"You're crazy. Do you know that, Mr. Matthews?"

"You forced me into it, so don't blame me."

"Bulls.h.i.t. And if you're trying to make me feel guilty, forget it. I'm glad."

"So am I. Now . . . as I was saying, let's go for a ride." He unbuckled the saddle and put it down on the sand, stroking the horse's head and flanks with a knowing hand, and then he jumped gracefully onto the mare's back and held out a hand to me.

"Whatcha waiting for, Gill? Chicken?"

"No, something else. Happy. You're nice to look at." And so he was, sitting tall and proud astride the sandy-colored horse, his bronzed flesh standing out against her pale hide, and the grace of their two bodies making me think of poetry I'd read as a girl. Chris looked so beautiful.

"You're nice to look at too, now hop up." He gave me a hand and I slid up behind him, put my hands around his waist, and leaned into him as we sailed into the wind. It was the most marvelous feeling I could ever remember. Racing down the beach on a pale golden mare with a man I loved . . . loved? . . . Chris? . . . I hardly knew him. But it didn't matter, I was already in love with him. From that first day on.

We galloped up and down the beach until sunset and then took a hasty swim before reluctantly taking our leave.

"Do you want to swim the mare back to the other side?" I asked. I was a little worried, the tide was coming in, but he had seen it too.

"No, we'd better go by the road this time. It's less fun but it makes more sense."

"It does, huh? You're beginning to make me wonder if you just swam her over so you could make me take my clothes off." I hadn't even thought of that at the time.

"Is that what you think?" He looked hurt and I was sorry I'd said it. "Well, you happen to be right." He let out a delighted laugh, and I stood watching him again. The giant boy who'd taken my heart at water-pistol point. Not bad.

"What's next on your agenda, Conceito Bandito? You leave me tied naked to a telephone pole till morning?" He would be capable of it.

"No. I feed you. How does that sound?"

"Intravenous or regular?"

"You're disgusting, Gillian. Regular, of course. The Watson House, the best Bolinas has to offer. Have you ever been there?"

"Nope."

"Wait and see." We got back on the horse and trotted slowly down the beach to the part that belonged to the state, then walked the horse slowly past the empty parking lot to the road. It was a fifteen-minute ride into Bolinas and we got there just as the sun was setting; it seemed as though the entire world were lit in red and gold.

We stopped in front of a small dilapidated Victorian house and tied up the horse as I looked around. There were a number of hippies wandering in and out of the house and a discreet sign said "The Watson House," but it offered no further information as to what it was.

"What is this place?"

"A restaurant, dopey. What did you think?"

"How do I know? Hey . . . by the way, I have to call my neighbor and tell her I'll be late. She's taking care of my little girl."

"That's okay. They have a phone inside." He swung slowly up the steps to the house and opened the screen door without knocking. It had the look of a private house belonging to a large family and certainly no suggestion of a restaurant about it. Vast quant.i.ties of laundry hung on a clothesline, and a strange a.s.sortment of bicycles and motorcycles stood outside, while two cats and a dog played in the gra.s.s. It had a friendly, homey look to it which appealed to me and seemed well-suited to Chris Matthews.

"Hi, gang. What's doing?" Chris walked straight into the kitchen and sniffed into a pot on a brilliantly clean, museum-piece stove. There were three girls in the kitchen and a man. The man wore his hair to his waist, tied neatly back with a leather thong. He was wearing what looked like a pajama top over his jeans, and it probably was, but what struck me most were the bright, kindly eyes that stood out above his beard.

Without moving a single muscle in his face, his eyes seemed to smile and say a dozen welcoming things. The girls were all pretty, young, and simply dressed.

"Gillian, this is Bruce . . . Anna, Penny, and Beth. They live here." Bruce and the girls all said hi, and Chris shepherded me back to a little room decorated in cheerful Victoriana and Tiffany lamps.

"What is this place, Chris? It's neat."

"Isn't it? It's actually a hippie commune, but to support themselves they run a restaurant, and it's the best G.o.ddam food this side of the bay. You should try the escargots, they're terrific."

"I will." And I did, and they were. And so was the coq au vin, and the homemade bread, and the salad, and the mousse au chocolat and the tarte aux fraises. It was a royal repast. Chris had been right, the food was superb. But there was more to it than that. The friendliness of the place was endearing too. I had been right on the way in-it had the feeling of a home with many children in it. There were twenty-seven people living there at the time, and each one contributed his or her efforts to the restaurant. They drifted in and out as we sat there in the candlelight at one of the eight small tables. Everyone seemed to know Chris, and a few stopped and sat at our table for a few minutes before going into the kitchen, or back upstairs.

"Do you come here a lot?"

"Yes. Especially in the summer. I rent a small shack in Bolinas and sometimes I just come by to bulls.h.i.t with the gang. Sometimes I come here to eat. But only on special occasions." He was teasing me gently, but he had a nice way of doing it. His smile lit up his face as he did, and his eyes said that he meant no harm. He was a gentle man.

"How old is your little girl?" He seemed only vaguely interested, but it was nice of him to ask.

