A. Homes - This Book Will Save Your Life

AT 6:00 A.M. she is on the treadmill in the second bedroom in her bra and underwear. "I wasn't expecting company," she says, gesturing to her outfit.

"It's cute," Richard says.

"The power's back on," she says, increasing the incline. She has already eaten her half a grapefruit and her decaf cappuccino. Ben is still asleep in the other room.

"It's nine a.m. in New York. I'm late."

"Where are you going?" Richard asks.

"I have two breakfasts — seven-thirty and a nine — and then a meeting at ten-thirty and lunch at one."

"How's your leg?"

"Fine, but my arm is sore from the shots," she says.

Back in the bedroom, he watches her dress; he always thought it was incredibly sexy, the way she would sit at the edge of the bed and roll her panty hose up her legs, stand, reach behind herself, and zip her skirt. He watches, overcome with longing.

"I may have to head back to New York tonight — a production crisis — but I'll call you later," she says, leaving — the two discreet Band-Aids at her ankle the only mark of her attack.

OVERNIGHT, a fire has started in the hills: the flick of a match, a lightning strike, a smoldering ember. It spreads quickly; dry chaparral bursts into flame; fire skirts the ground, hopping from stick to stick. It starts small, intimately, but spreads with enthusiasm.

As Richard and Ben drive from Beverly Hills into Santa Monica, they see the smoke high up, far away, fire on the hill.

"When she goes, are you going with her?" Richard asks.

Ben nods. "I'll be back. You believe me, right?"

"Flat screen, high-speed Internet," Richard says, reminding Ben of what will be in his new room.

"A bicycle ride across France," Ben says.

"I'm going to hold you to it," Richard says, dropping Ben at the new donut shop — the painters are there, the counter guy is coming, it is a work in progress.

"I can't say good-bye," Ben says.

"Call me," Richard says.

Ben holds his fingers to his ear, making the sign of the telephone. "Will call," he says.

NIC IS OUTSIDE the house in Malibu, digging through the garbage. "I think I threw away something."

"What?" Richard asks.

"I don't know. As I was emptying the can I had the feeling I was throwing away something I shouldn't. I bought a shredder," he says, dumping an enormous pile of shredded paper back into the trash can.

"You look like you haven't slept in days — everything OK?"

"Working like a dog."

"Script?"

"Novel. It's like I'm on fire," Nic says.

Richard follows Nic into the house — it's a mess, coffee cups, half-eaten sandwiches, wads of crumpled paper all over the floor, two typewriters set up, motors humming.

"Just waiting for the last page to firm up," Nic says. He feeds paper into the shredder, which spits confetti. "Rough drafts. So I called my folks," he says.

"Oh?"

"Yeah; you know, the whole Fred thing spooked me. 'When are you coming home?' was the first thing my father said. 'First flight out,' I said. It was the only thing I could say. It was like they'd been sitting by the phone for years. 'Do you have a jacket?' my mother asked. 'It gets chilly in the evenings, it's not like it is out there.' While I was talking to them, I couldn't remember why I'd stayed away for so long."

"It'll come back to you as soon as you get there," Richard says with confidence.

Nic looks worried. "Did I ever mention how much I hate to fly?"

"No."

"Petrified. I have a recurring image of the small plane that crashed in New Jersey a couple of years ago, hurling people still strapped in their seats into the parking lot of a Kentucky Fried Chicken."

"Do you want me to go with you? I'll fly to Albany, check into a hotel for a few days, and, when you're ready, fly back."

"That's probably the nicest offer I've ever had."

"It's not just an offer."

"How about you just drive me to the airport?"

"Just say when."

"Give me a couple of hours."

THE DOG is glad to see Richard; he gives him an enormous greeting, complete with a full series of licks to the face and ears. Richard feeds him and takes him for a long walk. The tide is high: waves lap at the timbers under the houses; seaweed wraps around Richard's ankle, tickling him, trapping him. Richard thinks about Ben, Ben back in New York, a senior in high school, Ben taking the SATs, applying to colleges — what does he want to be? Richard thinks of the house on the hill, of moving back, of being alone. He cannot bear the idea of going back to what was, spending the days home doing nothing. He can't do nothing, but what can he do? He has a good car; he will be the man who picks up the donuts from Anhil and delivers them to the new location; he will outfit the trunks with racks, they will slide the trays of warm donuts in, and he will drive them to Santa Monica twice a day. And after he drives the donuts — then what? It will only be 6:30 a.m. He will meditate. He will sign up for a yoga class in Santa Monica — that's perfect, he likes it there, likes the feeling of the place — and then, at 8:00 a.m. he'll go to the gym, eat breakfast at the donut shop, and then — he'll go visiting. Not just one person, but a dozen people. He will visit door to door delivering donuts to the elderly, the infirm — OK, not delivering donuts, it's not like old people want to be eating donuts — he will deliver Meals on Wheels to old people. He'll arrange for Meals on Wheels to have Sylvia cook for old people on special diets, people who need good nutrition. It will be his gift; he will pay for it and he will deliver the food and visit the old people. He sees himself knocking on doors, ringing bells. "Mrs. Donziger, it's Richard from Meals on Wheels." If they want to talk, he will sit down and talk. If not, he will simply bring them food and good wishes. He's thrilled, he's finally figured it out, he has something to do — he is useful. He imagines calling his parents in Florida and telling them the good news.

"What do they need you for?" his mother will say. "Don't they have children of their own who can take care of them?"

"Sometimes you can do things for others that you can't do for yourself."

JUST AFTER NOON, Nic calls. "It's now or never."

Richard goes to help with his bags. The house has been transformed: everything is clean, in order, the dishes washed and put away; it is as though even the air itself is changed. The last couple of bags of trash are by the door.

"My inner maid rose up and burst forth," Nic says.

"Did you wash the floors?"

"Aye," he says. "I swabbed the deck, and I swabbed myself as well." He's showered, shaved; there's a fresh scratch on his neck. His hair is combed back — he looks different, older, worn. "I finished the book," he says.

"Where is it?"

Nic kicks the lowest drawer of the file cabinet. "Twenty years in the making."

"Do you have a copy?"

"Nope. How long does it take to get to the airport — can we make it in an hour?"

"You have everything: clothing, toothbrush, medication in case your back goes out, vitamins?"

"They don't travel well." He pulls a pint of scotch out of his jacket. "Road food." His suitcase is a small duffel, a sausage.

"How long will you be gone?"

"A few days. Do me a favor?"

"Yeah, sure."

"Visit Lillian. I told her I would — she likes lemon-meringue."

In the car, Nic sweats. He takes off his jacket and untucks his shirt. He gets sticky, pale.

"Are you nauseated?"

"No. Ten bucks says when I get to Security they pull me aside. I didn't bring presents — is that OK?"

"Get a box of See's candy at the airport — mothers love that."

Nic nods.

"What are you most afraid of?" Richard asks.

"Dying," Nic says.

"In a plane crash?"

"Yes, either on the plane or at my parents' house. I can't tell which is worse." He pauses. "Look, if I'm not back in a week, come get me." He writes the address and phone number on a piece of paper.