The units are built around a tree-lined cul de sac, on a narrow road that winds up just off Ventura Boulevard. I pull into one of the guest parking spaces and get out of the car. It’s so quiet I have to strain to hear the traffic. Hard to believe the noise and crowding on Ventura are just down the hill. I ring her bell just after eight thirty. She comes to the door a little breathless, clutching her shoes in her hand. “Hi, I’m running a little late. That dinner went longer than I thought. Come on in and make yourself at home.” I follow her in. Just off the entry way, it’s all soft lighting, tastefully decorated, and the stereo set to a jazz station with Keith Jarrett moaning his way through “Too Young to Go Steady.” “Nice,” I say, looking around at the comfortable furniture, full bookshelves and, a fireplace. I feel Maybeline watching me. “There’s some beer and white wine.
