Why couldn’t Art do the same thing—if he had reason to? Then—and perhaps here I was naive—we could continue our project. Maybe Art had been rattled by his marital situation and the distress it was causing him. But how could he be that deeply involved in a passion for Marilyn? (How quickly I’d forgotten Constance and how much I’d been on the verge of giving up for her!) He wasn’t a teenager, after all. It had to be because of his inexperience. I mean he couldn’t be thinking of marrying her! Marilyn simply wasn’t a wife. Anyone could see that. Even with all his inexperience, he was smart enough to know that. The wife he had (how patronizing I was!) suited him. He certainly wasn’t going to upset his whole life, divorce Mary, leave his children; it was too absurd to even imagine. I had the European viewpoint: Everything in its place. Marilyn was what she was, a delightful companion. A delightful companion is a delightful companion, not a wife.

Now that he’d left California and I was alone, I had a caretaker’s relationship with Miss Bauer. I knew she was in love with Art despite any feeling she had for me. His letters to me showed how much he cared for her. He needed what he got from her. After what had happened with The Hook, she was a blessing to me; she lifted my spirits. But I was not desperate about her—or she about me. We were good fellows. If Miller came back, I’d yield, and wait and see what happened.