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Somewhere behind the steel-gray wall of fog on their right was the Pacific Ocean. And, seeming to be the referee between the two, was the bridge under a blazing hot afternoon sun. |
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Over the last fifty miles Kyna and Cyrus had fallen into a comfortable silencean experience that she found decidedly odd. |
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What is so different about Cyrus? Kyna mused. He's so self-contained, so comfortable with who he is. Bryan used to be that way. He used to be fun. He used to care about people. Boy, how he's changed. Now all he seems to worry about is who he's going to impress with his money, his diamonds or his cars. |
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She wondered if it was meeting Cyrus or this bizarre trip that had suddenly made her see everything so clearly. |
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Underneath all the glitz Bryan's just an empty shell. The manners, the phony charm, they're just a suit he struts around in to impress himself. He doesn't really care about me or those so-called friends of his, or even the money. |
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How could she have been so blind? |
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During her ruminations, Kyna had been unconsciously fingering the necklace through her blouse. She glanced up at the rearview mirror and was amazed how the tiny lines at the corners of her eyes seemed to have just vanished, how her skin seemed to have lost the pallor that the years had slapped on it like coats of cheap paint. |
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Maybe Bryan hasn't changed, she thought. Maybe I have. |
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She cut her eyes to Cyrus. He was watching the city approach with the same rapt expression that Lancelot must have worn the first time he saw Camelot: eyes bright, a tiny half-smirk on his boyish face. |
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Wouldn't that be something if I really have changed? |
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On the far side of the bridge, the Lincoln shot the narrow gap between toll booths and then roared down Lombard Street, following the signs to Fisherman's Wharf. After depositing their bags and the exhausted automobile at a hotel a few blocks from the Wharf, they set out on foot to sightsee. |
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The sidewalks were packed with a mixed bag of tourists in |
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