They stopped at Annie's apartment to pick up her car and Otto's bowling ball and to make sure Vic Denardo hadn't been back. The only change since the previous night was a note from her landlord that had been slipped under her door informing her he'd made arrangements to have her window fixed. It had a whiff of impending eviction about it. A rottweiler, a break-in, two unsolved murders—Garvin couldn't blame the guy.
Annie, plainly in one of her forge-ahead moods, paid no attention, just scowled at the note, tossed it in the trash, and vanished into her bedroom. She reappeared with another paper bag of clothes in case, she said, Otto was in no condition to drive back to the city with her. She made no mention of wanting to stay in Marin for non-Otto reasons. Garvin didn't push for any.
"I'll follow you," she said when they headed back outside.
He shook his head. "I'd rather follow you."
"I'm not sure I can get to your house in the dark. It's hard enough during the day—"
"I'll pull in front of you once we hit Belvedere. Until then, you can lead the way."
She sighed, not liking the arrangement. "Why? You don't think Vic Denardo would follow me and try to run me off the road or anything—"
"Indulge me, Annie."
"All right, I'll indulge you. But I'll warn you, I haven't got all these San Francisco hills down, and I drive a standard, so don't get too close."
He smiled. "I'd never get too close."
When they arrived back at his house, without incident, Annie immediately checked on her dog. He had stirred from the bathtub and was perkier but still not himself. He seemed happy to see his bowling ball. While dog and master visited, Garvin built a fire in the fireplace to take some of the damp chill out of the air, then retreated to the kitchen where he heated up a loaf of garlic bread and some minestrone soup he had in the freezer. He brought it out on a tray. Annie sat on the floor in front of the fire, with her toes practically in the flames. She'd kicked off her ankle boots and pushed up the sleeves of her sweater, its berry color making her seem less pale. But he noticed the dark smudges of fatigue under her eyes, the strain at the corners of her mouth. Otto had curled up —as well as a dog his size could—over in the corner. With his partially shaved head, he looked even fiercer than usual. A hell of a pair, Garvin thought.
The fire cracked and popped. Annie pointed her toes into it. "I've always loved fireplaces," she said. "My cottage had a woodstove. I guess you can get away with fireplaces in California. Generally speaking, woodstoves are more efficient." She smiled. "But not as romantic."
She took her bowl of soup onto her lap, and Garvin placed the basket of bread between them and sat down next to her. It was a cozy arrangement. He didn't know why he felt so cold, didn't want to delve into the reasons. "San Francisco doesn't feel like home for you yet, does it?"
She shrugged. "I'm not sure it ever will. That doesn't mean I can't be happy here."
"If you could work it, would you have a place in Maine?"
"I don't know. I sold the five acres where my grandparents built the cottage. I could have rebuilt."
"You didn't leave yourself an out?"
She tried some of her soup, her eyes on the fire; but Garvin didn't know what they were really seeing. A similar evening in Maine? Her lost cottage? There was, he thought, so much he didn't know about Annie Payne. He wondered if she could feel her dream of the life she'd lead in San Francisco slipping away.
Finally, she said, "Not an easy out, for sure. I've invested everything I have in my new life out here. If I went back, I'd have to start over."
Garvin tried his soup. It was hot enough, but he tasted nothing. A grating of cheese might have helped, a grinding of pepper. He hadn't bothered with either. "Do you need Sarah for your gallery to succeed?"
"The way I've dreamed of it succeeding, yes, I need her—or someone as good as she is. But I'm pragmatic. I didn't count on finding a Sarah Linwood, especially not right away. I've concentrated on doing what I'm good at, offering what I like, and developing a steady repeat business."
"Do you have a business plan?"
She glanced at him, a glint of humor in her slate blue eyes. "That's the MBA in you talking. I'm just stumbling along, figuring things out as they need to be figured out. That's not very businesslike of me, I know."
"I disagree. The most successful entrepreneurs I know begin with a dream and plan and implement goals and objectives around that dream. Flexibility—a willingness to be responsive, to revise the plan—is critical."
A smile tugged at the corners of her mouth, making the dark circles under her eyes less noticeable. "I see you as a man who runs a working marina. It's hard to think of you as some financial mogul."
"You didn't know me six years ago."
"No, I guess not."
"But a part of me always wanted to run a marina. It was my biggest dream when I was about nine years old. That and playing in the World Series." He could feel the cold gripping him, even with the fire hot in his face. "After Haley's death, I started teaching troubled teenagers how to sail. I met Michael Yuma. His life was a mess in a totally different way from mine. But his energy, his zeal for sailing—they were infectious, they reminded me of that old dream of mine. Pretty soon I was running a marina and he was my righthand man."