The day after I lost one of my big social networking accounts after the company brought it in-house, Olivia Firelli called to inquire about my services. It was perfect timing, getting this new lead, and if I managed to convince her to use my services, her new account would make up for the one I had just lost.

Though I usually met prospective clients either at their offices or at Java Man, a small coffee shop on Pier Avenue, Olivia wanted to meet me at her house on the Strand. She had a small child, she said, and didn't have a nanny that day though she completely understood if I said no and she'd just have to reschedule. When I asked her how she found me, she said she got my card through her brother, who had gotten my card through Rosie.

"Your brother?" I asked, trying to remember if I knew anyone by that last name. "Do I know him?"

"I don't think you've met him yet. But he knew Rosie." A baby began crying in the background and I heard her muffle the receiver as she spoke in something that sounded like Italian. "I understand if you don't want to come. My Bella's got a cold and I don't want her to be out and about but we can reschedule-"

"No, no, that's alright," I said quickly. "I can come over and meet with you. Just tell me where to go."

I left Michael with my neighbor, George. A former professional surfer, George McAllister lived in a two-story town home just across the street from my house. We used to have identical cottages, but two years ago, he had it demolished and had a two-unit condo built in its place. He lived in one unit and leased the other.

David had always wanted me to do the same thing, though what he really wanted to do was just sell my property to the developers who bought the houses on either side of me and built condos in its place. I'd resisted only because of Rosie's assertion that the house was the only thing I had that he couldn't' take away from me. The last thing Rosie and I wanted to become, after David would have gotten hold of the check, was to be homeless.

Olivia told me to park in front of the two-car garage in the alley, and to leave the right side of the garage free for her brother when he came home. A Hispanic woman with cropped hair named Consuelo let me in and led me into the living room. It was a gorgeous room with floor to ceiling glass windows that opened right onto a deck overlooking the Strand and the beach. I could only imagine the sunsets Olivia got to see every day.

But it wasn't the view outside the glass window that made my heart really race. The colors were the first thing I noticed, vivid and full of life, it arrested the eye along with the crisp strokes to define each outline, each shadow. It was a painting on the south-facing wall, just behind the long white L-shaped couch. A plain wall divider that stood a few feet from the glass window protected it from the sun's rays.

The over-sized painting featured the Strand just outside the window, the very Strand where I jogged with Michael tucked in his stroller. The painting was done in a style reminiscent of DJ Hall, a California painter known to paint the women of Palm Springs in such sharp, bright, photorealistic colors. This particular painting depicted the people who walked on the Strand, their expressions captured in profile as they headed towards some bright point in the far right of the canvas.

There were families with children, a hippie couple holding hands, a jogger, a surfer, and in the far left, a woman pushing an umbrella stroller where a young girl sat holding up a paper cutting of interlocked people. I'd seen the painting before. I just never expected to see it again, and not in a house right on the Strand.

I walked towards the painting and inspected its frame. It had to be custom made to fit a painting this size. Definitely not one of those franchise frame jobs, I thought, just as a door behind me opened.

"I'm so glad you made it, Sam. I'm Olivia," said a petite woman with red hair and a broad smile. She looked stunning in a white tank top and a flowing floral skirt that skimmed just above her slim ankles. Over one hip, she carried a little girl. "This is Bella. She's almost one."

"She's beautiful," I said, struck by the child's bright blue eyes and dark hair.

"Thank you," Olivia said, blushing. "Do you have any children?"

"A boy. He's two."

Olivia smiled. "If you and my brother end up working together, you should bring him with you some time. I'd like Bella to have a lot of playmates."

I nodded, but wanted only to get down to business. I had told George that I'd be done in two hours. "So what kind of social networking do you need?"

"It's not for me," she replied, beckoning for me to sit down. "It's for my brother. He runs a non-profit medical clinic in downtown L.A."

