tell me? Give me one thing to hold on to."

"Shannon, sooner or later, you've got to trust somebody."

"That's it?"

"That's it."

"But what if I'm wrong?"

"What if you are? You go on."

"General, I'm so tired...everything you're saying--I was just about to bypass all of that. I guess I'm tired of trying to hold the world on my shoulders."

"Rest and pray, dear," the General said. "Remember, life is short--but it is also eternal. It's a mystery. Nothing matters and everything matters intensely. Perhaps for now, your best decision will be to wait upon God. And now I must say good-night to you, for tomorrow I have work to do."

"Good-night, General."

She signed her check and went up to her room. Sooner or later I've got to trust somebody. But who? Stretch Murphy? Lord, it will have to come from you. Because I can't create that kind of overnight trust. She made a decision. To wait. To sleep like the dead until her body was refreshed enough to continue her journey through her father's funeral. To see if the Lord would instill in her the trust she'd need. The General's soothing wisdom had lifted the burden. Knowing there was order in the world, and both a Father in heaven and an earthly father simultaneously watching over her, she smiled sadly but hopefully upwards before drifting off into a dark, dreamless sleep.

The phone beside the bed rang, jolting her awake. The glowing numbers on the clock radio told her she'd been asleep about a half hour.

"It's me," Stretch said.

"What?"

"I called to apologize about my parents. They came on way too strong. It was too much too soon. I don't blame you for running out. Ike and Cece don't get it. They wanted to chase you and have some sort of encounter. I told them to forget it. I dumped them at their place. He's probably in the backyard fuming and polishing the wood in his boat."

"I don't want to hear it. You woke me from a dead sleep. I was having a really great flying dream. If you knew me better, you'd know that's the one thing I really, really hate. To be awakened in the night by the phone. If you hang up now, I might be able to go back to my dream."

"Sorry, but I--"

Shannon cut the connection. Blast you, Stretch Murphy, she thought. She felt mean and horrible cutting him off like that. But also took a cruel pleasure in the selfishness of the act, enjoying feeling angry and wounded and insular, as though she was the only person that mattered. It was better than feeling grief over the loss of her father, or confusion over the feelings she was having towards Stretch, and the ridiculous scenario of them getting married on Saturday and having a reception in the back room of Ireland 32. She lay back, but her heart was pounding. Sleep was out of the question. She dragged herself out of bed and into the living room of the suite. True to form as regarded the media industry, of the over 50 channels on cable, there wasn't a morally acceptably watchable show on, except for an old Bonanza rerun. Little Joe, sporting an outrageously oily pompadour, barking a dinner request at Hop Sing. She turned it off, picked up the phone and punched in 1225.

"Shannon?"

"I can't sleep and there's nothing on TV. I need to use someone. It might as well be you. You got your chess board with you? You have your little paper bag?"

"I ... yes, I did bring it to the room with me."

"Bring it. And get up here." She terminated the connection and dialed room service. "Coffee for two. Extra strong. A big pot. And make it snappy." Barking at the kitchen help, just like Little Joe. She changed back into her jeans and t-shirt, noticing with some dismay the t-shirt had a large barbecue stain right at the collarbone. Not that it mattered. There was a knock and she opened the door.

"Who's your new friend?" Stretch said, looking past her.

"Tedricka. And don't touch her. She's very shy."

"I'll bet."

He'd showed up, looking somewhat the worse for wear himself in the green Hawaiian shirt with the parrots she'd first met him in. The chess pieces were dumped unceremoniously onto the table from their brown paper bag.

"Your shirt is damp."

"I washed it out in the shower. I guess it's because it's my favorite shirt."

The game lasted about an hour, Shannon playing the black. Stretch had a few good moves, but nothing which surprised her, the strategies mostly basic ones she recognized from her early days learning the game from Dad.

She led him to believe he was doing great, but in the end Stretch failed to allow for her bishop in the far corner, absorbed as he was in his own attack on her Queen, and he suddenly found himself checkmated by her bishop in tandem with her King's knight. The entire game, they'd spoken only a few words, surprisingly, since each had enjoyed several cups of the extra strength coffee, brewed for maximum chatability.

"Okay," he said. "Okay. You're good. Well out of my league."

"I had a good teacher. Stretch, I'm having you investigated. By a very thorough professional service. I thought you should know."

"Investigated?"

"My intern, David Bergstrom, hired a security company to check you out. By tomorrow morning, I'll know whether or not you're for real. I'll know where you went to school, who your friends were, how much money you've got, how much you owe, and a lot of other stuff. Does that offend you?"

"It should," he said, slurping his coffee a tad too loud. "If it wasn't for the fact I already had you investigated myself about six months' ago."

A prickly heat began around her ears and she knew her face was turning beet red. "Good Lord--you didn't."

"Just kidding. C'mon, Shannon, it's me. But since you're having me investigated, I think you should at least tell me one dark secret about yourself before you find out all of mine."

"What could I tell you about myself that my father hasn't already told you?"

"I don't know."

"Did he ever tell you I almost eloped?"

Stretch's eyebrows went up. "Nope. He forgot to mention that one."

She stood up, grabbed Tedricka, and went to the window. There was little traffic on the Hollywood freeway below, limited mostly to truck drivers and those whose business required them to be on duty early, such as restaurant workers and studio people. It wouldn't be light for a few more hours. It hardly seemed real she was having the man thoroughly investigated, the agency even now compiling a great deal of information most people assumed was safely buried forever in the bureaucratic backwaters of Los Angeles county records.

"I didn't elope. I had second thoughts," she said. "The guy I told you about, my high school sweetheart?"

"Does he have a name?"

"Brian."

"Thank you. Now I have somebody to hate."

"Why?"

"Because you loved him first."

"Don't tell me you never had a high school sweetheart."

"Yes."

"And?"

"Kathleen. She dumped me on her parents advice. I used to hang around in front of her house. Finally, the whole family moved back to Arkansas to get rid of me."

"Thank you. I won't hate her for being your first love. Anyways, on prom night, Brian proposed to me. We both knew our parents wouldn't let us get married so young, so we were going to sneak off to Las Vegas and then come home married and drop the bomb. The internet was new, then, but he had a computer with on-line capabilities and we even registered with a wedding chapel over the internet. Fortunately, we came to our senses."

"I'm adopted," Stretch said.

"What?" She heard him clearly, but was having trouble shifting gears on the downhill grade the conversational vehicle had taken. Things had begun to go much too fast, and there was the feeling of something scary.

"I'm adopted."

"And now you're a millionaire pool guy. That's quite a progression. Forgive me for saying this now, but I never thought Ike and Cece were your natural parents. They're too short."

"I lived in foster homes until I was 14. Nobody adopted me because I was too tall. And I was a very ugly child. Until one glorious day, God sent Ike and Cece into my life."

"Is that why you want to be a youth pastor? Because of your life spent in foster homes?"

"Yes." He smiled, and behind the smile she could see the pain in his eyes. No, she could feel it. An orphan boy on his way to becoming a man. Wondering if anybody would ever love him.

"And you were going to tell me all this when?"

He looked down and slowly began putting the chess pieces back into the paper sack. "Never," he said. "Well, one day. I was going to tell you one day." He turned away. To hide his face? Filled with anger? Or grief? Both? Neither?

"You lied to me about everything. About the judo you did to my brother. You learned to fight dirty because you grew up in foster homes, didn't you?"

"Yes."

"Why didn't you tell me? Why?"

"I ... I don't know. I was afraid for you to know I didn't have a normal upbringing."

"I want you to go now," Shannon said. "I really need to be alone."

"I should have told you," he said. "I'm sorry. Please don't shut me out."

"Please leave."

She had to shut the door after him. He'd walked out, leaving it ajar. When she turned back, she noticed he'd left his chess set. Almost in reflex, she grabbed the bag and flung it across the room. The pieces flew everywhere.

"Just like my life," she said to Tedricka. "In pieces on the floor." Tedricka had the wisdom not to answer back, this trait lending to her furry visage the appearance of wisdom.

Something inside her was terribly wrong. There was fear greater than she'd ever felt before. "Oh my God," she whispered, sitting on the sofa's edge. "I'm so alone. So terribly alone." The wise advice she'd gotten from the General seemed to have evaporated. It was back to square one--raw emotion wearing her nerves even rawer. She grabbed her cell and hit the speed dial.

"Phil? Are you still up?"

"No. You know how it is. You drink until you crash."

"No, I do not know. Because I don't drink," Shannon replied.

"Did you know Mom used to sneak brandy during the day? I take after her. You take after Dad. I've never understood you. Never understood how you could be such a goody goody."

"I don't want to hear it. And may I remind you that you're still on probation? You have no business drinking. You're jeopardizing everything in your life."

"I'll be the judge of that. What time is it?"

"A little after one."

"Sis, are you all right?"

"No. I think I just told the pool guy to get out of my life. But I'm not sure if it was the right thing to do. I'm feeling pretty horrible."

"You did the right thing. The guy isn't right for you. You deserve somebody with some class, some smarts."

"Do I? Maybe I'm just a Tennessee hillbilly underneath."

"Don't be ridiculous. Now try to get some sleep."

