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He was happy about it too, seemingly. And he invited me and Fox and Gretchen to his house for Sunday barbecue. Well, the round with Dad was pretty grim. Oh, there were nurses. But he demanded a lot of attention from me. And Gretchen. And he made no bones about hating Fox's guts. It was being pretty miserable for Fox. He loved the place—the valley, the town, this canyon. But not the situation, understandably. He'd only come because I'd insisted. 
    "So of course I knew Hale was just being polite when he asked us. He expected to be turned down, probably. But I took him up on his invitation. Just to have something different to do. Someplace to go. Maybe someplace pleasant for a change. Especially for Fox and Gretchen. And we did go. And there were maybe a dozen people. All very nice, the kind of easygoing moneyed people you find in places like Pima. Not many pretensions. 
    "And one of them, not too surprisingly, had a guitar with him. He hardly knew how to hold it, let alone play it. So naturally Fox began to show him chords or strums or something. And before I knew it, before he knew it himself, he was singing. And people weren't talking anymore. They were standing around listening. And applauding. And was it good for Fox! I hadn't seen him so happy since—" She shrugged. "Well, since Gretchen was toddling around in diapers. 
    "We ate. Glorious steaks. The sun was setting. And Hale suggested Fox sing some more. Everybody seemed to favor that idea. So he sang some more. And then, just about dark, he leaned back against the barbecue chimney, chording the guitar, and began to tell this absurd small-town story. Well, they laughed till they cried. So did I. It was a total surprise to me. I'd never heard him do such a thing. He said afterward he never had. It was"—she breathed a laugh and tossed her hands up—"just sheer, insane inspiration. 
    "The next morning Hale phoned the ranch. He asked to talk to Fox. And with Dad listening in on the extension—it never fails—Hale said he'd been thinking over last night, and laughing over it, and what would Fox say to doing a radio program on KPIM. Sing, tell stories, play records. Fox said he wasn't a professional entertainer. Hale said he was professional enough to suit him. Well, Fox had quit the factory to come with me. Had no job. So he said he'd try it. And that's how it began. . . ." 
    Dave watched her stub out her cigarette. The ashtray was a rough stone mortar. The table was Danish teak. 
    "Instant success?" he asked. 
    "It took a while," she said. "Hardly anyone noticed at first. Then suddenly, at the end of maybe six weeks, nobody in Pima, or in the whole valley, for that matter, seemed to be talking about anything else. Yes. It was success, beyond any of our wildest dreams. Money poured in. Every advertiser in the valley wanted to be part of it. There were so many commercials that by Thanksgiving the show had stretched from two hours to four. 
    "We'd dreamed of a house of our own in a place like this canyon. Sitting huddled there in L.A. with the gas heater going and keeping warm with mugs of instant coffee, we'd plan and plan. Every room. Loving detail. So we were going to build. Luckily, we didn't have to. This place was practically new. The couple who'd built it—the man had gotten a promotion. They had to move East. When we saw it we fell in love with it. 
    "Especially Fox—with this room. Of course, it was empty then. And it was perfect. Now there was the money. He made his dream come true." She stood and paced' the room, looking at it, loving it. The brandy was working. Was she going to get sentimental? He hoped not. He'd begun to like her. "The tape machine, the sound system, the art stuff, the Goya guitar, the Gulbransen piano. All of it exactly the way he wanted. Even the books. Exactly. Do you know they're first editions? Most of them signed." She took a book down, opened the cover. "William Carlos Williams . . ." 
    "I noticed," Dave said. 
    She put