Bette looked thoughtful, handing me a glass of water. I took it and drank gratefully. “So… how is ‘I’m going to fix things for you by apologizing to Kit’ not a plan?”

“Have you considered what you’ll do if she doesn’t accept your apology?”

The stark, clear confusion on Bette’s face told me that she was not very accustomed to things not going her way, and no, she hadn’t thought about that.

“Well, she’ll have to,” she said dismissively after a moment. “I mean, it wasn’t my fault. She did this to herself.”

I followed her into the living room, where she had set a stack of sheets and a pillow on top of the couch. I felt a little helpless in the face of her steamrolling, but I couldn’t help but ask, “Didn’t you say you didn’t even know where she was living these days?”

“That’s right.”

“And she passed out before she could give you her phone number.”

Bette nodded shortly and picked up a sheet. “I’ll just call her son and ask him if he knows. He’ll probably know.”

“She has a son?”

“You know, the couch in the study is more comfortable than this one,” Bette said. She picked up the sheets and handed me the pillow. “Come on.”

Dutifully, I followed her through the house, trying to take in all the artwork in the dim lighting. Idly, I couldn’t help but wonder how much all of it had cost, but even I’m not stupid enough to ask a question like that.

“Yeah,” Bette was saying as we entered the study and she flicked the light on. There was a desk set up with a computer, a couch, and a large bookshelf lining one entire wall, stuffed with books with titles like The Annotated Mona Lisa and Gustav Klimt: One Hundred Drawings. “David. He’s… gosh, I guess he’s almost out of high school now. He’s been living with our dad lately.”

I leaned against the wall and watched her make the couch up as a bed. “Where’s that?”

“Philly.” She glanced at me and smiled. It was infectious. I grinned back at her. “I haven’t been there in… oh, I don’t know, four or five years.”

“You don’t… look like you’re from Philly.” I didn’t bother to wonder if that sounded stupid because Bette cocked her head to the side thoughtfully.

“I don’t?”

“No.” I shrugged. “You don’t look like you’re from LA, either, though.”

She threw the pillow down on the couch and gestured. I obliged, sitting down. “It’s good,” I told her.

“Where do I look like I’m from?”

Somewhere great. Somewhere exotic. Somewhere… *****, dramatic.

All I said was, “I don’t know. You’re just unique.”

She chuckled softly and I was reminded of my old habit of falling in love with parts of people-you know, one girl’s eyes, some guy’s walk. Even if I wasn’t remotely interested in them, I had this stupid habit as a kid of just falling in love with little things about people.

And just like that, I was a little bit in love with Bette Porter’s laugh.

She leaned against the desk and looked at me. I didn’t want to be scrutinized, but I didn’t want to look away if this was some sort of test. “Where are you from?” she asked. “Originally. Los Angeles?”

“All my life,” I said, nodding.

“You look it.”

“I’m not sure if that’s a compliment.”

She looked at me for a long moment and then straightened, throwing an enigmatic smile at me as she headed for the door. “I’ve lived here since I graduated from college. There must be something about LA that I like. Good-night.”

“Good-night,” I said.

She closed the door behind her.

I sighed. Happily.