It’s too isolated. No one’s here.” David is in his car. At the bottom of a steep, tree-lined driveway. He’s leaning out of the driver’s-side window. Calling to Livvi, asking: “Are you sure you don’t want me to wait with you?”“I’m fine, go!” The words come out sounding clipped and rude—not the way Livvi intended them to.She’s at the top of the driveway, with a sprawling, shade-dappled house looming at her back, and she’s nervous.David is putting the car into reverse then immediately bringing it to a stop, leaning out the window again. There is unguarded sweetness in his voice as he’s telling her: “I hate to leave you.”Livvi isn’t really paying attention to what David is saying or how he’s saying it; she’s too distracted. She’s giving him a wave she hopes will look cheery. She sincerely appreciates that David, after driving her to the meeting in Culver City this morning, was kind enough to bring her all the way out here into the hills northwest of Pasadena—to this leafy, affluent town called Flintridge.