"She'll be five next month. And she's something of a terror. Her main ambition in life is to become a cowboy. If she'd known we'd spent the day with a horse, and without her, she wouldn't speak to me for a week. I think she was under the impression that we came out here to be cowboys."

"Maybe we could take her riding sometime. Is she a brave kid?"

"Brave enough. She'd love it. I was her age when I started."

"I figured, but you don't know your a.s.s from a hole in the ground when it comes to Western Saddle. I could see that too." I blushed faintly and wound myself up to say something insulting, but then broke into a laugh and threw up my hands in defeat.

"You're right."

We talked on for another hour or so, of nothing in particular, California mostly, and work, and why the simple life was better for both of us, when a group came in that looked vaguely familiar.

"Whatcha looking at?" Chris had noticed me looking at them.

"Nothing. I thought I knew those people, but I don't think I do." They were three hippies much like Chris and the ones in the house, and I think it was just the familiar type that had struck me.

"You know them?" He looked surprised.

"No. I just thought I did."

"Well let's find out. That's really funny." He signaled to them to come over to us and I began to wish I were dead.

"Chris . . . no . . . really . . . look, I . . . But then I knew where I had seen them before. They were Chris's crew. He saw the recognition in my eyes and he and his boys started to laugh. They had heard the brief exchange and knew Chris was up to one of his tricks again.

"Oh you big, lousy b.a.s.t.a.r.d, Chris Matthews. . . . Hi, boys. Nice to see you again. How did the fight wind up? Did anyone drown the account guys from Carson?"

"No, they went back in the jeep almost as soon as you two left. And we spent the afternoon drinking wine with Joe and the models. They were paid for the day so we all figured what the h.e.l.l. How was it with you?" They seemed to be addressing Chris more than me, and I let him carry the ball. He also wanted to know how they felt about the shooting and what they hoped they had gotten on film. Everyone seemed to feel it had gone well, and I was relieved for Joe Tramino from Carson. I would have hated to have him suffer for our craziness. Our? . . . Well, I had ridden off with Chris, and that was bad enough. They hadn't been expecting that from their "stylist from New York," but then again neither had I.

We paid the check at the Watson House then and the five of us ambled outside where Chris's truck, the car, and the horse trailer stood near our mare. It was nice to see her again. She reminded me of what had happened on the beach.

"I'll take the car. Thanks for dropping it off." They said goodnight and took charge of the horse as we hopped into Chris's somewhat dubious chariot. As Chris fought with the choke, I wasn't sure I was going to enjoy driving back over the winding mountain road in that, but maybe with Chris I would.

As it turned out, it was an easy drive. There was no fog that night, and the moon lit up the road with a lovely silver glow.

I sang old ballads that I had known as a child, and once in a while Chris joined in. We looked at each other in the moonlight, and kissed from time to time, and very little was said. We didn't need to. It was just nice to be there.

I saw the entrance to the freeway with regret and wished that there were a longer way home. I hated to see all the people and cars again. I had liked our lonely mountain road . . . and our deserted beach.

"Where do you live, Gill?" We were already crossing the bridge, and it was pretty to see the lights of Sausalito, Tiburon, and Belvedere on one side of the bay and San Francisco on the other. Usually the fog was in by sundown, so it was a rare sight.

"I live in the Marina. On Bay."

"Fine." He took the first turn off, I gave him the address, and we were home in a few minutes.

"This'll be fine, Chris. I have to pick up Sam next door."

"Sam?" He raised an eyebrow and looked surprised.

"My little girl." He nodded, and I was pleased to think he might have been jealous.

"Shall I wait, or will that screw up your scene?"

"No, that would be nice. I'll be right out." I rang my neighbor's bell and went inside to scoop my half-sleeping child off their couch. She was groggy but not in a deep sleep yet. And I was surprised to realize that it was only nine o'clock. I thanked the neighbors and went out to find Chris sitting on our stoop. I put a finger to my lips and handed him the key, so as not to wake Sam. She had already drifted back to sleep in my arms.

He looked at her for a moment and then nodded his head in approval as he turned to open the door, and then Sam's croaky four-and-a-half-year-old voice rang out in the night.

"Who's he, Mommy?" I grinned and Chris laughed. He had the door open and I set her down inside.

"This is Chris Matthews, Sam. And this is Samantha . . . now, time for bed, young lady. I'll get your pajamas and then you can have a gla.s.s of milk if you want."

"Okay." She sat in a chair and eyed Chris sleepily as he sprawled on the couch, his long legs straight out in front of him, his hair looking s.h.a.ggier than ever after our day on the beach. I got Sam's pajamas and was walking back toward the kitchen when I heard her ask Chris in a hoa.r.s.e whisper, "Are you a real cowboy?" There was hope in her voice, and I wondered what he would say; "Yes, I am. Do you mind much?"

"Mind? No . . . no . . . I wanna be a cowboy too!" The tone was conspiratorial.

"You do? That's great. Maybe we could ride together sometime. But first do you know what you have to do?" I couldn't see her face but I could imagine her eyes opened wide, waiting to hear what he was going to say. "You have to drink a lot of milk, and go to sleep when your mom tells you. Then you get to be big and strong, and you'll be a really extra terrific cowboy."

