Mrs. Blossom looked worriedly at her watch. “I don’t know – there’s the news, after Oprah. I like to watch that, be up on things. And then there’s Wheel of Fortune and Access Hollywood.”

“Access Hollywood,” Tess said. “That’s what my life has become actually. I have all this access to Hollywood, and it doesn’t interest me at all. I’m doing some work for that television show that’s filming here.”

“Really?” Mrs. Blossom’s voice rose to a fan-girl squeal. “Have you met Johnny Tampa?”

Tess was surprised that Mrs. Blossom knew the details of the production.

“I saw him from across a room,” Tess said.

“What does he look like in person?”

She thought about this. “Broader.”

Mrs. Blossom took Miata’s leash, fell into step beside Tess. They were coming up on the synagogue, the busy street beyond it, and the dogs recognized this as the point where they usually turned around.

“But what’s he like, Johnny Tampa? Nice. I bet he’s nice.”

“I saw him for only ten minutes or so. You can’t know anything about someone in such a short period of time.”

“I decided I wanted to marry Hamilton Blossom the moment I met him, and we got married four days later. The moment I saw him, I thought he was the nicest, kindest man I could ever find. We celebrated our forty-third anniversary last year.”

“And forty-three years later, do you still think he is the nicest, kindest man you’ve ever met?”

“Oh, by then… well, by then, I realized that I didn’t know the half of things. He was nicer than I ever suspected. He died this winter.”

Her matter-of-factness about her loss made it sadder somehow.

“I’m sorry,” Tess said.

“Me, too,” Mrs. Blossom said, sighing, not from self-pity but from the simple acknowledgment that she was sad, and likely to be so for some time.

The dogs, sensing the nearness of home – and the implicit promise of a treat upon their arrival – picked up the pace. Mrs. Blossom had to trot to keep up with Miata. “What’s Selene Waites like?”

Self-centered to the point of idiocy, the walking punch line to every dumb-blonde joke ever told, but a pretty good actress. “About what you would expect, I think.”

“She looks so thin. She looks as if a good breeze would break her in two. Mr. Blossom always told me he liked a woman with some meat on her bones.”

A breeze eddied around them, fluttering the leaves, sending a few swirling to the ground. Both dogs perked their ears, as if they could pick up the scent of the changing season. The small shot of cool air reminded Tess that such golden autumn days were a short-term loan, and that winter would be here sooner rather than later, intent on being paid in full for all this loveliness. She would have liked to linger on the path, in the surprisingly not-bad company of Mrs. Blossom. But she needed a nap so she would be fresh and alert for her first solo evening with Selene Waites.

“Sorry about earlier today,” Tess said.

“About what?” Selene was standing in the living room of her rental condo, a place with the kind of sweeping harbor view that Tess had always coveted. Come to think of it, she had once enjoyed such a view, from the rooftop of her aunt’s bookstore, when Tess had lived in the little apartment on the top floor. But with high-rise condos such as this one going up all over what was now billed as Harbor East, some longtime residents were living in shadowy canyons, barely capable of seeing the sun, much less the water.

“My cell phone going off in the middle of your scene.”

“Was that your cell phone?” Selene began pulling off the baggy sweater that she was wearing over tight, odd-looking jeans, along with a pair of freakishly furry boots. It was a fall night, barely in the fifties, and the actress was dressed for a hipster ski lodge. But then, given how thin she was, she was probably cold all the time.

If the outfit was strange, Selene’s decision to remove it in the middle of her living room seemed downright bizarre. In seconds, she was down to nothing but a pair of panties and the ridiculous boots, and Tess couldn’t begin to imagine how she had gotten the jeans off over the boots. Perhaps the denim had some stretch to it.

“Selene-”

“Hmmmm?” She headed toward the kitchen, separated from the living and dining rooms by a breakfast bar, and briefly disappeared behind the door of a vast refrigerator whose veneer matched the cherrywood cabinets. She emerged with a Red Bull and the largest bottle of vodka that Tess had ever seen in her life. And Tess had seen some pretty large vodka bottles in her day.

“You can’t have that,” she said firmly, removing the vodka bottle from Selene’s grasp while letting her keep the Red Bull. “You’re underage.”

The girl blinked once, twice, then burst into tears.

“It’s in private, not in a bar,” she blubbered. “Why can’t I do what I like in the sanctuary of my home?”

Tess’s lips twitched at the slight misstatement – Selene probably meant sanctity, although sanctuary wasn’t necessarily incorrect – but she kept her tone stern.

“You’re twenty. If this were wine with dinner, or even a beer, I might be a little more permissive. But coming home at eight o’clock and going straight for a vodka-caffeine cocktail, when you haven’t had a bite to eat – that’s not a good idea. Also, would you put a top on? I’ve spent a lot of time in locker rooms, but I’m not really comfortable with sustained nudity in people I hardly know.”

Selene looked down at her shallow, almost concave chest. Her tears had ended as suddenly as they started, and Tess wondered if the tantrum had been a bit of stagecraft, a test to see if she was susceptible to Selene’s pouting. The men in Selene’s life probably fell apart at the first tiny blubber.

“Do you think I should get a boob job?”

“God, no.”

“Easy for you to say, walking around with what-” Selene curved her hand, as if she were going to feel Tess up, and Tess backed away so she was safely out of reach. “A C cup?”

“D,” Tess admitted.

“Of course, they would be smaller if you took a little weight off, but still, a D cup. Would you trade that in for an A-minus? I’m built like a boy. My collarbone sticks out farther than my breasts.”

She smacked her clavicle, which was, in fact, more pronounced than the glands beneath it.

“If there was an operation to change your height, would you get it?” Tess asked.

“Is there?” Selene’s eyes shone with excitement. The body may have verged on plucked chicken, but the face was almost inhuman in its beauty, a Botticelli come to life. Well, it was Botticellian in the coloring – the pink-and-gold glow in the cheeks, the masses of strawberry blond hair. The shape owed far more to the narrow visages of Modigliani, all cheekbones and almond eyes. “Can you choose where you gain the length? Because I would love to have longer legs.”

“I was trying to make a point,” Tess said. “We accept our height, and we don’t think it signifies anything about our character or discipline. We should accept our body types, too, not fight to be what we’re not. I could live off dandelion greens and never be a stick figure. You don’t have big breasts. So what?”

“You don’t understand,” Selene said. She walked back to the pile of clothes she had left on the living room floor and fished out a tiny pink T-shirt. Tess couldn’t help noticing it was printed with the slogan SPOILED BRAT. “My body affects my career. I’m not going to get certain parts without tits. I got this stupid shit show because women back then, fashionable ones, wore those Empire gowns, so my body type works for this.”

Tess noticed she pronounced it the French way – om-peer.

“If your body is right for this, it will be right for other things.”

“I’ll never be a Bond girl.”