"Phil, I'm scared. I'm clutching a stuffed bear for emotional support. But it feels like my brain is turning to ice."

"Things will look better in the morning. Or do you want to come over? I've got clean sheets in the guest room. Just let yourself in. No. Wake me. I'll put the coffee on and we'll talk when you get here. I might as well start a new era of sobriety now. To tell you the truth, I hate drinking. The guilt alone is killing me. It scares me."

"No. Go back to sleep. I'll stay here at the hotel. I don't feel like crossing town. There's too many drunks like yourself leaving the bars at this hour."

"Not me. I always take a cab."

"Only because you're not allowed to drive."

"We'll talk tomorrow. I'll be sober by then. Good-night, Sis."

She bundled herself under the covers with Tedricka, leaving the curtains open to let the reflected light from the night sky, a canopy of low clouds, illuminated by the city lights, shine in. She could sort it all out tomorrow. Decide which fork in the road to take. Life with Stretch Murphy, or go it alone. Or make no decision at all, just do like her brother did. Escape into the ozone. Take it one day at a time and let God sort it all out.

At worst, her affairs in the San Fernando Valley would all be over in a week. Sooner, if General Kremsky successfully used his influence to have Dad's body released. With that bit of luck, she could finish up the funeral and be back in Pacific Heights by the weekend. That, plus the new position with the firm and the addition of a nice fat commission added to her bank account would go a long way to assuage the pain and heartache she felt. She was almost 30 and had accomplished many of her dreams. The fulfillment of those dreams could take her a long way. Perhaps all the way to the end of her life, if she was lucky.

Chapter 12

In the morning, she awoke just after nine and was glad for the services of the hotel, thankful for the people which made it unnecessary for her to force her tired, depressed body through the challenges of the thousand and one mundane things which constitute for most the ordinary chores of maintaining their state each day prior to going out the door to work.

The suite had a stellar bath accommodation which Shannon took advantage of, and when the maid had drawn the bath, she went into pamper mode. The large oval jetted tub, bubbling hot, foaming with the best soaps and scents, presented itself as a refuge from the press of recent events, and it was here she allowed her thoughts to rise above the fray.

From the living room stereo, she allowed the soothing sounds of Christian praise music from KLOVE to drift her way, the music soothing, permeating her soul. It was a ritual she often found comforting during times of extreme duress, one in which she, by the grace of God, could perhaps hope to find some key to the chaos in question.

"Dear Lord," she prayed aloud, slowly, "you see me here before you in a time of crisis. Nothing is hidden from you, and there is nothing in my life to which you do not have the answer. But I need to find out what it is you're trying to tell me. Lord, I'm listening."

While she prayed, she found herself mindful of her dad's advice. He had once told her, "There are billions of people in the world, all asking the Lord to do something for them. So when I pray, I ask the Lord what I can do for Him."

It's a mystery, she thought. What can I do for the Lord? There are billions of us, in many ways, exactly alike. We live our lives, we do the best we can to help our families and others along their way. We are all the same and yet we are all uniquely different. Everything God does is a paradox. We live, yet we die. We die, yet we live. We are all as one, and we are all uniquely special to God. I am part of the great, uncounted crowd gathered at the Heavenly altar in John's vision, and yet I am alone in a hotel room, seeking my Maker as an individual, wondering what gift I can bestow.

In her heart, she knew, she wanted a change to occur. She was ready for some kind of breakthrough in her life. And had to admit, there had already been a couple of major changes. But not of the kind she desired. She had attained a measure of business success through the arduous applications of her chosen profession.

No, she had found favor in business, she realized, because of God--because of her faith, which had caused her to befriend a lonely old man in the park. Through that simple Christian action, she had met General Kremsky and he had rewarded her with a status above that of most of her peers.

Another monumental change was coming by way of the death of her father, bringing her through the door of a new passage in her life, and as such she was beginning to feel the weight of her own mortality pressing upon her. A single woman, who had not had the opportunity, now lost forever, to triumphantly present husband and children to her parents.

The thought pained her. Had she been overly scrupulous in her career and life choices? Had she committed the ultimate blunder and ignored marriage and children, forcing her parents to go without the blessed experience of being grandparents to their daughter's children? Had she simply been for the past 10 years a product of the world system, the successful woman who, in order to do her part to shatter the glass ceiling, postponed or in other ways blocked her maternal functions in order to compete with the men in the workplace? Had her sacrifice in this regard been the ultimate folly? It was too large a thought to consider.

And now there was Stretch Murphy tugging at the corners of her life. Which tugging ostensibly had its origins in the bizarre and antiquated notion of an arranged marriage, which he claimed Dad had suggested, shortly after getting to know Stretch.

Had Dad actually come up with the idea? Or had Stretch, for reasons of his own, made the whole thing up? Or neither? Perhaps Dad had fallen prey to a partial senility. Thus far, it was a mystery. She hadn't as yet come across any information which might link Dad to the proposition. Stretch had introduced her to his parents, they serving as witnesses to her dad's actions. But could she trust them?

I haven't rejected the notion of marrying Stretch, she thought. Which means I am not in my right mind. I should have laughed the idea right off the table. But for some reason I didn't. Has Stretch struck a chord in me, one I didn't know existed? Stretch represents husband, family, spirituality, and a sort of male brokenness which I find almost irresistible. He's been an orphan until age 14. Rescued by adoptive parents, one of whom is an immigrant from war-torn Ireland. But why did he lie about being an orphan? No, not lied, but concealed. There is a difference. And why have I rejected him? Or have I? No, Stretch left the door open last night on his way out. On purpose? As a symbol? Everything is so uncertain between us. We are dancing around the edges of love, dancing in the shadows. Because I cannot trust another human being. The general was right. It all comes down to a decision to trust somebody else.

She forgot everything for a moment, and shampooed her hair before holding her breath and submerging into the bubbles, allowing the water jets to massage her scalp, inducing complete relaxation. Which was when the revealing thought struck her. I want a husband and a family. No, not merely want them. I'm hungry for them.

My God, she thought, bursting above the bubbles, thinking back to the tearful admission while riding in the limo, of desiring many children, and the hunger she'd felt at the feast of ribs, followed by the fear of where it was all leading. Out loud, to the Lord, she spoke. "I'm dying to have a husband and children. And it's something that's been there all along. A force inside of me that I've kept at bay with my work. A force the appearance of Stretch Murphy has released."

The river of life was flowing strongly in her. As though the recent events and this morning's plunge into the whirling waters of the tub had been a sort of baptism, or confirmation of her true self. And it went against everything she'd worked to accomplish. She had been changed by the sight of Stretch Murphy. From the first moment she laid eyes on the man, her life had been different.

"Lord," she said. "It's all so clear to me now. You've stricken me with love at first sight. You've outplayed me. When I thought I had all the pieces in place, you sent Stretch Murphy in to capture my heart. And you've been setting the whole thing up for months. Lord, I've got to learn to trust you and then begin trusting Stretch Murphy. With my life."

She realized with a shock that her old life was dead. The life of lonely Sundays in Golden Gate Park, whiling away the hours playing chess with General Kremsky was now unthinkable, consigned to the ash heap of a former domain. The life ahead was uncertain, but the goals were clear. Get married and have children. She laughed out loud.

It was all so simple. The purpose of life was to beget more life. The vehicle used was Christian marriage. Which was now right in front of her. It had nothing to do with romantic love, but rather a sense of duty and Christian commitment. The romantic love would come from the soil of that commitment. God would certainly not withhold it.

She would call Stretch and tell him the good news. They would be married and raise a family and go sailing on Ike's boat and grow fat on Cece's Irish dumplings. Phil, sober again, and Minda, both experts on having children, would coach them through the birth of their first child. There would be smelly diapers to change, and unspeakable joy at their first child's smile of recognition. There would be infant baptism, to dedicate the child into God's family. It would be a life of suffering and sacrifice. Stretch would attend Seminary and pastor troubled youths through the stormy times of their life. Their living room would be filled on Wednesday nights with questioning young people, singing songs to poorly tuned 12-string guitars and devouring pizzas and learning of God's plan for them through His Word. Perhaps even General Kremsky would consent to be a godparent of their first born. His name shall be John.

The hotel phone, on the wall beside the tub, rang.

"Yes?"

"Don't forget the promise you made me." Stretch.

"What promise?"

"Church tonight? Remember? You promised to go with me. That is, unless, you're through with me. And discarding me like an old shoe for something newer and more fashionable. Like a million dollars and Nob Hill."

"Stop resenting my success."

"Only because it threatens to take you away from me. Only because your intense sophistication is an interesting subversion for your fear. But I am not fooled. I know the real you."

"You don't have me. Not yet."

"Do I have a chance?"

"Are you still here in the hotel?"

"Yes."

"Then you can meet me downstairs for breakfast in an hour. I decided just a minute ago not to discard you, although I probably should. After consulting with my new friend Tedricka, I've decided to marry you after all. But before that, we've got a lot of work to do."

"I'll be waiting."

"And don't order anything for me. The first thing you better learn about me is that I order my own food. I'm going to have to totally retrain you in the basics of how to treat me. Your first lesson is never order for me."

