As soon as we entered the paneled den, she began to wave her hands in the air, making a face about the smell of cigarette smoke. "For heaven's sake, Peter, this is dreadful. I don't see how you can stand it." She moved over and cranked a window open, fanning the air with a magazine she'd picked up.

I'm not all that fond of cigarette smoke myself, but with her making such a scene, I found myself coming to his defense. "Don't worry about it. It doesn't bother me," said.

She picked up a filled ashtray and made a face. "Well, it might not bother you, but it's disgusting," she said. "Just let me fetch the Airwick." She moved out of the room taking the offending ashtray with her. The tension level dropped a notch. I turned my attention to the wall above the fireplace, which was hung with framed 'celebrity' photographs. I moved closer to have a look. "These are you?"

"In the main," he said.

There were pictures of Peter Weidmann with the mayor at a groundbreaking ceremony, Isabelle Barney in the background; Peter at a banquet receiving some kind of placard; Peter at a construction site, posed with the contractor. The latter photo had apparently been run in the local newspaper because someone had clipped it, framed it, and hung it beside the original. The caption identified the occasion as the dedication of a new recreational facility. From the various cars visible in the background, I judged the majority of the pictures had been taken in the early seventies. Along with the commercial projects, there were photographs of residential sites. Two photographs featured minor-level "movie stars" whose homes he'd apparently designed and built. I took a moment to view the whole gallery, as interested in seeing Isabelle as I was in seeing him. I like to watch people at work. Our occupations bring out aspects of our personalities no one would ever dream of if they met us in "civilian" settings.

In his hard hat and coveralls, Peter looked young, very sure of himself. It wasn't simply that the pictures had been taken years ago when he was, in fact, younger. This must have been the apex of his career, with everything going right. He had had big projects in the works. He must have had recognition, influence, money, friends. He looked happy. I glanced over at the man beside me, so lusterless by comparison.

I caught him watching my reaction. "This is great," I said.

He smiled. "I've been very fortunate." He pointed to one of the photos. "Sam Eaton, the state senator," he said. "I did a house for him and his wife, Mary Lee. This is Harris Angel, the Hollywood film producer. You've probably heard of him."

I said, "The name sounds familiar," though it didn't at all.

Yolanda returned with the Airwick. "Maria put this in the refrigerator of all places," she said. She set the bottle on the table and exposed the wick. The scent that wafted out, a cross between Raid and shoe polish, made me long for the smell of cigarette smoke instead.

I took in the rest of the room at a glance. There was a stack of newspapers on the floor beside Peter's leather wing chair, a smaller pile of papers on the ottoman, magazines on the end table, and evidence of lunch dishes. There was a library table arranged under the windows that overlooked the backyard. On it was an old portable typewriter, a stack of books, and a second ashtray filled with cigarette butts. An old dining-room chair was pulled up to the table, with a second chair nearby piled high with paperbacks. The wastebasket was full.

She caught my eye. "He's working on a history of Santa Teresa architecture." I realized in a flash that in spite of her hostility, she was also proud of him.

"Sounds interesting."

"It's just something I'm fooling around with," he put in.

She had to laugh again. "I've got plenty for him to do if he gets tired of that. Have a seat if you can find a place. I hope you can stand the mess. I won't even let the cleaning woman in here. It's too far gone. She can do the whole house in the time it takes her to get this one room straightened up."

He smiled uncomfortably. "Now, Yolanda. Be fair. I clean the place myself… sometimes as often as twice a year."

"But not this year," she said, topping him.

He let the subject matter drop. He cleared his leather wing chair for her and pulled over a dining-room chair for me. I pushed some files aside, making room to sit.

"Just put those files on the floor," she said.

"This is fine." I was already tired of the game they played-her put-downs, his collusion, my pro forma reassurances. "Did you want to get your walk in? I didn't mean to hold you up."