THE HOUSE ON PINE TERRACE

There was an intercom attached to the ice-white wall and I used it to call up to the house on Pine Terrace. The voice that answered was the voice on the phone. He sounded just as pleasant now as he had then. Not uptight like I expected a john to be. While we were talking, I heard an electronic hum and the iron gate swung inward. We broke off and I drove my Ford along a winding drive past stands of palm trees. The house was at the end of the drive.

My father left my mother when I was too young to remember him. From a remark here and a remark there, I’ve figured out that it was no big loss. I do remember that we were always dirt poor. Mama was part of a crew that cleaned houses. You don’t get rich doing that, but you do get to see how the other half lives. A few times, when she couldn’t get anyone to watch me, she risked getting fired by bringing me with her. The only place she brought me that I remember clearly was the house on Pine Terrace.

When I was little, Mama called me princess. She said someday I would marry a prince and live in a castle and be rich. I’ve never been married, I’m working on rich and this is the castle I’d live in if I had my way. I dreamed about this house. Fantasized about it when I was alone and feeling lazy. Wished for it when I was younger and really believed I could do anything.

The house was so white the rays of the sun reflected off it. It was long, low, modern and perched on a cliff with a view of the Pacific that was so breathtaking you’d never get tired of it. There was a Rolls-Royce Silver Cloud parked near the front door. Farther down the drive was a sports car so expensive that someone in my tax bracket couldn’t even identify it. I looked at my Ford, thought about the small, singles apartment I lived in and suddenly felt like a visitor from another planet.

What I saw when the front door opened confused me. Daniel Emery III was one of the handsomest men I’d ever seen. He was six-one or-two, broad-shouldered and tanned a warm, brown color that made you think of tropical beaches. He wore a yellow cashmere V-necked sweater and tight white jeans. There were no gold chains, diamond pinky rings or the other swinger jewelry turnoffs. He was, in other words, the male equivalent of his dream house and I wondered what in the world a guy like this with a place like this wanted with a call girl.

“You’re Tanya?” he asked, using the phony name I’d given when he phoned in response to the ad in Swinger’s Weekly.

“And you must be Dan,” I answered, pitching my voice low and sexy.

He nodded as he gave me the once-over. I was sure he would like what he saw. His smile confirmed my belief.

“You certainly fit your description in the ad.”

“You’re surprised?”

“A little. I figured there’d be a bit of puffing.”

I smiled to show him that I appreciated the compliment.

“Can I get you a drink?” he asked.

“No, thanks,” I said, starting to hate what I was going to do. “And we should get the business part out of the way so it won’t interfere with your pleasure.”

“Sure, the money,” Dan said. “One thousand in cash, you said. I’ve got it here.”

He handed me an envelope and I thumbed through the ten crisp hundred-dollar bills inside it.

“One more thing,” I said. “What do you expect for this?”

He looked puzzled. “Sex.”

“What kind of sex? Do you want straight sex or head? Anything kinky?”

“I thought you said you’d do anything I wanted and would stay the night for a thou.”

He was starting to look worried.

“That’s right. And you understand there’s no rough stuff.”

“That’s not my style. Now, have we got the business out of the way?”

“Unfortunately, no,” I said, flashing my badge. I could hear the trunk of the Ford open as my partner, Jack Gripper, got out. “I’m a policewoman, Mr. Emery, and you’re under arrest for prostitution.”

What a waste, I remember thinking. I meet the guy of my dreams, who lives in the house of my dreams, and instead of balling him, I bust him. Life can sure be cruel. Then, he phoned.

“Officer Esteban?” he asked, sounding just as pleasant as he’d been during the ride to the station house.

“Yes.”

“This is Dan Emery. You arrested me for prostitution three weeks ago.”

“Oh, yes. I remember.”

“I didn’t bother getting a lawyer. You had me dead to rights. I just faced the music and pled guilty about twenty minutes ago.”

“Good for you. I hope the judge wasn’t too tough.”

“The fine wasn’t much, but the process was pretty humiliating.”

“Hopefully, it won’t happen again.”

“That’s for sure. So, the reason I called. Actually, I wanted to call you before, but I thought I should wait until my case was over. Otherwise, I was afraid it would sound like a bribe.”

“What would?”

“My dinner invitation.”

Five years as a cop had taught me how to stay cool in the tensest situations but I was completely flummoxed.

“I don’t know…” I started.

“Look, you’re probably thinking I’m some kind of weirdo, what with answering that kinky ad and all. But, really, I’m not like that. I did it as a lark. Honest. I haven’t been with a prostitute since college and I’ve never had a call girl. I don’t even subscribe to that paper. I picked it up at my barber while I was waiting for a haircut. It just seemed like fun. Really, I’m very embarrassed about the whole thing. And I have been punished. You have no idea what it’s like for a guy to admit he had to pay for sex in a courtroom packed with giggling people.”

I laughed.

“Good,” he said, “I’ve got you laughing. Now, if I can just get you to go out with me I’ll be batting a thousand. What do you say?”

I said yes of course, and dinner was everything I’d hoped it would be even if the restaurant was elegant enough to make me feel a little uncomfortable and I didn’t recognize half the dishes on the menu. Dan turned out to be a perfect gentleman with a sense of humor and none of that macho bullshit that I’m used to from the cops I’ve dated. The only thing that bothered me that first night-and I say bothered, only because I needed a word here, not because I really gave it any thought then-was his reluctance to talk about himself. He was an artist at steering the conversation back to me whenever I’d try to find out a little about him. But I was so used to guys who only wanted to talk about themselves that it was actually a bit of a relief.

I didn’t sleep with Dan after our first date or our second. I didn’t want him thinking I was an easy lay. The third time we dated he invited me to his house instead of going to a restaurant and he cooked a dinner to die for. We ate on the flagstone patio. The air felt like silk, the view was spectacular and not having sex with him seemed downright silly.

The next two months were like a fairy tale. We couldn’t keep our hands off each other and I missed him every minute we were apart. Sergeant Groves couldn’t figure out why I was being so nice to him. He knew how upset I’d been when he took me out of narcotics and put me into the call-girl sting operation. I’d yelled sex discrimination and he asked me who else he could use as a call girl. The whole thing was supposed to be temporary, anyway.

During those two intense months I learned a little bit more about Dan, and everything I learned made me like him more. Dan was an orphan, whose parents had died in a car crash on vacation in the south of France during his sophomore year at USC. He’d been living in an apartment on his own and continued to stay there until he graduated, even though he’d inherited the house on Pine Terrace. Dan told me that he’d been very close to his parents and the house contained too many memories. It had taken a while before he could stay there without being overcome with sadness.