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weeks after Kyle graduated from high school, Nick and I drove south, to Dana Point, looking at open houses. After spending Sunday afternoon in and out of homes for sale, we felt hot and tired. Nick decided to stop for a drink.
    Coming into the dark from the outside brightness, I squinted, embraced the coolness of the place and heard music. No, not just music— jazz.
    We stood in a poorly lit hall. Photos of musicians covered the walls. Where were we?
    Nick put his arm around my waist and coaxed me on. We walked under an arch and into the main room.
    We'd come in through the back entrance of the Old Dana Point Cafe and found ourselves next to the small wooden stage where a jazz quartet performed. The players seemed old. Plenty of wrinkles, not much hair. The face of the pianist looked weathered beyond repair, but the hands flying across the keyboard possessed the passion of youth.
    The place was packed, and we climbed onto barstools. A musty smell came from the well-stocked bar.
    Nick leaned over. "What would you like?"
    "Sparkling water with lemon." I had to shout for him to hear me. "I'm going to the ladies' room." I slid off the stool. Applause erupted. The musicians bowed and put down their instruments. I didn't know places like this existed in Orange County. It reminded me of old movie scenes, when ladies wore hats and men removed theirs.
    A few hours here and you could forget the heat just outside the massive door or the roar of the surf on Doheny Beach a hundred yards away. Perhaps Dana Point wasn't a bad place to live.
    I had to fight my way back from the ladies' room. The main room was packed. Head tilted, Nick was caught up in conversation with a dark-haired woman. From where I stood, I could only see her back. She was short, like me, and seemed to be stretching on her toes, despite her stiletto heels. Trying to get as close as possible to Nick's face?
    Her scanty dark blue dress, with a scalloped hem, showed off the rich tan of her shapely legs. Short, curly hair gave her the look of an Italian cherub. Was her hand resting on my husband's thigh? I couldn't tell. I quickened my pace. He still hadn't noticed me. His face had that why-am-I-enjoying-this-when-I-shouldn't look.
    "Hi." My voice a little louder than I'd meant it to be. I stood mere inches from the woman's derriere.
    Nick jumped. I couldn't tell if her hand slid off his leg or the edge of the stool.
    "Honey." His voice strained. "This is Ruby Alexander. She works at the newspaper. My wife, Lella."
    When Ruby turned around, her bust line rose about three inches and somehow stayed there. She smiled. Her lips were red—the brightest, glossiest red I'd ever seen.
    I offered my hand. "Ruby Alexander—the fashion editor?"
    Her eyes lit up. They were dark and liquid, but something else set them apart. Ruby's eyes were—voracious. The word slammed into my mind like a wrecking ball. And yet it was the right word, for an insatiable hunger seemed to come from within her. Hunger for what? Or whom?
    She took my hand in hers. "You read the fashion page?"
    "Every Friday." I did.
    She nodded.
    Someone pushed a stemmed glass filled with clear, straw-colored liquid toward Ruby. "Oh, thank you, Charlie." She picked up the wine and sampled it. "Chimney Rock." She turned toward the bar and lifted the glass to the tall bartender. He winked.
    "Do you come here often?" I asked.
    "Any chance I get, especially on Sunday. I simply looove jazz."
    She uttered the word "love" with a little gasp, like an orgasmic cry. Everything about Ruby seemed spontaneous. She appeared to inhale life by big gulps. Against my better judgment, I found myself liking her.
    Nick cleared his throat. I glanced at him. Twenty-three years of sharing the seesaws of life told me he was ready to leave.
    Ruby offered to show me around the area in the coming weeks. I accepted and soon found myself fascinated by this woman. I pursued her friendship even when instinct warned me not to. Ruby kept her word. We