“We are your friends,” Vinnie said.

Alice bit her lip. “Don’t get me started again.”

Sergio and Jeremy joined us then, and I refilled their wineglasses.

“All this wine reminds me,” Robin said, nudging my arm. “Are you going to Annie’s opening?”

“Are you kidding? My mom will kill me if I miss it.”

“What’s that?” Suzie asked.

I turned. “Remember I told you about Abraham’s daughter, Annie, opening a kitchen store in Dharma? Well, the grand opening is tomorrow. You’re all invited. All the free wine you can drink.”

“What’s Dharma?” Alice asked.

“Who’s Abraham?” Sergio asked.

“Did somebody say free wine?” Jeremy said.

I laughed. “Abraham was my bookbinding teacher. He died a few months ago. Annie is his daughter. She’s opened a kitchen shop in the village where my parents live, on the Lane.”

“The Lane is Shakespeare Lane,” Robin explained. “All the cool shops and restaurants in Dharma are there.”

Sergio nodded in agreement. “I know the Lane. Very chic, not to be missed. I used to work with the chef who opened the newest restaurant up there.”

“Cool,” I said, excited to know we were all connected somehow.

“Dharma is where Brooklyn and I grew up,” Robin said. “It’s a small town in Sonoma County, in the wine country. Near Glen Ellen.”

“It’s charming, sort of chic and rustic all at the same time,” I added, grabbing some chips. “Actually, most of Sonoma is that way.”

“With heavy emphasis on the rustic,” Robin said. “It’s not quite up to Napa chic yet.”

“Never will be,” I admitted.

“Nope,” she agreed. “We should probably just go ahead and call it redneck.”

“But with money,” I said. “Lots of big-city money. Lots of old wine money.”

“And new wine money,” she added, and we both laughed.

Over twenty years ago, our families, along with a few hundred other ex-hippies and Deadheads, had followed their mystic teacher, Robson Benedict, to Sonoma County. We had lived communally on several thousand acres of land, and over the years the members planted vineyards as they built their spiritual and artistic community. Today, Dharma was incorporated and everyone in the commune was wealthy, thanks to the grapes we’d grown when we first moved there.

“It’s going to be a big, fun scene,” Robin said. “I’m driving up for the weekend and staying through Tuesday.”

“I’m just staying for the day,” I said. “Anyone want to join me?”

“Suzie and I would love to go,” Vinnie said. “But we have plans. We’re setting up a new installation in Marin.”

“You’re having an art show?” I asked.

“In San Rafael,” Suzie said. “It’s part of their annual Big Art show.”

“It’s a play on words,” Vinnie added. “All the art is very big in size. Do you get it?”

“They get it,” Suzie said.

“Your art is definitely big,” Robin said.

“Thank you,” Vinnie said, bowing her head.

Everyone smiled.

“I would like to go to Sonoma,” Alice said abruptly. “I mean, if it’s okay. I wouldn’t want to—”

“Yes, Alice,” Vinnie piped up before I could answer. “You must go to Dharma. I suggest that you take advantage of Brooklyn’s mother’s knowledge of Ayurvedic massage. It is possible that your chakras are weakened and you might need rebalancing.”

Alice’s eyes widened in alarm.

“Vinnie, don’t scare her with that mumbo jumbo,” Suzie said, and turned to Alice. “Here’s the deal. You spend the day drinking good wine and eating great food. You get a massage, relax, chill out. Brooklyn’s family is wild. You’ll have a good time and come back ready to kick some ass.”

“That pretty much describes the experience,” Robin said.

“It sounds wonderful,” Alice said. “I would love to go.”

“Is Stuart in town yet?” I asked. “He’s welcome to come, too.”

“Oh, no.” Alice frowned. “He would probably love it, but he’s still in Atlanta.”

“Okay,” I said. “We’ll leave around eleven tomorrow morning.”

“I’ll be here.”

Saturday morning was a classically gorgeous San Francisco day, cold and sunny with a sky as blue as a Boucher painting. I took Van Ness north through the Civic Center, past car dealerships and supermarkets, skirting both the dicey Tenderloin and exclusive Nob Hill before reaching Lombard, where I turned left toward the Presidio. I would’ve avoided this route on a weekday but today we zipped along at a smooth pace.

I stayed on Lombard and entered the Presidio, preferring the winding turns and hairpin curves to the straightforward smoothness of Highway 101. As I drove through the park, past the rows of stately, historic wood-framed and brick homes formerly assigned to army officers but now leased to the public, I glanced over at Alice. I had to hide my smile because while I wore jeans, boots, and a bulky sweater, she wore a prim white blouse with a rounded collar tucked into black trousers. She carried a thin black cashmere sweater and a small black shoulder bag. Her trademark velvet headband held her hair away from her face, and there were tiny pearl dot earrings in her ears. No matter what the occasion, she was petite, demure, and sweet. I was none of the above.

We emerged from the wooded Presidio, passed the bridge toll plaza, and drove onto the Golden Gate Bridge. Alice glanced around in wonder. “It’s so beautiful.” She seemed less tense than I’d ever seen her before. That had to be a good thing.

“I love this view,” I said as I took in the green rolling hills of Marin ahead and the blue Pacific Ocean to my left.

“It’s so amazing,” Alice said, sitting up in her seat to try and see over the bridge railing. After thirty seconds, she sat back down and stared at the hills. “I just can’t get over it.”

“You’ve driven across the bridge before, haven’t you?”

“No. I’ve done my share of wandering around the city, but I haven’t ventured much farther yet. There just hasn’t been enough time.”

“Oh, my God. I’m suddenly feeling the weight of responsibility.”

“You hold yourself responsible for me having a good time outside the city?”

“That’s right, and I take it very seriously.”

“Okay then,” she said, laughing. “I expect to be shown a good time.”

“Yes, ma’am.” I saluted and laughed with her. Within a minute or so, we were off the bridge and zooming through Marin County. Somewhere around Corte Madera, I asked Alice where she was from. She started talking in her speedy run-on style and didn’t let up until we passed the old wagon on the hill with the sign that read WELCOME TO SONOMA COUNTY.

Alice had attended a Catholic boarding school while growing up in Georgia. Catholic school would be bad enough, but a boarding school? I told her I couldn’t imagine anything more strict than Catholic nuns in a boarding school. She regaled me with story after story of the bad girls she grew up with and where they were now. Clearly, it was true what they said about Catholic girls.

“They” being my two brothers and their dodgy friends, Eric and Zorro (his real name). Both boys had been forced to attend Catholic school in Glen Ellen when we were kids. They’d railed against the nuns and the rules and the uniforms, but they’d spoken in hushed, reverential tones about those Catholic school girls.

As we passed the town of Glen Ellen and headed toward the Valley of the Moon, I realized I now knew more about Alice Fairchild and her life as a Catholic school girl than I knew about some members of my own family.

She’d met Layla when they both attended a fund-raising conference in Atlanta. She admitted that Layla could be abrasive, but Alice knew that behind Layla’s tough exterior was a sensitive soul. She had challenged herself to get to know Layla better and found out that the woman didn’t have many girlfriends. No wonder she didn’t know how to treat other women.

I thought it was a little naive of Alice to think Layla had an ounce of goodness underneath that mean-girl outer shell, but Alice certainly seemed to have found a friend.