A. Homes - This Book Will Save Your Life

"Lucky me," he says, joking with Paul the pothead.

"You need to keep a record of everything, get estimates, take photos."

"And if I have to relocate?"

"Be ready, pack a bag, when it happens go quickly. Call us when you're on terra firma. Your policy covers the cost of housing while the damage is being assessed and repaired."

"For how long?"

"Reasonable and customary, which basically means as long it takes; that's why we don't write this policy anymore, people were moving to Europe."

HE HANGS UP, takes an overnight bag out of the closet, and packs a few things. He leaves the bag open on the bed and dials the real-estate agent who sold him the house, Billy Collins.

"Richard Novak — now, that's a name. I never forget anyone. Never forget a name or address. You're on Shadow Hill. You want me to sell it for you — find you something bigger, something better?"

"I'm having a problem with the house…"

"It's been over ten years, it's not like we give refunds."

"It's thirteen years, and I still like the house."

"I could show you a few new things; times have changed."

"We had some damage, maybe structural trouble. I don't know the extent of it yet, but I may have to relocate temporarily."

"Would you even entertain an offer? I've sold houses for people who didn't even know they wanted to sell. They don't see it coming. Sometimes you're driving a client around and they see what they want and you have to go and get it for them, that's the job, finding out what it would take."

"Ideas. I'm looking for ideas about what to do, what comes next."

"Remarried?"

"Nope."

"Well, then, take advantage of the situation, try something new. It's all about life-style. It's all about who you want to be, how you see yourself, setting a course for the future."

"I may need a short-term rental."

"In this town everything is short-term. Pets?"

"No pets."

Billy, the agent, is the kind of man who at sixty is still called Billy. A Los Angeles native, he brags about how well he knows the turf.

Just after Richard bought the house from Billy, he took Billy on as a client. Billy had made some money buying houses and renovating them, flipping them at a profit, and then Richard made Billy even more money, quickly, at the height of things, and then Billy decided to put it back into real estate — the market made him nervous.

"How's all that worked out for you?" Richard asks out of politeness.

"I could have done better."

"You did very well. You can't always get every last drop — knowing when to quit is part of it."

"What do you think of those tech companies now?" Billy asks him.

"I'm not really involved anymore." He can't tell Billy that, despite everything he knew, he never thought the Internet would catch on, he never thought people like his parents would be pulling computers out of the box — living online. He thought e-mail was a fad. It was a strange limitation in his own thinking, an inability to think forward. The closest he got was childhood daydreams of Dick Tracy communicator watches and Morse-code rings, not Wi-Fi beaming information all over the world, PSAs, Palms, and people writing notes to themselves in New Age hieroglyphic code.

"So you called me and I appreciate that," Billy says. "I'm sure we can find you something. When do you need it — why am I asking? Now! You need it now or you wouldn't be calling."

Billy calls back in twenty minutes. "Don't say I don't care about you. It's all set. I got you a place in Malibu, very special."

"Should I go and see it?"

"I think you're missing the point. I'm doing you a favor — it's not like this guy wants to rent the place. It's a house I sold to this… person, who's going to tear it down and build something 'signature' as soon as the permits are in place, but at the moment it's furnished, it's on the ocean. Sound appealing?"

"Yes, that's why I said I'd like to take a look."

"Well, if it was good enough for him, I can't imagine it wouldn't work for you — short-term, of course. I can try to get you in. Are you free this morning? Can you leave now? It's not like I don't have other things to do today."

THE HOUSE is four bedrooms, three bathrooms, and all of it white — white sofa, white walls, white shag carpet, white gone slightly yellow.

"It was used in the movie Shampoo ."

"And never rinsed."

"You're funny. I can probably get them to clean the rug and put a coat of fresh paint in the living room, but they're not interested in doing a lot of work. But the ocean is right out there, at high tide; you can jump in off the deck. It's a different world. I've got great carpet people, they clean up crime scenes, it's like Heloise meets Murder, She Wrote, they can clean anything. They come in, very discreet, put on hazard suits, masks, and do what needs to be done. The hotels use them a lot: housekeepers won't put up with certain things anymore. Why am I telling you this? You tell me something. What have you been doing?" He makes the sound of a cash register: "Ka-ching. That's how I think of you."

The house is white like a cloud, a pleasant dream, brighter than bright, reflected light bouncing off all the white walls, the sea shimmering right outside. It feels hopeful, weirdly promising. Everything is white — white cabinets, white dishes, white silverware; frying pans are cast-iron with white enamel; there are white chairs on the deck, white bean-bag chairs in the living room. He goes upstairs, from room to room, white, more white, more more white. He lies on one of the beds — it sloshes. He drags himself aboard, lies back, feeling the water beneath him and dreaming of the summer to come.

He imagines this being the summer that never was, the summer that should have been. Ben comes to Los Angeles, they do all the things they should have done before. They go to ball games, they watch television, they do whatever it is that fathers and sons do.

"I'll take it."

"Don't you want to see the rest?" Billy throws open a door. What was formerly a home office has been converted into an adult playroom/fantasy chamber, in the same way that a person might take a spare bedroom and make it into a gym. There's a harness — white, of course — mounted in the ceiling, a mattress on the floor, and a lot of pillows and extension cords — all white.

"Do I want to know?"

"The 'recipient' goes in there and she hangs, antigravity. I've heard it's great. Not my cup of tea, I only know what it is because I saw it once at a convention. The downside of this house," Billy says, closing the door, "no pool. Everyone wants a pool, even on the ocean; a pool, a panic room — way too Houdini for me. A life raft, that's what I would want in one of these places. By the by, I'm sure we can get them to take the thingy down; I just wanted you to know it was there."

"How much?"

"Twenty-five."

"Hundred?" Richard asks, even he knows enough to think that's a little low for a whole house on the ocean.

"Thousand."

"Fifteen. I'll pay fifteen thousand a month for three months, in cash, up front."

BILLY WHIPS OUT his cell phone, calls the mysterious owner, and turns away from Richard. "I have a qualified client interested in taking the house for three months — forty thousand for the three months, plus he'll pay five thousand to have the carpet cleaned and everything polished up." There is a pause. "Right away."

When he gets off, Richard asks, "How come you quoted him forty?"

"I've been doing this for twenty-seven years, I know how people think. If you say, 'He'll pay forty-five, but you have to spend five to fix it up,' they'll say no. If you say, 'Forty, and he'll pay an extra five to fix it up,' they'll say yes. Everyone wants to think they're getting a deal. Here's the complication. You can have it, but not until next week — he's promised it to someone for the next five days. And then I'll need a couple of days to get it cleaned up. Could you stay in a hotel if you had to?"