"Right. Me no get food for Shannon. Got it. Me go now."

"You have it, Tarzan. Or you're going to get it."

Laughing, she hung up, wondering what she had just done, where it had come from, and realized it was from somewhere inside herself she had no control over, a place where any attempt to get a grip on it met with nothing but flailing at the air.

It came from her soul. The thing God created and apparently controlled. Which was why Solomon had lamented that all human endeavor was nothing more than chasing the wind. Because in the end, only God had the final say. Because God controlled the soul, and the invisible soul, ultimately, controlled all things physical.

She was marrying Stretch because her father had looked into Stretch's soul and seen it a fit mate for her own. Her father's decision flew in the face of the conventional wisdom, which shouted loudly that women must make all their own choices, free from the intimidating domination of the male of the species, be that father, brother, friend, or foe.

"I'm getting married," she said aloud to the empty room, empty but for herself and a stuffed animal. And smiled. Because the idea seemed good. She had made the pronouncement and it felt right. Illogical and unpredictable ... but somehow right.

God has spoken to my soul. Trust Stretch Murphy.

The phone rang again.

"Ms. Ireland?" She knew the voice from it's instinctive, servile whine. Markham, from Forest Lawn.

"What is it, Markham?"

"Your father has been released from the County Coroner. It's most unusual that they should do this, I--"

"--Markham, I want you to step on it," she said. "How soon can we have the funeral? And I mean how soon, as in how fast?"

"We can have everything ready by tomorrow morning," he said.

"Negative. I want it handled by this afternoon. I've got a lot of other things to do besides plan funerals. I'm getting married, and I'm running out of time. I am giving up my former life and starting a new one."

There was a silence on the other end, followed by what sounded like fingers tapping on a computer keyboard.

"Markham? Did you hear me?"

"I just checked our schedule, and it's a tight fit, but we can do it," he said, "but we won't be able to use the Church of the Hills. I can get you The Old North Church at 3 p.m."

"The one that looks like the one Paul Revere rode by? The brick one?"

"That's the one. It's available. It's a nice church. Has a wineglass pulpit, just like in the old days."

"Pastor Coughlan is too old to climb up into any wineglass pulpit. Just hang a spray of flowers on it."

"Will do. Although this doesn't leave much time for anyone who might be coming from out of state."

"There won't be anybody doing that," she said.

It was true. Dad hadn't kept his connections tight with the relatives on the Eastern seaboard. There'd be nobody all that interested in his funeral in California. None interested enough to fly out for the occasion. The truth was, it was going to be a dismally small funeral. Just a few friends from his church and maybe some of the guys from his work where he'd continued on the past couple of years in a consulting capacity.

"Make it for four o'clock today," she said.

"I'll have to employ our concierge service to make the phone calls and arrange transportation for some of those in your party who require it."

"Do it. Send limousines to pick up anybody who wants to attend from Dad's workplace or his church. Especially Pastor Coughlan. Markham, there won't be any problem transporting the coffin from The Old North Church to his final rest in the Sheltering Hills, will there?"

"Not at all. I'll call you if there are any problems," Markham replied. "Not that I'm expecting any. We'll have the family viewing at three."

"Call General Kremsky in San Diego first and invite him to the funeral. And make sure there's some kind of cross on the wall. I'll see you then. And Markham?"

"Yes?"

"Don't cremate Dad. I want him buried instead. With his feet facing east, so he can rise and greet the Lord when He comes again. And thank you for your help. I sincerely mean that." She hung up.

General Kremsky had made his call to the higher ups in the L.A. corridors of power. Somebody had leaned on the County Coroner and gotten Dad's body released against the usual protocols. The thought reminded her of the world to which she'd soon be returning. Not a world of powerlessness over death, or indecision about marriage vows, but a world of power over people, places and things, a world where money was the lifeblood of the corporate soul which controlled everything and everybody. A world in which she'd recently risen to a higher standing. A world she was planning on leaving abruptly.

The phone rang again. David Bergstrom, her intern at Brunstetter and Griffen, his crisp baritone seeming to form a presence in and of itself wholly apart from the body which spoke it.

"You should be a radio announcer," she said.

"I've thought about it," he said, laughing. "But you have to start out someplace like Fresno, where it's so hot in the summer your shoes stick to the sidewalk, and they make you do promo gigs out of a van in front of the Wal-Mart."

"What is it, David?"

"Two things. One, check your bank account. Number two, I sent you the preliminary information on John Murphy. We got lucky with a contact at his bank. He supplied us very detailed information, including all of the accountant's statements. There's complete financials going back three years. I even got their appraisal of his residence. And I should have a great deal more personal type stuff this afternoon when the field agents file their reports."

"David, did you lie to the bank to get that information?"

"No. You know how it is. Our firm's name carries a lot of weight. Hey, we saved a major South American country."

"You lied."

"Only a little fib."

"Don't do that anymore."

"Sorry."

"David, cancel the investigation on John Murphy."

"What?"

"Cancel it. I have decided to trust the man I am going to marry."

"Shannon, may I say this doesn't sound like you. Aren't you the lady who personally visits the companies whose stock she recommends to her clients? Who bribes ground floor employees who work at prospective picks to tell her what's really going on at the nuts and bolts level? Shannon, is this you?"

"It's a matter of the soul, David."

"The soul?"

"Yes. I'm sure you've heard of it. It's that thing inside you that lives on forever after your body dies. Or is this a new concept for you?"

"Well, I--"

"--because it was for me. And I can tell you, it's a concept that enlightens. David, do you realize that one day you will be laid out on an embalming table? That everything you've done, everything you stand for will be gone forever? Except for the kindness you've shown to others?"

"Shannon, what are you saying?"

"What religion are you, David?"

"I ... Episcopalian. What else can a blond, good-looking guy from Connecticut who went to Boston College be? My dad even has a seat on the stock exchange."

"Right. Look, you can't let the process take over. Do you hear what I'm saying, David? You've got to let people take over the process. Otherwise, after awhile, the process keeps people from going anywhere or getting anything done. Do you understand where I'm going with this?"

"Shannon, I think I understand. You've been up all night drinking with this Pool Guy, right? Okay, I can understand where you're coming from. But take my advice. Breathe in and breathe out a few times. Don't get married in Las Vegas or anything. Give yourself a few days to come back down to earth."

She thought about it. What was she saying? And to whom?

"You need to go out and buy yourself a stuffed animal. Life is short, David. Don't blow it."

She hung up, threw on a robe, fired up the laptop and pulled up her bank account. The recent deposit caused her to suck in her breath. Twice. An astonishing figure. Which must have included not only her percentage of the billion dollars investment, but a substantial bonus on top. A bonus doubling the amount she thought she'd receive from the straight commission. From Griffen. The man knew how to buy loyalty. How could she leave the firm now?

She spent another half hour reviewing the financial information on Stretch, making notes to herself on the hotel stationery, computing some percentages and drawing some seasoned conclusions. One conclusion--Stretch did indeed have a huge pool business, albeit in dire need of expert financial assistance regarding the running of it. This bit of analysis done, she called Stretch.

"There's enough money in my bank account right now for us to be set for life," she said. "Yesterday, you mentioned something about a dowry."

"Yes, I did," he said. "Your Dad specified what it should be in a letter to my parents."

"How much?"

"It might shock you. Because it's not really a matter of how much, but what."

"Don't play games. How much?"

"It's not what you think. It's not money. Your Dad said he wanted you to paint a large floral still life for your dowry. Something which we could hang over our couch in the living room. But there's a catch. He said it had to have a purple elephant."

Shannon felt a strong emotional blow at his words. As a child, she'd wanted more than anything else to be an artist. She'd painted and painted. But as time passed, it became apparent she had absolutely no talent.

In High School, she'd changed her major from Art to Business Prep, a move which rewarded her with high grades, but had left an emptiness deep inside. The bitterness she'd felt over her artistic shortcomings had caused her to never paint again. But one painting in particular she'd done as a child had been framed and hung over Dad's desk at home for years. A finger-painting featuring a purple elephant sitting in a bed of flowers. The painting was etched forever on her soul. It had been a child's effort, free from the binding constraints of the world of people's opinions. She'd poured everything she had into that purple elephant. It was a fantastic-looking thing, radiating a joy she'd never been able to capture since.

"Stretch, I'm going to hang up now and cry my eyes out. If I ever stop crying, I'll see you at breakfast."

Chapter 13

He had the marmalade waiting for her. Along with pound cake, a few slabs of which were liberally slathered with the glistening jelly.

"I ordered for you," he said. "I've already broken my first vow."

In spite of herself, she laughed, a short bark at least, if not the full throated laugh she was known for in better times. After Stretch prayed, and she'd taken the first bite of cake and a sip of decent coffee, she realized she was going to live.

"Dad's body has been released from the coroner," she said. "The funeral is set for late this afternoon."

"Wow."

"Yes. It is moving fast. But it puts us in line for the Saturday wedding you mentioned yesterday."

"For real?"

"For real. So you better call your pastor and reserve the chapel at Church on the Way."

"Can't," Stretch said. "The church is booked for the next year. Plus they make you take classes for 8 weeks first. Which is why we're getting married on Ike's boat."

