Patrick crossed the lawn slowly, kicking off his shoes. He stood face-to-face with Emory before dropping his own pants, and then his underwear, without breaking eye contact. Only then did he deign to glance down.
“So. Not Jewish, then.”
Emory laughed.
They stood very close without touching, not breaking eye contact. Their breathing slowed and fell into a parallel rhythm, yet Patrick’s heart beat faster. What strange and different paths led them to this moment? Emory’s involuntary enthusiasm grazed Patrick’s thigh. He inhaled sharply, then turned and dove into the deep end the way he had perfected, leaving hardly a ripple. The water was perfect, eighty-three, eighty-four degrees, the way it stayed in July without him ever having to turn on the heater. He swam most of the length of the pool, his arms at his side, his back arched slightly, water whooshing by his ears. He dolphin-kicked twice when he came close to losing steam, until the sounds of the world washed away and he was surrounded only by darkness—a calming, perfect still. He flipped over and opened his eyes, but there was only the night.
He surfaced just in time to hear a second splash behind him.
FIFTEEN
Patrick, Clara, Maisie, and Grant wandered up Palm Canyon Drive sipping milkshakes, looking not unlike the ideal American family from a time when much of downtown Palm Springs was developed. Man, woman, son, daughter, a family outing for ice cream on a blistering summer day. The only thing missing? Matching buttons that declared their like for Ike. But the situation was mixed, at best. All morning they’d griped at one another, their fragile routine upset by an interloper. Clara was helpful in some regards, volunteering herself for mundane tasks: face-washing, breakfast, laying out clothes, brushing Maisie’s hair. But everything came with commentary. Patrick’s toaster made toast too dark, his coffee was too bitter, the kids used outdoor voices inside. Patrick had his own mental commentary: Clara was too uptight, not helpful with things that actually needed doing, forgot to pack her sense of humor; however, he had the good sense to keep his observations to himself. They worked as a family to tackle the house, getting it back in presentable shape, but by early afternoon Rosa had chased them out so she could finish cleaning in peace.
Patrick suggested Great Shakes, a milkshake place whose straws came festooned with a small cake donut. The extra confection was no more than two bites, but Clara opined it seemed opulent when slurping twelve hundred calories of ice cream from a cup （a cup, in Patrick’s case, lined with homemade butterscotch）。 Grant gnawed on the straw of his Oreo milkshake, while Maisie nursed a date shake—a dessert Palm Springs was famous for. Clara ordered something particularly Clara, honey lavender vanilla or some such nonsense （a combination more suited for soap than dessert）， and made an increasingly sour face with each sip. She seemed horrified by the whole experience, but found employment for her milkshake by pressing it against her neck in a vain effort to stay cool.
“How do you live like this?”
“It’s cleansing, the heat.” The kids ran ahead undaunted, fueled by sugar, Grant’s little body in particular vibrating pure cookies-and-cream energy. The arrival of family, if anything, made it seem more like Christmas, not less, and Patrick insisted no Christmas was complete without gifts. They arrived downtown with a mission: to find presents to open with the roast turkey dinners Patrick planned to have delivered from Billy Reed’s.
“Cleansing?”
“Like seasoning a cast-iron pan. It bakes off the hardened layers of grime.” Clara didn’t look like she was buying it, so Patrick added, “You get used to it.”
They paused in the shade under the misters that the business district blasted from the concrete awnings in summer; the fine drizzle they produced made them feel like wilting vegetables in the grocery produce section. Patrick eyed a gaggle of tourists puttering by in an ill-fitting pastiche of pastels. A splotch of Grant’s whipped cream sloshed over the side of his cup when he wasn’t paying attention and landed with a splat on the ground. He handed his nephew a napkin.
“What are these thtars?”
Patrick glanced down at the Palm Springs Walk of Stars. “With the people’s names?” The stars honored celebrities with a connection to the city, whether they were residents or frequent visitors. People from Mary Pickford to Clark Gable, Elvis to Sinatra. Even presidents, Eisenhower and Ford. “Those are famous people who lived here.” Or that was the idea, originally, a sister walk to the Hollywood Walk of Fame. Lately, they seemed to give a star to anyone, news anchors and philanthropists, or just anyone with money to buy one.