Tales of the City 02 - More Tales of the City

“Yeah.”
    “Well, ring the doorbell, girl!”

Key to Her Heart
    U P IN THE STARLIGHT LOUNGE, MARY ANN AND BURKE hoisted Pina Coladas and proposed a toast. “To new memories,” said Burke.
    “Right, and to—” She frowned suddenly, realizing with a little shiver that the pianist had begun to belt out “Everything’s Coming Up Roses.”
    “Burke … if that bothers you, I don’t mind asking him to stop.”
    He smiled weakly. “I hadn’t noticed it.”
    “Until I mentioned it, huh?”
    “It’s O.K.”
    “I’m sorry, Burke.”
    He downed his drink. “I can’t bury my head in the sand, Mary Ann.”
    “I wish there was something I could—”
    “It’s just something I have to deal with, that’s all. I mean, you can’t avoid roses, can you?” His mouth curled in a rueful smile. “Try it sometime.”
    “I know. It must be … Burke, couldn’t a psychiatrist do something? It seems like … well, if you could cure your amnesia, wouldn’t that take care of your fear of roses and … walkways with railings or whatever?”
    “I’ve seen a shrink already.”
    “Oh.”
    “He hypnotized me and interrogated me and did everything but stick pins in a voodoo doll … and not a goddam thing happened. Except his bill at the end of the month.”
    Mary Ann stared down at her drink for a moment, wondering how she could phrase the next question. “Burke, what if you …?”
    “Yeah?”
    “Oh … nothing.”
    “It didn’t sound like nothing.”
    “Well, I was wondering if … Wouldn’t it jog your memory or something if you … came back to San Francisco?”
    An interminable silence followed. She had risked this question not once but twice. Her face flushed instantly, and Burke seemed to sense her embarrassment. “It would almost be worth it,” he said at last, “to be around you.”
    Mary Ann tore the edge off her cocktail napkin. “It just seems like … well, if you were exposed to some of the old places and … experiences and all, your memory might come back and you could sort of … exorcise your phobias.” She looked up at him imploringly. Her eyes were full of tears. “Oh, who the hell am I fooling!”
    He dabbed at her eyes with a cocktail napkin. “Not me,” he smiled.
    “I hate goodbyes. I always lose it. Always.”
    “I know. Me too.”
    “Nothing’s ever been quite as nice as this.”
    “I know. I agree.”
    “You do?”
    He nodded.
    “Well, then, why don’t we …? Oh, God, do I look like I’m begging?”
    He held both her hands in his. “Do I look like I’m saying no, dummy?”
    They snuggled under a blanket on the fantail, watching the lights along the shore.
    “You won’t be sorry,” she said.
    “You don’t have to promise that. You can’t.”
    “What about your parents?”
    “I’ll phone and tell them. They’ll understand.”
    “Won’t they be a little … freaked. I mean, about San Francisco?”
    “No more than I am.”
    “Don’t be. I’ll be there this time.” She paused, then said as offhandedly as possible: “In fact, if you’d like, I think there’s a vacancy in my building.”
    “Good. Where’s that?”
    “Russian Hill. Barbary Lane. It’s a darling little walkway, like something out of a fairy tale, and the landlady’s so neat. Michael lives downstairs.”
    “Where’s the vacancy, then?”
    “Just across the hall.”
    “Handy.”
    She giggled. “The guy who lived there moved up to this little house on the roof.” Never mind what had happened to the guy who’d lived there.
    Sitting up, Burke reached in the pocket of his windbreaker and handed Mary Ann a small package wrapped in tissue paper. She peeled it away, layer by layer, scarcely taking her eyes off Burke’s embarrassed face.
    Inside, suspended from a twenty-four-karat gold necklace, was the curious little key he had shown her on the beach.
    “For what it’s worth,” he said almost apologetically, “I love you.”

DeDe on the Town
    D EDE KNEW SHE MADE A LUDICROUS SIGHT. AN EIGHT-MONTHS-PREGNANT woman dining alone at the counter at Vanessi’s, her battered Gucci tote bag propped against the stool.
    Well, screw it, she thought. North Beach had seen weirder things. A lot weirder. Like that freaky teeny-bopper hanging out in front of Enrico’s. Green hair and a garbage bag. Yecch!
    Besides, she loved this restaurant. She delighted in its unaffected sophistication and burly Italian chefs who wielded skillets with all the grace and precision of tennis