"You're kidding? We're getting married in a back yard on Blucher Street?"

"You haven't seen the boat. Ike has spent years on the woodwork. It's a work of art. We'll cover the deck with flowers."

"I just can't see myself on the deck of a boat in somebody's backyard."

"I have been thinking," he said. "I don't think you really love me. I think you need more time. Why don't we simply date each other for awhile and see how it goes?"

She could see he'd wrestled through the night to come up with this compromise. And she could see it would never work.

"For what purpose?" she demanded. "What good has dating ever done anybody? And what does love have to do with anything? Most of the world bases physical attraction and emotional magnetism as the reason for getting married. And where has that left us? The divorce rate in California is about 75% at last count. Maybe my Dad was right. He was a very smart man. Very logical. He emphasized that we ought to submit ourselves to the wisdom of our parents."

"But what about love?"

"Love is an emotion of the body and mind. It has nothing to do with the soul. Unless it's the unselfish kind of love in Corinthians 13. Stretch, I've been thinking. The only thing that matters in a marriage is trust. Trust and a commitment to stick it out to the very end, no matter what. What difference does it make if we're attracted to each other today? Tomorrow things may change. One of us could become paralyzed in an accident, or maybe get hit by a bio terror attack and be brain dead for life. Even if we remain healthy, perhaps we'll go through 5 or 10 years of disliking each other. What's the difference? God's plan is for two people to stay together during good times and bad. It's a relationship which mirrors God's love for the world. It's a relationship to help us prepare for being with God. Do you realize that, if we do it correctly, that one of us will most likely have to bury the other?"

He took an enormous bite of pound cake and swallowed. "You have been thinking, I'll give you credit."

"We'll have love, don't you worry. I find you incredibly attractive. And never again tell me whether or not I love you."

"Sorry."

"There's just one thing," she said. "I'm going to stay on at Brunstetter and Griffen. So after we're married, we'll have to move at my place in Pacific Heights. Or maybe we'll buy a home."

He said nothing, merely widened his eyes for a few seconds. "Pacific Heights? But that's in San Francisco. My business is here."

"Not anymore. I've just made a decision for you. Based upon a vision I had in the bathtub. You're going to seminary while I work."

"I was planning on Pepperdine."

"No. You're not going to school in Malibu. You'd flunk because you'd spend all your time at the beach instead of studying. You're through in the pool business. Besides, the business is a bust anyways. I just saw your financial reports. The whole pool thing is air."

"The gross profit of $16,000 a month isn't air."

"Yes it is. None of the standard liquidity ratios are even remotely in-line. You're barely making it month to month. It's practically a charity operation. If you ask me, you're way too heavy on the payroll side. Your employees are pool cleaners, not neurosurgeons."

"You even got my payroll information? From where? That rat fink Paul Tobin at my bank?"

"Never mind where. The point is, you're running things right at the edge."

"The bank doesn't think so. They loaned me the money for the Mercedes without batting an eye."

"Because they took a UCC filing on everything in your warehouse. And because they have a 25 percent hold on your business account as additional security, and they own the paper on your house in the Hollywood Hills, which to your credit has a little equity."

"My house in the hills is worth two million," he said.

"Not anymore. Not since the recession hit the industry as hard as it has. It's worth maybe three quarters of a mil."

"My business is growing. Soon we'll pay off all our debts and turn the corner."

"No. You're tapped out. You add a hundred more pool contracts to the equation and you'll be, excuse the expression, dead in the water. Because a hundred more pools will increase your labor and supplies cost to an unhealthy level. You could pay your cleaners less, though. That would keep you afloat maybe a year or more longer before the inevitable."

"You are a money guru, aren't you? But I can't pay my cleaners less. My men work very hard for their daily bread. Wait. You're dead serious about my giving up the business aren't you?"

"Yes I am. I think you should sell the business and your house outright. By the time you payoff the bank, and with a goodwill clause not to compete for three years, I think you can walk away with maybe a hundred grand. Which will pay for your tuition to seminary. In Berkeley."

"Hold on, lady."

"Going too fast for you, Stretch?"

"Yes. Even if I sell my business, it will take time to find just the right person. I don't want to put my employees in jeopardy. And we're not going to live off your money while I go to school. I always pay my own way."

"Not anymore. Stretch, let's settle this now. I manage the money. You manage the spirituality."

He spluttered, finding no words at this side of his intended bride which, until now, he had not seen. Bowing his head, he was silent for the space of several minutes. Shannon could almost see the wheels turning. She sipped her coffee and waited.

"So you're rich, huh?" he said.

She nodded.

"I'm marrying a rich woman," he said. "I'm going to be a kept man. Somehow that wasn't exactly the way I had it planned."

"There's worse things," she said. "The important thing is for you to pursue your calling to work with youth. It makes no difference where the money comes from."

"Okay," he said. "But it'll take some time to sell the business."

"Okay? You're giving in that easily?"

"In the end, everything belongs to God," he replied. "Even my pool cleaning enterprise."

"And you'll have to sell the Mercedes," she said.

His features flattened, his lips pressing tight against his teeth.

"Stop it. You look like an orangutan. The convertible is ostentatious," she answered. "Not fitting for a youth pastor. You should get something more down to earth, like a van or something."

"I already own 10 vans," he said. "Of course, according to you, it's all on paper. Suddenly I'm not hungry anymore." He set down his fork. "What's next on your agenda for us?"

"We have to go to my Dad's house and go through his stuff," she said. "I'm going to have Phil meet us there. Which might be a mistake because he's still drinking and he happens to hate you."

"He doesn't hate me."

"We'll see. Then we're going to open the safe deposit box, stop by and see the lawyer for a brief probate consultation and then we're going to the funeral. After that, we start planning the wedding. I guess this means we're skipping church tonight."

He pulled out his cell phone. "We don't start planning the wedding until tomorrow. Because after the funeral, you're coming over to parents for a proper Irish wake. After which, you'll be so full of Irish dumplings you won't be able to move or speak for at least twelve hours."

"Stretch, I can't."

"Can't what? Impose? Don't be ridiculous. I'm calling Mom," he said. "Besides, she has the wedding plans almost finished. But she put them on hold after last night. I'll tell her we're back on."

"No. I'm planning the wedding. I've come into some extra money. I'll hire the best wedding planner in L.A. and pay her a huge bonus to get us set for Saturday. And we won't be married on a boat in your dad's back yard. We'll have it at the Bonaventure. Maybe in a tent on the roof."

"Not negotiable," he said. "Mom's worked like a dog. Dad's been cleaning up the deck for days. And you should see the gown Mom picked out."

"What!"

"You should see the gown she picked out."

"Nobody is ordering my wedding gown for me, sight unseen."

Stretch laughed. "You don't know my mother very well. She's already picked it out, and that's that. But I should tell you, she cheated. The gown belonged to your mother. Mom got it from Joe had it completely repaired and refurbished."

"I'm getting married in my own mother's wedding gown?"

Stretch nodded.

Shannon retreated to a part of her deep inside, to the place where she usually found Jesus waiting for her, a special corner of her soul. But the place was empty. Lord, where are you? She received no answer. And understood what it meant. This was marriage they were discussing. There would have to be give and take. Sacrifice.

"Whatever Cece has done will be okay," Shannon said.

Stretch looked relieved. "You just avoided all out war. The world is safe again for children and other living things."

"I can't believe I'm doing this."

"And I can't believe I'm doing this." He pulled a ring out of his pocket, the one she'd refused the night before. A rock the size of a Volkswagen.

"I meant to give you this at Hoggly Woggly's, but you pulled your disappearing act before I could."

"You'll have to take it back," she said. "A youth pastor's wife can't wear anything that gaudy."

"Put it on," he said. And by his tone she knew he would brook no further demands. She accepted the ring, hardly daring to breathe. It fit perfectly. From what she knew of clarity, color, and cut, the thing must have cost a fortune.

Their eyes met. In his, a light of compassion and desire shone brightly, brighter than the diamond on her finger. Somewhere behind them a small boy, orphaned and alone, stood waiting to be rescued and loved. Somewhere behind her own eyes stood a little country girl hiding behind the woman ready to take that boy's hand. And somewhere between them, a single person, the sum total of them both, was about to be born under the sign and sacrament of Christian marriage.

"It's going to work," she said. "It's really going to work." He took her hand and the contact was electric. They were about to embark on a journey of soul and body, a work of worry, passion, love, and sacrifice. A life of heavenly prayers and baby's cries, one of long nights and fleeting days.

"I'm selling my Dad's house," she said. "Cutting my ties to Los Angeles completely. You'll have to do the same. Can you stand living in the Bay Area?"

"No biggie. But Ike and Cece will probably move north with us," he said. "And since I'm now a kept man, I'll expect you to buy us a place in San Francisco."

"You sure you can handle the cold and damp?"

"Yes. I want to live in the city. I think I can handle Seminary in Berkeley. There's a few good ones over there. But I want to live someplace romantic, where we can hear the fog horns at night and walk to some little shop where we can eat French pastry and drink strong espressos on Saturday mornings. If we can't afford to buy, then we'll rent. Or maybe I'll just put up a tent on top of the Griffen and Brunstetter building. How would you feel coming to live in my tent?"

