I made a mental note to buy Mrs. Schmulowitz the grandest bunch of white daisies I could find when I got back to Rancho Bonita.

Twenty-seven

Time, scientists tell us, accelerates the older we get — or, at least, the perception of time. Makes sense. When you’re three, a year is one-third of your life. When you’re forty-three, one year is, well… Look, I was no math major, but you probably get the concept.

Nearly three months had passed in what seemed like the blink of an eye since the Ruptured Duck and I had made our “hard landing” in San Diego. Plenty had occurred since.

Formally cleared of any criminal wrongdoing, Hub Walker had filed for divorce. His wife, Crissy, remained in the county lockup, awaiting trial for the murders of Ray Sheen, Janet Bollinger, and her stepdaughter, Ruth.

Mrs. Schmulowitz had recovered from her tummy tuck. She’d called it correctly: except for the scar and a few stretch marks, her new abs could’ve passed for those on a prepubescent Nubian princess.

Sadly, my tired old Cessna remained grounded. Larry had made substantial progress putting the Duck back together, but he was still waiting on sundry parts, many of which were on back order. With no airplane, my only student, Jahangir Khan, had left me to enroll at “Air Worthy,” the slick new flight school across the field, where would-be pilots learned to fly on shiny new Cirrus SR22’s. They attended ground school in a real classroom, practicing on state-of-the-art computer simulators while swilling free coffee and munching free cookies from Mrs. Fields. Free cookies. Whoever said life isn’t fair sure knew what they were talking about.

And, as if that were not distressing enough, my cat remained missing, while the woman of my dreams continued to remain my ex-wife. Savannah and I had agreed to take things slowly, spending alternate weekends together in our respective cities, gingerly feeling our way toward what we both hoped would be an eventual reunion.

“I remember how you told me she was your sister when she first showed up here, and how I fell for it,” Mrs. Schmulowitz said, refilling my glass of lemonade. “Boy, am I a schlemiel or what?”

I was hanging out in my landlady’s living room, taking a brief break from painting the exterior of her house. In lieu of other viable employment prospects, she’d insisted on hiring me as her resident handyman until I could regain my financial footing.

“I just didn’t want to offend you, Mrs. Schmulowitz.”

“Offend me? Bubeleh, people in their seventies get offended. Folks my age, we’ve seen it all. Lemme tell ya, when you’ve been hitched to a man who insists on dousing himself every weekend head-to-toe in Chanel, who then goes traipsing around the basement wearing your girdle and brassiere, as my third husband was extremely fond of doing, nothing fazes you, and I mean, nothing.”

She turned on her ancient Magnavox television, picked up a pair of ten-pound barbells and began doing bicep curls in black Lycra bicycle shorts and a New York Giants athletic T-shirt that was knotted at the waist. An antediluvian Gidget.

“She’s a very intelligent lady, that lady of yours — and that body of hers? Oy gevalt, I only wish I could’ve had a figure like that,” Mrs. Schmulowitz said, grunting on the down-curl. “You know, normally, I’d say what’s done is done. It’s over. OK, so it didn’t work out. Az och un vai. Tough luck! Wipe your hands and walk away. But I got a good feeling about you two kids. I really do.”

“I hope you’re right, Mrs. Schmulowitz.”

“Of course, I’m right. I’m always right when it comes to love. I’ve been right five times.”

I gulped down the rest of my drink.

“I’d better get back to work before my paintbrush dries out. Thanks for the lemonade, Mrs. Schmulowitz.”

“Pitcher’s in the ’fridge, bubby. Come in and get more whenever you want.”

“I may do that.”

As I walked outside, Mrs. Schmulowitz was knocking out a new set of preacher curls while Judge Judy was laying into some loser on TV for cheating his 300-pound girlfriend out of a Kmart gift card.

Kiddiot was sitting on the back porch.

A joyous whoop came rushing up from somewhere deep inside me as I gathered up my cat and hugged him.

“Where’d you go off to, buddy?”

Wherever he’d been, he appeared not to have missed many meals there. Kiddiot was as porky as ever. I kissed him repeatedly, and even though he was never one for public displays of affection, he kissed me back, licking me on the cheek. Then he remembered he had an image to maintain, dug his rear claws into my chest, and demanded to be let down.

“Mrs. Schmulowitz, look who finally decided to come home!”

She pushed open the screen door, looked down and gasped with delight.

“Mazel tov! The Moses of Rancho Bonita has returned! Wandering around forty days and forty nights — only a lot more than forty, but who’s counting, am I right? Where have you been, you meshugana butterball? We’ve been worried sick about you!”

Kiddiot rubbed against her legs, rolled over on his back playfully — then ran off when she stooped to pet him. He hustled toward my garage apartment and hopped in through the cat door like he’d never left. For a butterball with fur, he moved pretty good.

“I’ll tell you one thing,” Mrs. Schmulowitz said, wiping happy tears from her cheeks, “that cat could stand to drop a few pounds.”

I called Savannah to tell her the news. She was thrilled.

Kiddiot was dozing on the small of my back that night when we were both jarred awake by the sound of someone jiggling our front doorknob.

I grabbed the .357 and rolled out of bed, while Kiddiot took cover under the box spring.

The door-jimmying got louder, more frenetic. Whoever was outside seemed little concerned that I might hear them. I cocked the revolver’s hammer as quietly as I could, took a deep breath, let it out slowly, then flung open the door with both hands on the grips.

There stood Savannah, cloaked in a dark-colored trench coat with the collar up. In her hand was a door key. Her heart must’ve been in her throat given the terrified expression on her face.

“Jesus, Logan.”

“My bad. It’s OK, it’s OK. You’re OK.”

I set the revolver on a shelf and pulled her close to me.

“I don’t think this key works,” Savannah said, breathing heavily, trying to calm herself after nearly getting shot.

“I’ll get you a new one first thing tomorrow.”

She pulled away from me, glanced down at my nakedness, and offered me a wry smile.

“You gonna invite me in, flyboy, or you gonna just stand there, whistling in the breeze?”

I let her in and closed the door.

“Not that I’m unhappy to see you, Savannah, but what are you doing here? I thought it was my turn to come down to LA this weekend. Or am I confused?”

“You’re not confused.”

“Then you must be.”

“Why am I confused?”

“It hasn’t rained in months, it’s seventy degrees outside, and you’re wearing a raincoat.”

She undid the belt and let the coat fall to the floor.

“Who said I was?”

She was wearing nothing underneath but skin.

I watched her slip into my bed, the filtered moonlight highlighting her curves under the sheets like the bas-relief of a Greek goddess.

“I have an excellent idea,” Savannah said.

“Better than that raincoat?”

“Why don’t you come in here and join me?”

“That is an excellent idea.”

She was soft and warm, and when she snuggled close, we melded perfectly. Some couples just fit together better than others.

“How’s your cat?”

“He’s great. Fat as ever.”

“I’m so happy he finally decided to come back after so long. It must’ve been a big surprise.”

“Huge surprise.”