The cottage was farther on, in Tomales. Though it was out of her territory—up the coast, in a market she did not know—Marilyn had nonetheless agreed to go take a look. He wanted to sell the place, he said. He never got out here anymore, and he had too much to look after. Usually, in situations such as this, it was customary for the real estate agent to do the driving. Beatrice Prospero had offered Marilyn the loan of her father’s Mercedes, a second car that the old man did not drive anymore, but it turned out the car was in the shop, and so they were riding in Lake’s car: a Mercedes as well, as it happened, an upscale model, newer than the one Marilyn would have driven, with more appointments. And also a top that rolled back. The redwoods were thick at the summit, where the fog piled up against the hills, but the western slopes descending to the ocean were mostly scrub: old grazing land now covered with Scotch broom and thistle and the occasional oak. The clouds rolled overhead, building up along the ridges.