"Our tent," she said.

He smiled. "At least it won't hurt when I bump my head."

They got in the car and took off for her father's house. The morning had broken clean and clear, without the usual low overcast, and it promised to be warm. They pulled in the driveway and Stretch busied himself emptying the mailbox and gathering up the dozen or so flyers stuck into various cracks in the door frame. Dad's house, as she and Stretch entered, had a hollow sound.

"The house feels like it's shrunk," she said.

"A house shrinks when its owner dies," he said. "It's like a body bereft of soul and spirit."

She opened the fridge. A mason jar of powdered milk, a stick of margarine and a half package of Fig Newtons. And of course, the marmalade. "Dad didn't eat much in his final days."

"Maybe he ate out. I know that's what I'm going to do when I'm a Senior. I'll be hitting every early bird dinner in town."

"I'm going to hate to sell it outright," she said. "We'll take a bath because it's a probate sale. Everybody expects the dead to give everything away at the end."

"Don't sell it."

"And do what? I'm not going to rent it out. There's nothing worse than being an absentee landlord."

"Give it to Phil. He's got three kids. Maybe it'll encourage him."

"Speaking of Phil, he should be here by now," she said. "And we can't say what we'll do with any of Dad's estate, because we don't know what condition it's in. I don't even know if Dad had any money."

"He must have had some. After being an engineer for his entire life. He's like my parents. From the thrifty generation. They saved 10 percent and tithed 10 percent."

"You're probably right," Shannon admitted. "Now that I think about it, Dad never talked about finances to me. Like it was some kind of secret."

"Did you ever ask?"

"No."

"Your Dad only gave advice when asked," Stretch said.

"That's right."

"A sign of great wisdom."

"We've got to go upstairs," she said. "To his office. If he's got anything we need, it's somewhere up there."

The office was cramped, furnished with an ancient desk piled high with paperwork, in no discernible order or pattern, and a folding table which supported a computer of less than up to the minute vintage. Dust covered everything.

"It's like nobody has lived here for centuries, Stretch," she said. "Can you believe it? My father was a lonely, dry, dusty old man. How come I never noticed it before?"

"We see what we want to see and ignore the rest."

"Will you stop with the Chicken Soup for the Soul one-liners?"

"Sorry. Hey, your dad was like most old men. They have a dry, leafy smell, wear sweaters instead of jackets, lean on canes when they get dizzy and give off wisdom in soft voices. Hardly leave a footprint. These are people the world takes no notice of, but they're the same people who built practically everything you see around you."

She opened the shutters to get the southern exposure, but one of the shutters, having loose screws, collapsed with a bang to the floor.

"I can't deal with this," she said.

Stretch moved close, putting his arm around her, his size seeming to suck all the space from the room.

"I'm going to take a shopping bag," he said. "And I'll rummage through here and collect whatever seems likely you'll need to show the probate attorney. You go out by the pool and just try to breathe."

"Okay. No. Don't use a shopping bag. Stuff everything into my straw purse."

A half hour later, it was over, and he appeared by the arbor, under which Shannon sat.

"I don't know if I can wait for Phil," she said. "I've been calling him every 10 minutes but he's either not answering, or not home, or on his way here, or I don't know what. I left a message for him to meet us at the attorney's at 12 o'clock. That gives us an hour to empty the safe deposit box at the bank, and an hour to have a snack before we sit down with the attorney."

Stretch got on his cell phone, walking around the pool and talking to somebody.

"Who was that?"

"I just put a man on this pool," he said. "My treat for the duration, until Phil moves in or you sell it, either way. And your Dad has a gardener, so we don't have to worry about the lawn."

Dad has a gardener? That's something new in the past year. Are you sure?"

"I found some receipts. Eighty bucks a month."

"Seems reasonable."

"Well I don't know. It's such a dinky front yard."

"Thanks, but we're not going to quibble about a few bucks. There's so much to do. We've got to have somebody keep the flyers picked up, and sell the furniture, and give away his clothes, and my mother's clothes as well ... no, I'm not going to cry. I'm sick of crying."

"At least he didn't have 50 stray cats running in and out through a broken window," Stretch said.

In spite of herself, she smiled. It was funny. A small laugh sneaked out into the cloud of psychic gloom with which she had surrounded herself.

"There's something else you should know," he said.

"What?"

"From what I could tell of all the bank statements and such I gathered up, it looks as though your dad had a lot of money."

"No. Dad took early retirement when Mom died. He took less than a full pension, and wasn't even drawing much social security. He spent all his money on my education, over $200,000, if you must know, and yes, I feel guilty about it. But tell me, how much money do you think Dad has in his savings?"

"About three million dollars."

Shannon stood up. "What?"

He reached into the straw purse and fished out a statement from Dad's Merrill Lynch account.

"Dear Lord," Shannon said.

"That's all you're going to say? Dear Lord?"

In her wildest imagination, she couldn't imagine her father having a sum that incredible. No, not Joe Ireland, who never bought a new car in his life, and generally dressed in well-worn clothing and always looked for the bargains wherever he went, and lived in a modest tract home.

"I thought I knew my father," she said. "But I had no idea he was a secret gambling addict."

"Say what?"

"Obviously, he hit the California Lottery."

"I don't think so," Stretch said, rubbing his jaw. "You're Dad didn't strike me as the gambling type. No, I think he got the money some other way. But however he got it, we've got a huge problem."

"Which is?" She wondered what his answer would be.

"I can't marry you now," he said. "Because for the rest of your life, you'll think it was for your Dad's money. I can't believe this has happened. This is a stroke of incredibly bad luck. I think I'm going to be sick." He moved to a lounge chair and eased his long frame into it, closing his eyes.

"Get up," Shannon said, kicking his big foot.

"Okay," he said, rising, in sections, his height a seeming liability to him in light of this new sorrow, as though he no longer had spirit enough to maintain the giant frame with any lightness of step or being.

"You're a sorry sight," she said. "Pull yourself together. We're going to the bank."

"Why?"

"Because we have to bury my father. You promised to help me."

"But you'll think I was only marrying you for the money. Especially since you found out my pool business isn't doing all that well."

"If I was worried about it, I could get you to sign a pre-nup."

"I'll sign it," he said. "We'll have your Dad's lawyer make one up for us."

"I said if I was worried about it. I'm not."

"Why aren't you?"

"Because I know you, Stretch Murphy. You're not the millionaire type. You eat crisp chicken tacos with your mouth full, and you wear that stupid parrot shirt, shorts, and work boots everywhere, even though you've got enough money to dress better."

"You trust me? You know I was a poor orphan. I could be money hungry."

"I trust you, Stretch. I'm taking you on faith. I've given this whole thing to the Lord. If my father said you're okay, then you're okay. Although I have no proof he said you're okay. I'm simply going to believe God knows what He's doing in my life. God is either taking care of me or He isn't. I prefer to believe He is. Now let's get moving."

They made the short drive to the bank and accessed the safe deposit box without any trouble, Shannon having been made a signatory on it years earlier, when it appeared Phil couldn't be trusted. Seated together in the tiny cubicle provided by the bank for privacy purposes, Shannon opened the box.

"There's no will," she said. "Just this letter to me, and a couple of pieces of custom jewelry my mother used to wear. And this--an old pair of glasses, the kind they used to wear. Probably belonged to my grandfather." She opened the envelope and looked up. "This was written last week. Stretch, hold my hand. I'm going to read it out loud."

My Darling Daughter,

I've been having some rather severe chest pains the past few days. My working life has been spent mastering the physics of nuclear fluids and flows. I don't need anybody to tell me my plumbing is shot. Looks like we probably won't get that chess by mail finished. Too bad, because I had a good move coming. My lawyer has all my papers at his office in the old Van Nuys Federal Savings building just off Vanowen. His name is Fishkin. Sounds Fishy doesn't it? The jewelry is for you. It's all that's left of your mother's collection after the burglar stripped us three years ago.

Shannon looked up at Stretch. "The robbery he mentions happened once when he and mom were vacationing in Yosemite. This is the jewelry she took with her, so they didn't get it. They were so trusting. Never had an alarm and just left everything out. Afterwards, Dad told me he was going to put a sign on the door for burglars saying, I'VE ALREADY BEEN PLUCKED."

"Funny man," Stretch said.

"Oh," Shannon said, after she'd returned to her reading.

I'm recommending you marry John aka Stretch Murphy. I've already arranged for the marriage with his parents. If you haven't met him yet, he's the guy on TV who wrestles the hippo. I know this might seem silly to you. Perhaps even you'll think I've fallen prey to dementia. But Stretch has been a good friend to me. Not many young men would spend time with a lonely old man. I would have told you all about him, and often thought about telling you, but the Lord has his own ways. Maybe I didn't because I thought it would be meddling too much. Stretch will have to do his own courting. I expect he'll do a good enough job. Just remember, time flies and before you know it, you'll be old like me. Try and find some happiness before that day comes.

Well, I'll see you when I see you. I want you to know that I'm not worried about you, but I'm a little worried about your brother. I'm sure you and Minda will take care of him for me. I think Phil was meant for a different place and time. I always thought he would have made a good rancher, in the days when men had to defend their property against rustlers and such. But we're not here of our own making, and we have to make the best of it.

