“They’re a big part of my life.”

“I know it. We need to promise each other, and mean it, that whatever happens with us we won’t push those parts of our lives away, or make it hard for each other to keep them.”

He shifted from neutral into genuinely baffled.

“Why would we do that?”

“People get hurt, get angry when things go south. Relationships, for me, always end up a mess.”

He decided to steer her in just that direction, and eat more bread. “It sounds like you’ve had the wrong relationships.”

“Maybe, but the common element would be me. Up front,” she repeated. “I’ve tried relationships with men in the business, and it gets complicated and falls apart. I’ve tried with someone out of the business, same thing.”

“Yeah, so you said.” Since he didn’t intend for either of them to drive, he added more wine to both glasses. “Not very specific.”

“Okay. The first, I loved him. I loved him the way you love at eighteen. Giddy and dazzled and without restrictions. He was a good man. A boy really,” she corrected. “An actor—musical theater. So talented. And kind, sweet. One night when he walked me to a cab, as he always did, waited until I drove away, two men jumped him. They put him in the hospital.”

“I read about it. I was in college.”

“God knows it got plenty of play. So you know they used my name, the fact I was white and he wasn’t to beat him unconscious. His family blamed me. How can I blame them?”

“How about because it wasn’t your fault?”

“It wasn’t about fault. I was the reason, or the excuse, or, hell, just the MacGuffin.”

“What’s that?”

“MacGuffin? It’s a plot device, and it’s often something that seems important, but just isn’t.”

“But you are,” he told her, “important.”

“Not necessarily to the two men who put Noah in the hospital.” Picking up her wine, she studied it, saw through it to that brilliant fall day on the terrace of Lily’s condo with New York shining.

“He couldn’t forgive me, not then, so it ended.”

“He’d had a rough time he didn’t deserve. But for Christ’s sake, Cate, what was there to forgive you for?”

“MacGuffin.” She lifted one hand, drank some wine with the other. “A handy device to put a twenty-year-old dancer in the hospital, to sell tabloids, to give the internet something to buzz about awhile.”

“He was wrong, stupid wrong.” Anger, sudden and hot, sharpened the words. “And don’t claim it’s easy for me to say. It’s like if I blamed the shopkeeper for my dad getting shot, or blamed the women Dad died protecting. It wasn’t their fault. It was the fault of the man with the gun.”

“You’re right, and still. Noah and I ran into each other not long before I came back to Big Sur, and we resolved things. I’m grateful for that. It took me a long time to want someone again, to trust someone enough between those points in my life.”

She rose to clear the salad. “I’m going to plate the pasta because I’m fussy about the presentation. It’s my signature meal.”

“Fine with me.”

“So. I met this man through a friend of one of my cousins. Law student, brilliant mind. Definitely not in the business, which I’d sworn off of. I’d dated once or twice between, but no heat.”

She tossed, lightly, pasta and sauce as she spoke. “But something clicked with him, maybe because he didn’t care about movies or TV or any of it. He didn’t even own a TV. He read, extensively when he wasn’t studying. Mostly nonfiction. He knew about art, went to galleries. Sophisticated, erudite.”

“I’m getting the picture,” Dillon told her. “Snob.”

“No, he . . .” Then she laughed. “Well, yeah. He was, now that you mention it. Anyway, I put off having sex with him for about six weeks, I guess, and he seemed patient about it, willing to give me time. When we did sleep together, it was good.”

“Good,” Dillon repeated with the faintest of smirks.

“Well, it wasn’t the angels singing, but good. He didn’t care about the publicity when it came because he didn’t pay any attention to it. He thought it was all low-class. He didn’t think much of actors either—and I was doing voice work by then—but I was okay with that.”

“And then?”

“Fresh Parm? It’s yours.”

“Sure.”

“And then,” she continued as she grated. “We’d been together about three months, talking vaguely about moving in together. I’d need a place with space for my studio—which didn’t take much. That’s when it started to go south. No way was I going to put some stupid soundproof room into his apartment, or any apartment. It was high time I gave up that ridiculous hobby anyway. It wasn’t like I needed the money. When I objected, as you might imagine, he hit me.”

“He hit you,” Dillon repeated, very quietly.

“A solid backhand right across the cheekbone. Just once because once was all it took. I didn’t panic,” she murmured, thinking back. “I can panic in stressful situations, but I didn’t. It was more like a wake-up call. So.”

She shrugged that off. “He apologized, profusely, as I was walking out the door. He’d had a terrible day, he lost his temper, he loved me, it would never happen again.”

She brought the pasta with its fresh basil and Parmesan to the table. “No, it wouldn’t, because he’d never get the chance. I went home, took a selfie of my face in case. Which was handy, as he kept texting or calling, even coming by my apartment or showing up when I was out.”

“He stalked you.”

She knew tenors, pitches, pacing when it came to voices, and recognized a different kind of anger than before. This was iced fury, and definitely more dangerous than the quick, hot blast.

“Close enough. I went to the two detectives who’d investigated Noah’s attack. I showed them the selfie, explained things, asked if they could, at least initially, just have a discussion with him, warn him off. If it didn’t work, I’d file charges. It worked.”

She rolled pasta onto a fork. “Try it.”

He did. “I see why it’s your signature dish. It’s terrific. He didn’t bother you again?”

“No. But about two years later, the female cop—she’d made lieutenant by then—she came by to see me, and to tell me he’d been arrested for battering his fiancée. She wanted me to know I’d made the right decision, and to ask whether, if it became necessary, I’d testify. I said I would, but God, I’m glad it wasn’t necessary.”

She ate some more, decided it really was terrific. “Which brings us to the third and last if you want to hear it.”

“I do.”

“Justin Harlowe.”

“Yeah, I read about that, too. A lot of bullshit about that.”

“Bullshit’s what it was. We did click, and for a good stretch of time. He’s talented, can be funny, is definitely charming. We had a lot in common, and he was riding high at the time, as his series was a hit. He didn’t mind the publicity. Why would he, and half of it revolved around him anyway. He didn’t much care for the Catjus shipping name, but he’d joke about it. We enjoyed each other. I didn’t love him, but it was close. I felt good with him, and for a while it felt good to be able to talk to someone about the business. Someone who understood the demands, someone who actually appreciated voice work because he did some himself. Then . . .”