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case anyone made an offer that she couldn’t refuse. But I think what Lisa means is that Honey didn’t really have any aspirations. Almost everyone else who moved to L.A. had a goal—they wanted to act or direct or write or work at a studio—and Honey didn’t seem to have a definable goal. She had a dream but like I said, it was a little hard to put your finger on exactly what the dream was. Well, not that hard, really. I think Honey was looking for a husband. But the rest of us were all pursuing careers and wild nights on the side, boyfriends, certainly, but marriage wasn’t really in our sight line just yet, so I think we missed the signs. But if she was looking for a husband, she was going about it in a very strange way. She was a little rock and roll, a little Southern, a little old school, if those three things aren’t a contradiction in terms, but Honey, in many ways, was a contradiction in terms. And one couldn’t help feeling that the sort of Southern hospitality and rhythm she lived by were from another time.
    The same could be said for Honey’s friend Shannon who arrived from Nashville shortly after Honey did and took up permanent residence in one of the guestrooms at “No Name Street.” Shannon was really striking. She was 6’1” and a runner, with light blond hair and perfect cheekbones and dark-green eyes that were a perfect match to the golden tan she seemed to have been born with, as tanning booths weren’t in the lexicon and none of us ever saw her lie in the sun. Shannon was in her early 20s, too, but she was already divorced and clearly a little shaken from the whole experience. She was guarded, to say the least, or at least that was the public face she put on. She was also born again. Her husband, apparently, had been quite religious. And even though she’d gotten away from him and clearly abandoned the notion of “no sex before marriage,” she kept a little “breadbox” in the kitchen with many slips of paper on which were printed daily psalms that she would pass out religiously if anyone appeared at the door who was the least bit despondent . . . “The Lord upholdeth all that Fall.” “The Lord is thy keeper: The Lord is thy shade upon thy right hand.” It was catching. One almost wanted a psalm (sort of like a weird lottery card with psychic possibilities) to be handed to you every time you walked in the door. Or not . . . It was sort of strange and contrary to the caviar and champagne lifestyle at “No Name Street.” I should also add that none of the rest of us were really religious (and most of us weren’t Christian), so what felt like an anomaly to me may have been perfectly normal in Minnesota or Louisiana or Texas. Certainly getting “born again” was gaining popularity in the rock and roll world and even Bob Dylan was getting “dipped in the swimming pool.” But Shannon Reed’s reliance on the “Daily Promise Box” was a portent of what was to come . . .
    One Saturday morning, Lisa and I stopped by to go for a hike we’d planned the week before with Honey and Shannon, and the house was a flutter of activity. Huge bunches of roses and Casa Blanca lilies were laid out on newsprint on the dining room table waiting to be arranged and accented with clusters of Beach grass and Maidenhair ferns. The good china and silver were set out on the sideboard. Honey was arranging flowers in crystal vases. Shannon was sitting on a stool polishing sterling silver serving pieces and flatware. Lupe, their Guatemalan housekeeper, was in a uniform in the corner, meticulously ironing cloth napkins and tablecloths. The Cristal was already open and there was a pitcher of fresh orange juice next to the ice bucket and the empty champagne glasses. There were croissants and blueberry muffins and a platter of gravlax with tiny triangles of dark brown bread and a bowl of raspberries with heavy cream. They’d clearly forgotten we were supposed to go for a walk, and we’d never seen