Love always, Dad.

"My heart is breaking," she said. "And I don't know if it will ever stop being sad."

"In time," Stretch said. "But not for awhile."

"Let's get out of here," Shannon said, stuffing everything into her straw purse.

"Wait." He selected one of the pieces of jewelry, a gold chain upon which was a tiny gold apple with a small diamond embedded in an attached leaf, and fastened it around her neck. "You might as well carry a piece of your mother with you during this."

Chapter 14

It took only 10 minutes to drive to Van Nuys Boulevard to the law offices, check in and be seated in a small conference room to wait for the attorney to join them. While they waited, Shannon filled out a client sheet, listing her phone numbers and other pertinent information.

"You didn't tell the bank Joe was deceased," Stretch said. "Aren't you supposed to tell them before you clean out a safe deposit box?"

"I didn't want to complicate things. If I'd told them, they'd have wanted a copy of the death certificate. Or they might have sealed the box and called in some government official to look for taxable items, such as hidden cash or jewelry."

"Smart."

"I manage."

The attorney arrived, carrying a file, extending his hand. "Lester Fishkin," he said.

"Shannon Ireland and my fiancee John Murphy."

"The Pool Guy," Fishkin said, smiling.

"One and the same," Stretch said.

"What is in the water?" Fishkin asked.

"You never know. That's why you should call me."

"My brother Phil is supposed to meet us here," Shannon said. "He's running late. I'm afraid the news of my father's death has altered his normally punctual sensibilities. Can we start without him?"

"No problem," Fishkin said.

Shannon dumped out the contents of the purse onto the table. "Everything we could find on short notice."

"The first order of business," Fishkin said, "is to decide if you want me to represent you through the probate process. You can do it yourself or you can get somebody else."

"What's your connection to my father?"

"I do a lot of probate work. He came to see me on the recommendation of a friend. Your father wasn't the type to have much use for a lawyer, other than our serving as the preparer and keeper of his will."

"But you'd like the business?"

"I would. My fees are set by statute, so there's no horse trading. I'm experienced, and I'm local. The probate court is right here in Van Nuys."

"How long does the whole thing take?"

"Uncontested, it could take six to seven months or longer. But we can usually petition for a release of the liquid assets early on."

"You're hired," Shannon said.

Fishkin smoothly extracted some forms for her signature.

"The next order of business is marshaling the assets," Fishkin said. He examined briefly the papers dumped from the straw purse, eyes widening at the Merrill Lynch statements. "I'm going to suggest we do a thorough asset search in light of this," he said. "Might take about a week."

"I'm wondering what to do about the house Dad lived in," she said, "what with me living in the Bay Area and all, and the way the papers pile up."

"My wife's a Realtor," Fishkin replied. "I can have her take a look if you want to sell it. She can get you a preliminary title report and a short form appraisal by the end of the day. In any event, we can hire a service to keep the house picked up."

"Do," Shannon said.

"No," Stretch said. "She's giving the house to her brother."

Shannon glared at him. She fished in her purse and passed him a key. "The alarm code is 262. He chose that because it was his Scout troop number when he was a boy. And I decide what to do with the house. Unless it's in the will. Number 262 gets your wife in."

Fishkin smiled. "It beats a birth date or social security number. The thieves always guess those somehow."

"They go through our garbage," Stretch said. "It's amazing how much secret stuff is in the garbage. They also get the numbers when they steal our cars or our wallets. A lot of them have contacts they pay off at the DMV and other places. Or else their cleaning ladies and pool people sell the information to gang members. And they hack our computers. Did you know everybody's home computer gets hacked about 10 times a month?"

Both Fishkin and Shannon stared at Stretch.

"What can I say? I work with troubled youth at my church."

"You wiggled out of that one," she said. "Lester, do you have any guesses as to how my father accumulated three million dollars? On an engineer's salary?"

"It could be done," Fishkin said. "If he was thrifty and a saver."

"Or if he hit the lottery," she said.

"Or if he sold nuclear secrets to the terrorists," Stretch said.

"Stretch!"

"Sorry."

"Dad was a chemical engineer," Shannon said. "Well acquainted with nuclear processes. He was a regular at the weapons lab in Livermore."

"Shall we read the will?" Fishkin asked.

"Please."

A half an hour later, it was over, and they were back in the parking lot outside the building.

"Whew," Stretch said. "That was intense."

"I'm completely at a loss," Shannon said. "Whoever would have imagined he'd leave it all to me? And not leave his son Phil a thing except the new Suburban. Which he can't have for another month yet until the State hands him back his license. Stretch, do you realize that a day or so ago, I had a net worth of about 80 grand, and now I'm worth close to seven million dollars? I'm afraid. My brother might kill me. Or kill himself when he finds out."

"But the will explained why," Stretch said. "Phil was to receive no money, only the Suburban, if he'd had a drink within twelve months preceding your father's death. Your father was afraid that sudden wealth would push Phil into an orgy of self-destruction."

"I could have told Fishkin that Phil hadn't drank. Then he would have gotten half."

"No. That would have been a lie."

"But what if Phil tells Fishkin I'm lying?"

"The will allows your word to be taken as the truth in the matter."

"Phil will take me to court. He'll say Dad wasn't of sound mind. He'll bring up the whole issue of our arranged marriage as proof. It'll look like you and I conspired against him."

"Fishkin will then rear his ugly head and fight back. That's why these family law attorneys take on this kind of low paying probate work. Because families feud after someone dies, and when they do, lawyers rack up the bucks. By the way, what did you think of the official notarized document containing the details of our arranged marriage?"

"I thought it was totally archaic. Until now, I still half-believed you made it up. Imagine such a thing in this day and age. But I am also deeply moved by it for some strange reason. It struck a chord in me in a place I never knew existed. Could it be that the ancient peoples were correct in arranging their marriages?"

Her phone rang.

"Shannon?" Minda, Phil's wife.

"Minda? Are you calling me from the Philippines?"

"No. I'm home again. I didn't go to the Philippines. I just told everybody that. I couldn't go."

"Where have you been?"

"Anaheim. I took the kids to Disneyland for a couple of days."

"Is Phil with you?"

"No, Phil is out on a bender somewhere. The house is a wreck. There are bottles everywhere. It looks like he had a bunch of people here. I don't know where he is."

"Oh Lord, Minda."

"You better pray. Only God can save Phil now."

"Minda ... we're laying Dad to rest this afternoon at Forest Lawn. A small ceremony. It starts at 3 o'clock."

"Okay. I'll come and bring the kids."

"We'll send a car for you. A limo. Minda, I'm worried for your safety."

"Don't be. My two brothers are here from the Philippines. I had them fly over. They're going to stay with me awhile until everything is straightened out."

"Phil will try and hurt them."

"No he won't. They know escrima."

"What's that?"

"Philippino stick fighting."

Shannon terminated the connection. "Well that tears it," she said.

"Tears what?"

"Everything. Phil's wife is barricaded in her condo in Encino with a couple of her brothers posting watch with baseball bats. Phil is out on a drunk somewhere. With a year of probation still to finish. Doing heaven only knows what. And with whom."

"Lord, watch over Phil," Stretch prayed.

"Please, Stretch. This thing is beyond prayers."

"Get a grip," he said. "Nothing is beyond prayer. You're just at a low ebb or you wouldn't even be saying such a thing."

"I feel terrible that Dad didn't leave anything to his only son except a car. And now he may not even get that. What if he gets arrested and they find out he's on probation? Phil could wind up in prison."

"Look, your dad gave you the money because he knows you're money smart. If you want to help Phil sober up and after a proper amount of time, help him out financially, that's up to you."

"I never thought of it that way," she said. "Still, 3 million dollars is a lot of money. Enough for Phil to kill me over. If I was dead, he'd inherit. Oh my gosh. Unless I was married. Then all the money would go straight to you."

"You trust your own brother that little?"

"Stretch, this is going to sound horribly terrible. But I'm wondering who I can trust? I hate to be this honest, but you're right. The money has changed everything. Because now I'm feeling paranoid about everybody in my life. Help me, Stretch. Tell me something intelligent. Something wise."

"We need to eat something," Stretch said. "We should have had something before we came here, like we planned. I'm starving. Then it'll be time for the funeral."

"There's a Jack in the Box across the street. Would onion rings and ketchup be inappropriate two hours before a funeral?"

"Probably," he said. "But I'm game."

"We'll both eat them," she said. "In the unlikely event we share another kiss later."

"Unlikely?"

"Worried?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Because I love you," he said. "I don't ever want to lose you. And because I want another kiss." He placed his long arm across her shoulders, steering the huge Mercedes with one finger into the drive-through. "Four orders of extra large onion rings," he said. "And lots of those little ketchups. And two large root beers."

"I liked it better in the old days," Shannon said. "When they had that giant clown to talk to."

"But their food was the worst. The buns were cardboard. One of their cheeseburgers killed a kid in Oregon."

"I still liked it."

"That's because you were a kid then," he replied. "Everything tastes better to a kid."

