He got up from the steps and went back in the house. Maybe he'd go on to work. Snatching up his lab coat, he let the animals in, kneeling to stroke them, giving the old dogs a hug.

But then in the car he didn't turn up Ocean toward the automotive shop; he drove on across the divided street, on through the village. This was Wilma's late day at the library, she didn't go in until one. Maybe she had the coffeepot on; maybe she was baking something. He was possessed by a sudden muzzy domestic craving, a yearning for company, for a warm, safe kitchen and the smells of something good cooking, yearning for the warm security he had known in his childhood.

He stopped at the cleaners and the grocers, the drugstore, took his time with his errands, then headed up San Carlos between the little cafes and galleries, between houses and shops pleasantly mixed, along with inconspicuous motels, all shaded by eucalyptus trees and sprawling oaks. The morning air was cool, smelled of the sea. The sidewalks were busy with people walking to work, jogging, walking their dogs. A few tourists were out, their walk more hesitant as they browsed, their clothes tourist-bright. The locals lived in jeans and faded sweatshirts, or, if business required, in easy, muted sport clothes.

He told himself he hadn't seen Wilma all week, that it would be nice to visit for a few minutes, but, watching for her stone house beneath its steeply peaked roof, he watched more intently the sidewalk in front, looking for a green van and a flash of red hair.

Wilma's niece had arrived from San Francisco three weeks ago, another disenchanted art school graduate who had found that she couldn't make a living at her chosen profession. Charlie had given herself two years to try, he had to hand her that. When she'd finally had enough she launched herself, no holds barred, into a hardheaded new venture.

Charleston Getz was an interesting mix, tall and lean like Wilma, but with big square hands, big joints despite her slim build. She wore no makeup-her redhead's delicate complexion and prominent bone structure didn't seem to require additional coloring. Her red hair, wild as a bird's nest, became her. He couldn't picture Charlie dressed up, had never seen her in anything but jeans.

But she knew how to behave in a nice restaurant. And, more to the point, she knew how to work. The day she arrived in Molena Point she had filed for a business permit and had bought a used van with most of her savings. By the end of the week she'd had business cards printed, had put an ad in the paper, and hired two employees. CHARLIE's FIX-IT, CLEAN-IT was off to a running start, and now three weeks later she had completed two jobs and taken on two more. It was just a small start, but she'd thrown herself wholeheartedly into a viable venture. The village badly needed the kinds of services she was providing.

It took, usually, about two years to get a business off the ground and established, turn it into a paying operation. But he thought Charlie would do fine. She liked the work, liked grubbing around spiffing up other people's houses and property, liked bringing beauty to something dull and faded.

Turning down Wilma's street, his spirits lifted. The van was there, the old green Chevy sitting at the curb. He parked behind it, smiling at the sight of Charlie's Levi-clad legs sticking out from underneath beside six cans of motor oil, a funnel, and a wad of dirty rags. Looked like the van was already giving her trouble. He hoped she wasn't dating him because he was a good mechanic. He swung out of the car, studying her dirty tennis shoes and her bony, bare ankles.

Where Charlie's ancient van stood two feet from the curb, Charlie's thin, denim-clad legs protruded from beneath, her feet in the dirty tennis shoes pressed against the curb to brace her as she worked. The six unopened cans of motor oil that stood on the curb beside a pile of clean rags were of a local discount brand, and the oil was fifty weight in deference to the vehicle's worn and floppy rings, oil thick enough to give those ragged rings something they could carry. Anything thinner would run right on through without ever touching the pistons. Clyde stood on the curb studying Charlie's bare, greasy ankles. He could smell coffee from the kitchen, and when he turned, Wilma waved at him from the kitchen window, framed by a tangle of red bougainvillea, which climbed the stone cottage wall, fingering toward the steeply peaked roof.

The cottage's angled dormers and bay windows gave it an intimate, cozy ambience. Because the house was tucked against a hill at the back, both the front and rear porches opened to the front garden, the porch leading to the kitchen set deep beneath the steep roof, the front porch sheltered by its own dormer. The house was surrounded not by lawn but by a lush English garden of varied textures and shades, deep green ajuga, pale gray dusty miller, orange gazanias. Wilma had taught him the names hoping he might be inspired to improve his own landscaping, but so far, it hadn't taken. He didn't like getting down on his hands and knees, didn't like grubbing in the dirt.

A muffled four-letter word exploded from beneath the van, and Charlie's legs changed position as she eased herself partially out, one hand groping for the rags.

He snatched up a rag and dropped it in her fingers. "Spill oil in your eye?" Kneeling beside the vehicle, he peered under.

She lifted her head from the asphalt, the rag pressed to her face. Beside her stood a bucket into which dripped heavy, sludgy motor oil. "Why aren't you at work? Run out of customers? They find out you're ripping them off?"

"I thought you had an appointment with Beverly Jeannot."

"I have. Thirty minutes to get up there." She took the rag away, selected a relatively clean corner, and dabbed at her eye again. "I didn't have to do this now, but the oil was way down, and I didn't want to add-oh you know."

"No, I don't know. All my cars run on thirty weight and are clean as a whistle. How's the Harder job going?"

"I have my two people working up there." She tossed out the oily rag, narrowly missing his face. "Thought I'd wash this heap, but I won't have time."

"What difference? Is clean rust better?"

Under the van she watched the last drops of oil ooze down into the bucket. Replacing the plug into the oil pan, she slid out from under, pulling the bucket with her. Kneeling on the curb, she opened a can of oil, stuck the spout in, then rose and inserted the spout beneath the open hood into the engine's oil receptacle.

"Better get a hustle on. Beverly Jeannot doesn't like the help to be late."

"Plenty of time. She's formidable, isn't she? How do you know her? I thought she lived in Seattle-came down just to settle the estate."

"I don't know her, I know of her. From what Janet told me."

She removed the can, punched another, and set it to emptying into the van's hungry maw.

"Like a suggestion?"

She looked up, her wild red hair catching the light, bright as if it could shoot sparks.

"Ride up to the shop with me, and take that old '61 Mercedes. It looks better than this thing, and it needs the exercise."

"You're being patronizing."

"Not at all. This is entirely in the interest of free enterprise-it will help your image. Beverly Jeannot's a prime snob. And I don't drive that car enough."

"And what's the tariff? How much?"

"You're so suspicious. It really needs driving. Scout's honor, no strings. Not even dinner-unless you do the asking." He watched her open the third can of oil, admiring her slim legs and her slim, denim-clad posterior. He liked Charlie, liked her bony face and her fierce green eyes, liked her unruly attitude. He was at one with her general distrust of the world; they were alike in that.