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asked her to move in with me. By then, though, it was too little, too late.

 
    9
    Our waitress gives us an education. It’s not enough to tell us that the veal is succulent; she has to explain how humanely the young cow was raised, what it ate for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, and how its brief life was cut short “in a stress-free environment.” Stress, I infer, makes the veal that much less succulent. The cheese course requires a lesson in pasteurizing techniques. The vegetables give us insight into the horrors of pesticides, while the wine pairings test the limits of our considerable geography skills. The flatbread, we’re told, is housemade.
    â€œWhat?” I ask.
    â€œHousemade,” she repeats.
    â€œHomemade?”
    She shakes her head, the ponytail quivering at the end of her height. “No. Housemade.”
    Celia orders appetizers for us both and red snapper for herself. I settle on the veal. Once the waitress leaves, Celia whispers, “They think it’s European to be so fastidious.”
    â€œReally?”
    â€œIt’s the only explanation I can come up with,” she says, then laughs aloud, for we both know how childishly simple most European fare is. Boil for six hours, or grill for fifteen minutes, and you’re done.
    Then, with a smoothness that reminds me of the old Celia, she moves on to the next subject. “Are you following the campaign?”
    It takes a full second to realize what campaign she’s talking about. The most expensive presidential campaign in history. The first black president against the second Mormon candidate. “I’m trying not to,” I admit.
    â€œI’ve got no choice. Drew’s volunteering. It’s all he talks about.”
    â€œFor which side?”
    â€œRepublican.”
    â€œJesus.”
    She shakes her head. “It’s hard times in America. Economy’s still a mess, and either you blame Bush for breaking it, or you blame Obama for not fixing it. Everyone has his own answer. But Drew’s always been a libertarian at heart, so his course is set.”
    â€œMost rich people are,” I say before noticing the snide slur to my words. So I backtrack. “But don’t listen to me. I’m only interested in foreign policy, and as far as I can tell Drew’s guy doesn’t have one.”
    â€œI’m not disagreeing,” she says, her voice soft, almost coquettish. I get the feeling she’s trying to tell me something more. Maybe … maybe nothing.
    Then she starts, and I find myself getting more education. Had I known California was so educational I would’ve come long ago. She tells me about the various political players, both major and minor. She names campaign managers and charts donation paper trails, bemoans super PACs and the inability of the media to climb out of the straitjacket of conventional party politics. “But they’re doing it to cater to their audiences. Place a liberal and a conservative in a room and watch them fight. Spectator entertainment—that’s what the news has become. And the result? A stunted populace. I mean, not just the throbbing masses, but the elites as well. They’ve become simple.” Her cheeks are pink.
    Celia 2, it turns out, believes in something.
    I say, “You’ve been paying attention.”
    She blinks, suddenly self-conscious. “Like I said—it’s around the house all day. I don’t have much choice.”
    Then it’s gone. All the political fire, the sociological anxieties, the zealot’s earnestness. Like electrons that change when observed, Celia Favreau, realizing that she’s being watched, changes back into the woman who, whatever she believes, knows better than to cause waves in a town as pretty as this one. She sips her wine—nearly finished now—and says, “You didn’t come here to listen to that, did you?”
    â€œIt’s nice to see you