The View From Alameda Island. Robyn Carr

on to live a happy, productive life while the other goes through a divorce and he can hardly get off the couch or drag himself to work for over a decade. What’s the difference between them? How can one person generate happiness for himself while the other can’t?”

      “Depression?” she asked.

      “Not always,” he said. “The study pointed out a lot of factors, some we have no control over and some are learned behaviors. Interesting. It’s not just a choice but I’m a happy guy.” He grinned at her.

      She noticed, suddenly, how good-looking this man was. He looked like he was in his forties, a tiny amount of gray threading his dark brown hair at his temples. His eyes were dark blue. His hands were large and clean for a gardener. “Now what makes a volunteer gardener decide to read psychology?” she asked.

      He chuckled. “Well, I read a lot. I like to read. I think I got that from my father. I can zone out everything except what’s happening in my head. Apparently I go deaf. Or so I’ve been told. By my wife.”

      “Hyper focus,” she said. “Plus, men don’t listen to their wives.”

      “That’s what I hear,” he said. “I’m married to an unhappy woman so I found this book that was supposed to explain why some schmucks like me are so easy to make happy and some people just have the hardest damn time.”

      “How’d you find the book?”

      “I like to hang out in bookstores...”

      “So do we,” she said. “It’s one of the few things we both enjoy. Other than that, I don’t think my husband and I have much in common.”

      “That’s not a requirement,” he said. “I have these friends, Jude and Germain, they are different as night and day.” He got to his feet and brushed off the seat of his pants. “They have nothing in common. But they have such a good time together. They laugh all the time. They have four kids so it’s compromise all the time and they make it look so easy.”

      She frowned. “Which one’s the girl? Oh! Maybe they’re same sex...?”

      “Germain is a woman and Jude’s a man,” he said, laughing. “I have another set of friends, both men, married to each other. We call them the Bickersons. They argue continuously.”

      “Thus, answering the question about gender...”

      “I have to go,” he said. “But... My name is Beau.”

      “Lauren,” she said.

      “It was fun talking to you, Lauren. So, when do you think you might need to spend time with the flowers next?”

      “Tuesday?” she said, posing it as a question.

      He smiled. “Tuesday is good. I hope you enjoy the rest of your week.”

      “Thanks. Same to you.” She walked down the path toward her car in the parking lot. He steered his wheelbarrow down the path toward the garden shed.

      Lauren made a U-turn, heading back toward him. “Beau!” she called. He turned to face her. “Um... Let me rethink that. I don’t know when I’ll be back here but it’s not a good idea, you know. We’re both married.”

      “It’s just conversation, Lauren,” he said.

      He’s probably a psychopath, she thought, because he looks so innocent, so decent. “Yeah, not a good idea,” she said, shaking her head. “But I enjoyed talking to you.”

      “Okay,” he said. “I’m sorry, but I understand. Have a great week.”

      “You, too,” she said.

      She walked purposefully to her car and she even looked around. He was in the garden shed on the other side of the gardens. She could hear him putting things away. He wasn’t looking to see what she was driving or what her license plate number was. He was a perfectly nice, friendly guy who probably picked up lonely women on a regular basis. Then murdered them and chopped them in little pieces and used them for fertilizer.

      She sighed. Sometimes she felt so ridiculous. But she was going to go to the bookstore to look for that book.

      * * *

      Lauren was in a much better mood than usual that evening. In fact, when Brad came home in a state—something about the hospital screwing up his surgery schedule and flipping a couple of his patients without consulting him—she found herself strangely unaffected.

      “Are you listening, Lauren?” Brad asked.

      “Huh? Oh yes, sorry. Did you get it straightened out?”

      “No! I’ll be on the phone tonight. Why do you think I’m so irritated? Do you have any idea what my time is worth?”

      “Now that you mention it, I don’t...”

      “Isn’t it lucky for you that you have a husband who is willing to take care of details like that...”

      “Oh,” she said. “Lovely.”

      “It might be nice if you said something intelligent for a change.”

      “It’s the odd night when you’re not taking calls,” she said. “Were you hoping for a night off?”

      “Obviously! Why do you imagine I brought it up? I’ve told them a thousand times not to get involved with my schedule. They’re going to cause patients unnecessary anxiety, not to mention what they do to me! But they think I’m at their beck and call, that I serve at their pleasure, when I’m the money-making commodity. Even when I very carefully explain exactly how they should manage the schedule, can they figure it out? I’m paying a PA, a very overqualified PA to schedule for me, my clinics and my surgeries, and the hospital brings in this high school graduate who took a six-week course and gives her authority over my schedule...”

      Lauren listened absently and fixed him a bourbon, watered, because they had to go to that fund-raiser tonight. She poured herself a glass of burgundy. This was her job, to listen and let him rant, to nod and occasionally say, That must make you so angry. While she did that, he paced or sat at the breakfast bar and she unwrapped some cheese and crackers and grapes for him to snack on.

      But while all this was going on she was thinking about the man with the easy smile, the tiny bit of gray, the dark blue eyes. And she fantasized how nice it would be to have someone come home and not be a complete asshole.

      “We might think about getting ready for the dinner,” she said. “I’d like to look at the auction items.”

      “I know, I know,” he said. “I bought a table. We shouldn’t be too late.”

      Of course people would expect him to be late, to rush in at the last minute. “I’m ready. Do you need a shower?”

      “I’ll be down in five minutes,” he said, leaving and taking his bourbon with him.

      “Happy anniversary,” she said to his departing back.

      “Hmph,” he said, giving a dismissive wave of his hand. “Nice anniversary,” he grumbled. “My schedule is all fucked up.”

      * * *

      The charity event was for the local Andrew Emerson Foundation supporting underprivileged children. They came to be known as Andy’s kids. Tonight’s event would raise money to provide scholarships for the children of fallen heroes. Professional athletes, businesses, the Chamber of Commerce, hospitals, veterans’ groups and unions from San Francisco and Oakland supported the charity with fund-raising events such as this dinner and auction. Andy Emerson was a billionaire software developer in San Francisco; he was politically influential and admired by people like Brad. Brad never missed an event and claimed Andy as a friend. Brad was a fixture at the golf tournaments and donated generously. The children of military men and women and first responders disabled or killed in the line of duty could apply for the scholarships generated tonight. To be fair, Lauren had a great