At one end was a fireplace, at the other a solid glass wall facing the ocean. In front of it was an easel holding a half-finished oil painting.
A smock and palette lay on the floor.
"What do you drink?" she asked.
"Scotch, if you have it."
"I have it.
Sit down while I get ice and glasses."
He waited until she went into another room, then crossed to the easel.
He looked at the painting. It was a sunset over the Pacific, with wild red, yellow and orange hues over the almost black water.
He heard ice clink in a glass behind him and turned.
She held out a drink to him.
"Yours?" he asked, taking the glass from her.
She nodded.
"I'm not really good at it. I play the piano the same way.
But it's my way of relaxing, of working off my frustrations over my incapabilities. It's my way of compensating for not being a genius."
"Not many people are," he said. "But from what I've heard, you're a pretty good doctor."
She looked at him. "I suppose I am.
But I’m not good enough.
What you said tonight was very revealing. And very true."
"What was that?"
"About creative conceit, the ability to do what no other man can do.
A great doctor or surgeon must have it, too." She shrugged her shoulders. "I'm a very good workman. Nothing more."
"You might be judging yourself unfairly."
"No, I’m not," she replied quickly.
"I’ve studied under doctors who were geniuses and I've seen enough others to know what I'm talking about.
My father, in his own way, is a genius.
He can do things with plastics and ceramics that no other man in the world can.
Sigmund Freud, who is a friend of my father's, Picasso, whom I met in France, George Bernard Shaw, who lectured at my college in England – they are all geniuses.
And they all have that one quality in common. The creative conceit that enables them to do things that no other man before them could do." She shook her head. "No, I know better. I'm no genius."
He looked at her.
"I’m not, either."
David turned toward the ocean as she came and stood beside him.
"I’ve known some geniuses, too," he said.
"Uncle Bernie, who started Norman Pictures, was a genius.
He did everything it now takes ten men to do.
And Jonas Cord is a genius, too, in a way. But I’m not sure yet in what area.
There are so many things he can do, it's a pity."
"I know what you mean.
My father said almost the same thing about him."
He looked down at her. "It's sad, isn't it?" he said. "Two ordinary nongeniuses, standing here looking out at the Pacific Ocean."
A glint of laughter came into her eyes.
"And such a big ocean, too."
"The biggest," he said solemnly. "Or so some genius said. The biggest in the world." He held up his glass. "Let's drink to that." They drank and he turned again to the ocean. "It's warm, almost warm enough to swim."
"I don't think the ocean would object if two just ordinary people went for a swim."
He looked at her and smiled slowly.
"Could we?"
She laughed. "Of course. You'll find swimming trunks in the locker in the utility room."
David came out of the water and collapsed on the blanket.
He rolled over on his side and watched her running up the beach toward him.
He held his breath.
She was so much a woman that he had almost forgotten she was also a doctor.