He shrugged. "Some ranching work now and then. Lot of riding. And I work in the garden from time to time, although not as much as I did before my wife died. That woman had a passion for growing things."

I slicked some cream between my palms and began a hand and wrist massage. It was hard to get him to relax, his fingers unwilling to give up their knotty tension. "I heard she died pretty recently," I said, glancing at his rough-cast face, where grief had left signs of obvious weathering. "I'm sorry."

Travis gave a slight nod. "Ava was a good woman." he said gruffly. "The best woman I ever knew. She had breast cancer—we caught it too late."

In spite of Zenko's adamance that employees refrain from discussing their personal lives, I was nearly overcome with the urge to tell Churchill that I, too, had lost someone dear to me. Instead I commented, "They say it's easier when you've had time to prepare for someone's death. But I don't believe that."

"Neither do I." Churchill's hand tightened over mine so briefly that I barely had time to register its pressure. Startled, I looked up and saw the kindness and muted sadness in his face. Somehow I knew that no matter what I chose to tell or to keep secret, he would understand.

As it turned out. my relationship with Churchill became something far more complex than a romantic one. It would have been more understandable and straightforward had it involved romance or sex, but Churchill was never interested in me that way. As an attractive and insanely wealthy widower just past sixty, he had his pick of women. I got into the habit of looking for mentions of him in newspapers and magazines. I was highly entertained by photos of him with glamorous society women and B-movie actresses, and even occasionally with foreign royalty. Churchill moved in fast circles.

When he was too busy to come to Salon One for a haircut, he'd summon Zenko to his mansion. Sometimes he would drop by for a neck and eyebrow trim, or a manicure from me. Churchill was always a little sheepish about the manicures. But after the first time I filed.

trimmed, scraped, and moisturized his hands, and buffed his nails to a subtle sheen, he liked the look and feel of them so much that he said he guessed he'd just added a new time-waster to his routine. And he admitted, after some goading from me, that his lady friends appreciated the results of his manicures too.

Churchill's friendship, the chats we had across the manicure table, made me the target of both envy and admiration at the salon. I understood the nature of the speculation about our friendship, the general consensus being that he certainly wasn't seeking out my company to ask my opinions about the stock market. I think everyone assumed something had happened between us, or happened every so often, or was inevitably going to happen. Zenko certainly assumed so, and treated me with a courtesy he showed to no other employees of my level. I guess he figured even if I weren't the exclusive reason Churchill came to Salon One. my presence certainly didn't hurt.

Finally one day I asked, "Are you planning to make a move on me sometime. Churchill?"

He looked startled. "Hell. no. You're too young for me. I like my women seasoned." A pause, and then an almost comical expression of dismay. "You don't want me to. do you?"

"No."

Had he ever tried, I'm not sure what I would have done. I had no idea how to define my feelings toward Churchill—I hadn't had enough relationships with men to put this one in context. "But I don't understand why you've been paying attention to me," I continued, "if you're not planning to.. .you know."

"Someday I'll let you know why," he said. "But not now."

I admired Churchill more than anyone I had ever met. He wasn't always easy to deal with, of course. His mood could turn ornery in a flash. He was not a restful man. I don't think there were many moments in Churchill's life when he was a hundred percent happy. A lot of that had to do with his having lost two wives, the first, Joanna, right after the birth of their son.. .and Ava. his wife of twenty-six years. Churchill was not one to accept the whims of fate passively, and the losses of people he loved had hit him hard. I understood about that.

It was almost two years before I could bring myself to talk to Churchill about my mother, or anything but the barest facts about my past. Somehow Churchill had found out when my birthday was. and he had one of his secretaries call in the morning to tell me we were going out to lunch. I wore a neat black knee-length skirt and a white top, and my silver armadillo necklace. Churchill arrived at noon in an elegant British-made suit, looking like a prosperous old European hit man. He escorted me to a white Bentley waiting curbside, with a driver who opened the back door.

We went to the fanciest restaurant I had ever seen, with French decor and white tablecloths and beautiful paintings on the walls. The menus were written in calligraphy on textured cream-colored paper, and the food was described in such intricate terms—roulades

and rissoles and complex sauces—I had no idea what to order. The prices nearly gave me a heart attack. The cheapest item on the menu was a ten-dollar appetizer, and it consisted of a single shrimp prepared in ways I couldn't begin to pronounce. Near the bottom of the menu I saw a description of a hamburger served with sweet potato fries, and nearly spewed a mouthful of diet Coke when I saw the price.

"Churchill," I said in disbelief, "there's a hundred-dollar hamburger on the menu."

He frowned, not out of shared incredulity but because my menu had prices on it. One twitch of his finger summoned a waiter, who apologized profusely. The menu was whipped out of my hands and replaced by another, almost identical one. except this one had no dollar amounts.