More than anything, I felt alone.

Mrs. Schmulowitz drove a banana yellow Shelby Mustang with an automatic transmission and a vanity plate that read, “BRISKET.” She had to sit on two volumes of the 1966 Encyclopedia Britannica to see over the steering wheel, but that didn’t stop her from racing down San Miguel Boulevard like she was trying to outrun the zombie apocalypse, garbed in some sort of weird, Annie Hall-like outfit.

We roared past Rancho Bonita’s majestic, Spanish-style county courthouse doing fifteen over the posted speed limit.

“You’re gonna really enjoy this painting class, bubby,” Mrs. Schmulowitz said.

“Assuming we get there alive,” I said, bracing myself against the dashboard.

She whipped a sharp left onto Vespucci Street and through the crosswalk, nearly creaming a pair of portly businessmen who literally had to leap for their lives.

“Will you look at that? A parking space, right in front of the rec center. This must be my lucky day.”

“Did you not see those guys, Mrs. Schmulowitz?”

“Did I see them? Of course, I saw them. I also saw they could definitely use some exercise. If public schools still had physical education, we wouldn’t have this problem! They can thank me later.”

The space was impossibly tight, sandwiched between a white Volvo sedan and a Chrysler PT Cruiser. Mrs. Schmulowitz parallel parked like one would expect a nearly ninety-year-old woman to parallel park. She played bumper cars, pounding her way in.

“Perfect,” she announced when we were wedged squarely against the curb. “C’mon, bubeleh let’s get you some culture.”

The weekly painting class was held on the second floor of the Rancho Bonita Parks and Recreation Department’s Vespucci Community Center, a stately, two-story red brick building that had once served as a convalescent hospital for wounded soldiers returning from the Great War. The classroom was filled with mostly elderly women, some tethered to oxygen tanks, others reliant on wheelchairs or walkers, all sitting around long tables, glumly slapping thin, wet paint on pieces of watercolor paper.

“Hello, good people,” Mrs. Schmulowitz announced as we walked in. “Welcome to Tuesday.”

Nobody bothered to look up.

The class instructor, who Mrs. Schmulowitz introduced me to as Meredith Crisp, touted the fact that he’d studied under the late Thomas Kinkade, America’s self-proclaimed “Painter of Light.” I didn’t know squat about fine art, but what I’d seen of Kinkade’s saccharine fairy tale villages convinced me that whatever artistic technique Crisp had to teach, I wasn’t interested in learning. Not that I had any illusions of becoming the next da Vinci. Far from it. I was only there to keep my landlady happy.

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Schmulowitz, he’s really not allowed in here,” Crisp said, taking her aside, glancing at me, and whispering a little too loudly with a catty smile that really wasn’t a smile. “This is a seniors-only class.”

“Who’s to know? The geriatric Gestapo? Lighten up, Meredith.”

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Schmulowitz. Those are the rules. I really didn’t make them up.”

He was well past sixty but trying hard not to look it. Flip-flops, too-tight jeans, a Coldplay T-shirt under a fringed leather vest, leather bracelets, a long, beaded earring dangling from one lobe, and purposefully mussed, Rod Stewart-like head of blond, thinning hair that was among the worst dye jobs I’d ever seen.

“I wouldn’t bother anybody,” I said.

“I’m not sure you understand.” Crisp rubbed a hand over his face in exasperation. “I already have thirty-three students in this class, which is ten more than what I was supposed to have. I simply don’t have enough supplies for everyone.”

“He can use some of my stuff. What’s the big deal?”

“The ‘big deal,’ Mrs. Schmulowitz, is that I’m afraid your friend will distract those of my students who are actually serious about their painting.”

“Serious about their painting? Listen, the only thing these relics are serious about is where they can get a good deal on adult diapers. Don’t be such a nudnik, Meredith. It’ll take years off your life.”

Crisp knew there was no use arguing with her. He exhaled melodramatically, said, “Fine,” and moved off to supervise his other students.

Mrs. Schmulowitz waited until he was out of earshot, then said, “So, I have a confession to make.”

Her confession was she’d wanted me to accompany her to class so that she could introduce me to one of her fellow students, a retired psychologist.

“He’s a real mensch, this guy. And, between you, me and the wall, about the only person in this class with a brain that still works. I thought he could help you get through what you’re dealing with,” she said, looking around, “only he isn’t here yet.”

I told her I appreciated her concern, but that I wasn’t inclined to spill my guts to a headshrinker, let alone one I didn’t know. She patted my cheek and said she understood.

“Just talk to the guy. Ten minutes. He doesn’t help you? Fine. Whatever. I tried.”

“OK, Mrs. Schmulowitz. For you? Ten minutes.”

The psychologist never showed up. For the next half hour or so, I sat with Mrs. Schmulowitz and tried to paint watercolor trees and mountains per Meredith Crisp’s direction while the instructor patrolled us, critiquing our work like he actually knew something about art.

“A rather avant-garde use of pigment,” Crisp said, assessing my artistic offering with his arms folded and the tip of one index finger tapping his pursed lips. “But I must say, the placement of your seagulls seems perhaps just a tad random.”

“Those aren’t seagulls. Those are splatters.”

“I see.”

I needed a break.

There was a wooden bench outside under a big leafy tree. I sat down, spread my arms across the back of the bench, and watched the world go by. The tree was a jacaranda—“jacks,” as the locals called them. They produced profusions of delicate, bell-shaped flowers that, for a few weeks in late spring, bathed Rancho Bonita in a violet-colored haze. Many residents condemned them as “messy.” They disliked jacks for their tendency to drop sticky blossoms on the freshly waxed Porsches and Benzes of the town’s moneyed minions. If for no other reason, they were among my favorite trees.

People came and went: office workers in business suits; tourists clutching guidebooks, with cameras slung around their necks. A shirtless dude of about twenty in grimy jeans, with tattoos covering his toothpick arms and scrawny chest, rolled up on his skateboard to ask if I had any spare change.

“I was about to ask you for some,” I said.

He rolled on without a word.

The sun felt good on my face. A middle-aged redhead strutted past me in stiletto boots, wearing too much makeup and some sort of gauzy, gypsy skirt-blouse combo. She gave me a little smile. I didn’t notice her, however, as much as I did what she was toting in her right hand: a big brown shopping bag from the Nordstrom department store over on California Street, in the swanky, open-air, Casa Grande mall.

Nordstrom.

My brain flashed back on Chad Lovejoy and what he’d mentioned after Savannah and I landed at the Tahoe airport. Wasn’t Nordstrom where he said his ex-girlfriend sold jewelry, the one he maintained an open dialogue with? What did he say her name was? It took me a few seconds to remember: Cherry.

The mall was two blocks to the west. I walked it.

I’d never been inside the Nordstrom in downtown Rancho Bonita. Or any Nordstrom, for that matter. When fashion and wardrobe are as personally relevant to you as the weather on Venus or who wins the annual World Adult Kickball Association championship, you tend not to do your clothes shopping at such places. Like I said, Sears is more my speed. Only I wasn’t shopping.