"I have to do all that yucky stuff?" Sam sounded disgusted.

"Of course not. Only if you want to be a cowboy, silly."

"Oh . . . well . . . okay . . ." I walked into the room with her gla.s.s of milk and was grateful for Chris's speech. For the first time she drank it in what looked like one gulp and headed for bed like a flash, with a last wave toward Chris and a mumbled, "Goodnight, Mister . . . Mister Crits . . . see you at a rodeo someday." I tucked her into bed, kissed her goodnight, and went back to find Chris looking pleased with himself.

"Thanks. That made things a lot easier for me."

"She's cute. I like her. She seems like a nice kid."

"Wait, you haven't seen her in her full glory. She was half-asleep. Next time she might try a new la.s.so trick on you and give you rope burn. She's something else." But I was pleased that he liked her.

"You're something else, too. And I'm not sure I'd trust you with a new rope trick either. You might try to strangle me. I really think you were trying to knock me off that horse today when you thought I had a gun on you. But I was waiting for you." He looked amused at the memory of it.

"Good thing for you that you were. I was planning to knock the bejesus out of you."

"Wanna try again?" He held out his arms to me as I stood across the room and I walked toward him with that feeling of having been reborn again. It had been so long since anyone had given a d.a.m.n about me, or wanted me as a woman. And now I had someone who wanted me as a woman. Whether or not he gave a d.a.m.n about me was something I'd find out in time.

3.

The phone rang at nine-fifteen again Wednesday morning, and I was torn between hoping it was Chris and wishing it would be another job. I needed the money.

"h.e.l.lo?"

"Gillan? Joe."

"Oh. Hi. That was quite a shooting yesterday.

"Yeah. I just thought I'd call and check that you weren't p.i.s.sed off at me for getting you into that madhouse scene. And I wanted to be sure he hadn't dropped you off a cliff or something." p.i.s.sed off?? Wow!

"Nothing of the sort. I had a great time. That was the easiest hundred and twenty bucks I've ever made. He had me a little worried with the water pistol though."

"He did? I thought you knew."

"No, I didn't. And he almost got himself knocked off the horse as a result, but it all turned out okay." Yes . . . it did. . . .

"I'm glad. Say, listen, I called to ask you something. Are you free on Friday night?" Huh? Friday night? s.h.i.t, no job. A date. And I wanted to go out with Chris, not Joe. "It's the annual Art Directors' Ball, and it's a bit of a free-for-all, but I thought you might like it." Oh h.e.l.l, why not?

"Sure, Joe. I'd love to." But what if Chris should call? What if . . .

"Great. Wear anything you want. Sort of far-out type stuff, nothing formal. We're having it in a warehouse downtown. Sounds a little crazy but it might be fun."

"It sounds terrific, Joe. And thanks for asking me."

"Prego, prego, Signorina. I'm delighted you can make it. I'll pick you up at eight. See you then. Bye, Gill."

"Bye." We hung up and I wondered if I'd done the right thing. Joe had never asked me out before and I didn't want to get into a heavy scene with someone who could give me work. It was bad policy. And Joe wasn't really my type . . . and what if Chris wanted to . . . oh s.h.i.t. I figured he'd understand, and anyway I'd accepted, so why stew about it. I could talk it over with Chris. . . . I could have that is, if he had called.

As it turned out, the week ambled by without a call from Chris. Sam and I went to the beach, I painted the kitchen floor with red, white, and blue stripes and painted stars on the ceiling, I got a job from Freeman & Barton Advertising that took me all of two hours to do on Friday afternoon, and still no sign of Chris. I could have called him, but I didn't want to. He had left me early Wednesday morning with the first light of day and he had said he'd call. But he hadn't said when . . . next year maybe? Or maybe he was just playing it cool, but that didn't seem quite his style. Maybe he was just busy . . . making movies . . . but all work and no play wasn't Chris's style either, and I was getting very down about it by Friday evening when I fixed Sam's dinner.

"Why are you going out tonight, Mommy?"

"Because I thought it might be fun, and you'll be asleep, so you won't miss me at all." I tried to sound lighthearted for Sam's sake, but I was feeling lousy.

"Yes, I will. Am I having a sitter?" I nodded and pointed to her dinner she wasn't eating. "Maybe I'll tie the sitter to a chair and set the rope on fire. That's what Indians do. It's called being an Indian giver."

"No, being an Indian giver is giving something to someone and then taking it back." I thought of Chris and cringed within myself. "And you're not going to tie the babysitter to anything or I'll give you the spanking of your life when I come home. Is that clear?"

"Okay, Mommy." She sank into her milk with a look of boredom and despair and I went to my room to pick out something to wear for the Art Directors' Ball. He had said something far-out, so I dug around and came out with a flowery gypsy skirt I'd forgotten I owned and an orange halter top. I had a new pair of orange suede boots and a pair of gold loop earrings, and I knew that would do it . . . and maybe after a bath I'd feel more like me again.

I could hear Sam rummaging around in her room and at ten to eight I went in to check on her and announce bedtime.