"I invited General Kremsky to the funeral," Shannon said.

"Do you think he'll come on such short notice?"

"Maybe. He's in San Diego, probably hanging out with his old Russian friends, but he has his own jet and helicopter, so a trip to L.A. is no biggie for him. And I think he has a lot of friends here."

Stretch pulled off Van Nuys Boulevard onto a side street of older homes, mostly low-square footage stucco boxes taken over by renters who favored chain link fences and pit bulls. One home was host to a variety of older automobiles of uncertain make, rusting on blocks in the front yard, their languishing presence quietly violating at least a dozen city ordinances. They watched in fascination as a large orange cat watched them from the windowless rear deck of a yellow coupe.

The cell rang. Fishkin, the attorney. "I just got off the phone with Merrill Lynch," he said. "Thought you'd like to know your father came by his money honestly. He invested in oil stocks for about 10 years in a company pension plan which matched him 100%. Then in the early '80's, he dumped the entire thing into the high tech sector, including Microsoft. He got out a few years before the crash."

"Thanks, Mr. Fishkin," Shannon said, breaking off and turning to Stretch. "Dad made his money in the market. The man was a master of timing."

"Casting his bread upon the waters," Stretch said.

"He was smart. I had no idea. In spite of my talents, he never involved me in his finances."

"Best onion rings anywhere," Stretch said, holding one aloft and admiring it from various angles. "Lord, bless this food which we are truly thankful for, and may it nourish our bodies."

"You're so tactful when you change the subject. But don't make me laugh," Shannon said. "We'll lose a year off our lives after the first greasy bite."

"Maybe not," he replied. "Food is food. At the cellular level, at least. By the time it hits my bloodstream, my corpuscles don't know if it was an onion ring or roast pheasant."

"You're wrong. Your cells do know. And they don't like what we're doing to them. Hurry up and open all those little ketchups."

"You'll have to do it. They're too slippery and my fingers are too big."

"You're a sexist."

"Only when it comes to food."

They made it to The Old North Church replica by three o'clock, and were met, not by Paul Revere, but by an usher, who steered them into the foyer where stood a guest book and a stack of programs.

Beyond this, through an open set of double doors, at the end of a center aisle, just past the wineglass pulpit, in front of the steps leading to the communion table, was the open casket, draped with an impressive spray of flowers, next to which was a podium. A large wooden cross hung suspended from the ceiling above the casket, it's emptiness suggesting that somewhere beyond this room there was a place free from the ignominy of death.

She collapsed without realizing she was doing so, not understanding that the sight of the coffin could deal her such a blow from a distance. That it had the power to do so forced upon her once again the realization that she was not ready, nor ever would be ready, to go through life without her father. The man had been a quiet source of steady strength all her born days and now that strength had departed.

Stretch, alert to her predicament, had made a nice job of intercepting her fall to the point that she now found herself lifted bodily in his arms, he lifting her lightly as though she weighed nothing.

"Do you want to see him now?"

"Stretch ... I fell."

"It's okay. Do you want me to take you to see him?"

"I ... yes. Don't put me down. Take me to him. Wait. Where's my straw purse?"

"Hanging on your arm, right where you left it."

"I'm out of it, aren't I?"

"You're doing great." It took but a few quick strides from Stretch's long legs and she was snug in his arms, over the coffin, looking down. And knew, in the manner of true knowing, a manner not of words or feelings, but of the soul, that her father was dead. Because what was lying in the coffin was no longer Joe Ireland.

"What have they done to him? His face ... it's so swollen."

"They did the best they could. Remember, the County had him first."

"They should all be taken out and hanged."

She hadn't realized what large hands her father had. Not until this moment, when they were completely stilled. Dad had used his hands well in life, and she realized it was the first time she had ever seen them when they were not in motion, not gesturing as he talked, or holding a fork, removing his glasses or working with tools, or tickling her chin to bring her out of an angry mood as a child.

"Let me down," she said. He did, and she leaned forward.

"Oh God," she said. "The urn is here. Holding my Mother's ashes." She bent and kissed her father's forehead and her mother's urn. "Good-bye, Mom and Dad. I love you both."

Stretch reached into his pocket and pulled out a small envelope, which he placed inside Joe's breast pocket, before touching Joe's hand in farewell.

"What's that?"

"A final chess move. My white queen to his king's bishop three for check."

"A black square. Oh! You know what I just realized? We forgot to dress for this funeral. We have to go home and change to black. You can't bury someone wearing yellow parrots. I can't stand by his grave wearing this straw hat with the flower on it."

"Forget it," he said. "Just this once, we won't be standing on protocol. If it makes you feel any better, your father gave me this shirt."

"He didn't."

"He did. He ordered it on the internet from Hilo Hattie's just for me."

"Then take me outside. The walls are closing in. The whole place smells like Carpet Fresh. I need to walk and get some air before the service starts. No, wait. There's something I have to do." Reaching into her straw purse, she extracted Tedricka and placed the tiny stuffed animal in her father's arms.

"So he'll take a piece of me with him," she explained to Stretch.

Weather can be mercurial in L.A. in the late Spring. In the short matter of minutes they'd been inside, great dark clouds had cruised in through the mountain passes from the overheated, smog-shrouded, inland empire of Riverside County, turning the Valley foothills dark, and splattering flat, wet drops everywhere, stopping the two of them on the steps of the church, where they had a view of gardens, and a walkway which led to the parking lot where the hearse in solitary dignitary sat, attended by a uniformed attendant holding an umbrella.

"Oh great," she said. "I can't even take a walk. Now we'll have to bury Dad in the rain. What, will they have to put the whole thing under a tarp or something? Do they have enough spare umbrellas? Could it possibly get any more depressing?" Before she was finished saying it, her cell rang.

"Shannon?"

"Minda? Where are you?"

"We're at the entrance gate, near the big fountain with the flying angels, heading your way. But there's some bad news. Phil was arrested in a bar on Sepulveda and Vanowen. He attacked a man with a bar stool. It was a cop bar. He used his phone call to call me. He said they beat him up pretty good."

"What did he expect? Why in the world did he go into a cop bar? Where is he now?"

"The Van Nuys PD have him. Shannon, he's going to prison for violating his parole. The officer I talked to said he might have to serve three years more."

"Oh Minda. I'm so sorry."

"I'll see you in a few minutes. But I thought you should know."

She ended the call. "My brother is on his way to prison," she said.

"God is working in his life," Stretch replied.

"How can you say that?"

"There's lots of Christians in prison. We'll visit him every couple of months. Phil knows the Lord. In prison, he'll get to know Him even better."

"I'm going to have a meltdown," she said. "An absolute meltdown, all the way to China."

"No. The Lord is with you. He'll give you the grace you need."

"He has," she said. "You're right."

"He has?"

"He's given me you. I see it clearly now, Stretch. You've been sent from God just for me. Stretch, I've decided to trust you completely. I'm putting all my faith in God, that He has brought us together."

"I'm not entering the seminary," he said.

"What?"

"God spoke to me when I was beside your Dad's coffin. When I put the note containing the chess move in his pocket."

"What did He say?"

"He said I have to stay where I am. To stay with you and support you in whatever it is you decide to do. And be there for our children."

"You mean you're putting your life in my hands?"

He nodded. "God showed me who you are--you're the capable wife of Proverbs 31. Her husband puts his confidence in her and he will never be poor."

"I'm stunned."

"It's all up to you, Shannon. Make of it what you will."

At this point, a group of about 15 men appeared at the end of the walkway, all spotting Stretch and at once raising their hands in salute. As they drew closer, Shannon realized what was wrong with the picture. All the men were short and stocky, with the distinct facial characteristics of those afflicted with Down syndrome.

"Who are they?" she asked. "Stretch? Why are they waving? They seem to know you. Does everyone in this city recognize you from that stupid hippo commercial?"

"Those are some of my pool guys," he said. "I invited a few to the funeral so we wouldn't feel so lonely."

"Those are your pool guys? You hire the developmentally disabled?"

"Yeh. Only I don't call them that."

"What do you call them?"

"My pool guys."

"You clean about how many pools a month?"

"Maybe 6,000. Give or take."

"And all of them are cleaned by these kind of people?"

"Yes. But don't ever let them hear you say these kind of people. They might slip a regressive gene into your food and turn you into one of them. It'll take you five years to figure out how to work the phone."

"What a horrible joke."

"Sorry. I learned it from one of my pool guys."

"And I'm sorry, too. I'm just ... overwhelmed. I don't see how you do it."

"I don't do anything. They're managed in groups of eight by area managers. I have six area managers with vans who deliver everybody to the job sites. But that's only in the Valley. We're just starting to go into the Hollywood. It's a completely Christian operation."

"How did you meet them?"

"It started out small. I just needed a couple of guys to help me clean pools. I knew these two guys from the youth group at church, and I took a chance. Things just sort of mushroomed from there. Last year the State got involved in helping me train them."

"How many people do you have?"

"Around 100."

"Oh my God."

"What?"

"Stretch, don't you get it? How can I ask you to sell your business now? Knowing that if you do, all these people's jobs are at risk? You're practically a saint for the work you're doing."

"No. I'm just the guy who wrestles the hippo on TV and signs up a few accounts. These guys do all the work, not me. Divinity school, here I come."

The pool guys filed past them, mostly hatless in the rain, offering condolences and respect. Their group was immediately followed by another group of men, of whom numbered at least a dozen, who were characterized by an odd assortment of umbrellas, ill-fitting sports coats and baggy slacks, their loose-jointed strides, intelligent faces and awkward demeanors suggesting they were best fit for the university cloister rather than the pool side.

"My father's friends from work," Shannon said. "The nerds who design all our nuclear weaponry. The ones who figured out how to make that new thermobaric bomb that heated up Ben Laden's cave to a very uncomfortable 4,000 degrees. After blowing the doors off every room in the cave."

The men filed past, expressing sympathies and sharing a few comforting anecdotes about their days with her father in the various labs for which they all worked.

"Hey look," Stretch said, looking down and away from them at a man dressed in black, standing at the edge of the parking lot. The man was approximately the size of a refrigerator, a good six inches over six feet tall, weighing easily three hundred pounds. His massive shoulders were slung with a heavy strap attached to a big leather bag. Despite his bulk, he moved toward them with the grace of a panther.

"That's Nasty John, General Kremsky's bodyguard," Shannon said. "It means the General is coming to the funeral."

"I can see why they call him Nasty John," Stretch said.

"Don't ever call him that," Shannon warned. "Only the General is allowed to call him that."

"What's in his bag?"

"I've been told he carries a bag of knives and grenades. But I'm sure that's just a rumor."

"I'm not," Stretch said. "That guy looks incredibly dangerous."

Behind the bodyguard appeared a thin, frail man wrapped in a black raincoat, holding an umbrella.

"Let me guess," Stretch said. "The General?"

"One and the same."

The General drew apace. His bodyguard, hatless in the rain, stood a scant distance away, cold eyes missing nothing. "My heartfelt condolences," Kremsky said, giving her a brief hug and kiss on each cheek. "We bury one of the great men of our times today."

"Thank you General. But I don't think you can call my Dad one of the great men. He was just a simple, quiet man who loved his family and did his job."

"The last shall be first," the General said. "Those who do not seek the head of the table will find themselves being asked to sit there in the end. I'm afraid it will not go so well with myself on the day of judgment."

"The Lord knows your heart, General," Shannon replied. "You won't be overlooked at His table."

"If I make it in," he said, "I'll save a place for you."

"With Christ you have assurance of salvation," Stretch said.

He looked Stretch over carefully, his experienced eyes taking the measure of the tall young man, recording every strength, every weakness.

"I'm 82 old," he said. "Never presume to know more than your elders. I'm well aware of the first letter of John."

"Sorry."

"Is this him?" the General asked her.

"Yes. This is Stretch Murphy. He's the man I decided to trust after talking to you last night."

"You." he said to Stretch.

"Yes?"

"In Joe Ireland's absence from his body on this earth, this is my adopted granddaughter. Do you understand?"

"Yes."

"Do you understand?" It seemed as though the General was shouting, and yet he'd not raised his voice above the merest of hoarse whispers.

"Yes ... General."

"There will be no turning back. Do you understand?"

"I'm willing to die for her if necessary," Stretch replied.

"Everybody says that starting out," he said. "It's easy to die for someone. But it's not so easy to live every day for someone. Can you do that? Give up your life every day for her? Say no to yourself everyday to render her the respect and service she deserves?"

"Yes. I'm willing to leave everything for her. To be with her."

"And you," Kremsky said to Shannon. "Will you go with this man?"

"I ... General, I--"

"--Will you go with this man?"

She could feel his hazel Russian eyes boring straight into her own, and felt the power of his spirit. His was a power born to command others, to comprehend their totalities and render judgments.

His words might as well been straight from the mouth of God. And she knew the answer to his question. Understood that she'd known the answer from the minute she'd first laid eyes on Stretch Murphy. It was the response of a child, based upon that which delighted and attracted and felt right, no matter the awkwardness, the external circumstances.

"I will," Shannon said. "It's sudden and unexpected, but I will. I even want to have his children."

"Shannon?" Stretch said.

She smiled and took his hand, the tears starting to run.

"General, we want you to be the godfather of our first child," she said.

"You have my blessing, the both of you," General Kremsky said, turning, and making his way to the chapel.

"General?" Shannon called. "My brother Phil is in a little trouble. He violated his parole and the police want to send him to prison. He didn't kill anybody or anything. Just got in a fight."

"I'll take care of it," the General said.

"General ... my brother is a violent man."

The General nodded at Nasty John and smiled back at her. "I've heard enough about this brother of yours. It's time he got his life straightened out. I'm going to hire him as a ... security consultant. Then we'll work on him and his temper. Bring him under the authority of myself, Nasty John, and God. Not necessarily in that order, of course."

"Thank you, General."

"Shannon," the General said.

"Yes?"

"You're fired."

"General?"

"Our business is complete. I trust your bonus sufficient. Now go and get yourself a life. We will, of course remain friends. I still hope for the occasional game of chess."

The General turned and walked away.

"Oh man," Stretch said. "Oh man. I had no idea. No idea at all. That guy has a lot of power. A lot of power. I felt like a little kid, like if I tried to get away, he'd simply snatch me by the collar and drag me back."

"Will it bother you if he's the godfather to our first child?"

"I guess not. If it's what you want. I'm not sure what Ike or Cece will think. But it's not their decision to make."

"Another thing," Shannon said. "You can forget divinity school."

"Come again?"

"You already have your ministry. It's cleaning pools. And I need a new job. I'm going to be your manager and put the business in the black."

Stretch opened his mouth and closed it. Then opened and closed it again, his mind unable to compute the explosion of the dream as a new reality roared into his life.

"You're right," he said. "I guess I knew it myself, way down deep."

"The rain is stopping," she said, observing a ray of sun poking through in the north valley. An old couple was coming up the walk, sharing an umbrella. "Here comes Ike and Cece."

"God bless you both," Ike said. Cece was crying, and said nothing. Behind them were Minda, Phil's children, and Minda's two brothers, one of whom walked with a cane, even though he looked healthy enough.

"Minda, I'm giving you dad's house," Shannon said. "You can move in anytime you're ready. It's completely paid for. And I'm setting up a trust fund for taxes, utilities and maintenance. I think we should rip the carpets out and bring back the wood floors."

Minda's eyes widened and her mouth opened wide, but she said nothing, too shocked for speech. She and her family were followed lastly by the diminutive, aged form of Pastor Coughlan and his assistant who drove him everywhere. The old pastor, using a cane, shaking with Parkinson's and moving slowly, Tam O'Shanter firmly on his white-haired crown, shuffled towards them, smiling at them from the distance. Inside, some music began, and the sounds of a woman singing, Amazing Graze.

"That must be the singer we hired," Shannon said. "Dad's favorite hymn. Pastor is here. I guess it's time to get started. We won't have to bury my father in the rain after all."

"God is good," Stretch said.

"Yes."

"C'mon," he said. "It's time to complete the final arrangements."

"Wait," she said, opening her cell and hitting the speed dial. "I want to tie up a few loose ends before we lay my father to rest."

"Brunstetter and Griffen," David Bergstrom, her intern, said.

"David, make a note. There's a woman who works at the Sheraton Universal City named Christa. She's a personal shopper for their concierge. I want you to track her down and have the firm offer her your old intern position. Then I want you to call Ronald Griffen and tell him you're my choice for running the Kremsky account. Because I'm not coming back. I'm staying in Los Angeles and getting married. I'll stay on for a couple of months in a consulting capacity only until your feet are on the ground."

"Shannon, I--"

"I'm going to Dad's funeral now. Just tell me you'll do as I say."

"I'll ... okay. You got it. I'll do it."

"Good-bye, David."

Shannon and stretch approached the chapel arm in arm.

"I'm going to miss my father," she said.

"We all will. The General's wisdom is correct. Your dad was a great man."

"The General didn't know my dad. He was just saying that to be polite."

"Wrong," Stretch said. "He was saying that because he knew Joe Ireland's daughter."

She reached up on tiptoes and placed a delicate kiss on his lips. "I'm glad you're not going into full time ministry," she said. "Because your ministry is going to be more than your work with the developmentally challenged. It's also going to be your family."

"My family?"

"That's right. We're going to run you ragged."

"I can live with that. But since we're speaking in absolutes here, you should know I'm not giving up my Mercedes."

"Fair enough. And you should know I'm not marrying you on Saturday. First we are going to meet your pastor and put ourselves under his authority. As beautiful as the idea of the arranged marriage is, I still want spiritual guidance. And I want to be part of the wedding planning. We're getting married in a church, not on a boat."

"Okay."

"One last thing. There's no way I'm painting a purple elephant for my dowry. I'll just use the original one in Dad's office. It'll have to do."

"Agreed."

"I love you, Stretch. But more importantly, I'm going to commit myself to you."

"Shannon--"

"--Shush. I know love isn't strictly required," Shannon said, "our forthcoming marriage being something arranged by our parents and all. But I thought I'd throw it in for balance."

Stretch laughed. "And I can definitely live with that," he said.

THE END

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Final Arrangements