"Why would a doctor need social networking services? Is he marketing a new product or something?" I asked as I sat down on the shorter end of the couch, wanting to be where I could see the painting and look at it without being too obvious.

One of my accounts was a cosmetic surgeon based in Beverly Hills. He was always marketing his services and the many testimonials of his work. My advertising calendar was full of product announcements and reviews, which I posted on a fixed schedule on sites like Facebook, Twitter and even Pinterest.

"No, but he does a lot of outreach and works with many local organizations serving the underserved population of L.A., primarily the uninsured," Olivia replied. "But I think social networking would help educate the public about what he does."

I nodded, though my attention was back on the painting on the wall. I couldn't keep my eyes off it.

"Do you like it?" She asked. "The painting?"

"I'm sorry," I said. "It's just such a huge painting that it's hard to focus on anything else."

"It's a beautiful painting though," Olivia said, bouncing Bella on her knees. "My brother absolutely loves it. He never buys art really, but I'm glad he bought this one. It makes him happy, and that's what matters. Don't you agree?"

I nodded, forcing myself to stop looking at the painting.

"Would you like something to drink? I don't think Consuela offered you anything."

Before I could say something, Olivia got up and walked to the kitchen. She reappeared with two bottles of sparkling water. She set one on the table and handed me the other one. "My brother's running late but he's the one you'll need to talk to about the work he wants you to do."

"Why didn't he call me himself?"

"Because he's busy, and because I help him run the clinic from here," she said. "And Bella here found your business card when she was playing with his wallet one day. That's how we got your website information. He didn't even realize he had your card until Bella found it."

I heard the sound of a garage door opening and a minute later, her brother entered through a hallway that must have led to the rest of the house.

"I'm so sorry I'm late, but traffic was terrible - as usual," he said, grinning when he saw us, though his eyes lit up when Bella said dada and lifted her arms up towards him.

"Oh, hello, baby Bella-cakes," he said, taking Bella from Olivia's arms and cradling her in one hand as he walked towards me, grinning broadly.

I recognized his face immediately. I'd never expected to see him again, I thought, but at least this time, I was wearing make-up.

"Sam! Finally I have a name," he said, shaking my outstretched hand. "I'm Erik. So nice to meet you again."

Whatever I had wanted to say to him never came out of my mouth. I simply stared at him. He was wearing a white long-sleeved shirt and dark slacks, looking much like what I thought a businessman would look like. But wait, wasn't he a doctor?

And whose house was this? I thought it was Olivia's. And why did Bella just call him dada? I thought he was her brother, not the father of her child. And how the hell did he manage to have my card in his wallet? And how did he know Rosie?

Erik's voice broke through the haze of my questions. "Would you like something to drink?"

I was still holding the bottle of sparkling water in my hand, unopened. "I already have something, thanks."

He reached for the bottle in my hand, our fingers brushing lightly, eliminating yet another layer of questions that had arisen since I last answered him. Still holding Bella in one arm, Erik twisted the cap open before handing it back to me. "I can get you a glass if you like."

I shook my head. "I'm fine, thanks," I stammered as Erik began loosening his tie and taking it off.

Outside the dogs began barking again and Olivia took Bella from his arms. "That should be Julie, Erik. I'll see you later?"

"Thanks, Liv," he said as Olivia turned to look at me.

"It was really nice meeting you, Sam. I hope I'll see you some other time. Maybe our kids can play together."

"That would be nice," I said, shaking her hand but felt her pull me towards her in a light hug. I said good-bye to Bella, remembering just how Michael used to be at that age, too. They would certainly make good playmates, I thought. But that wasn't why I was here.

When they were gone, I faced Erik. "I hope she didn't have to entertain me when she could have been doing something else," I said. "I would have been fine just waiting here. You have a wonderful view."

"Thanks," Erik said. "But don't worry about Liv. You really can't force her to do something she doesn't want to do. And she lives next door. Our houses are connected through a garden, through there." He pointed towards the door that Olivia had used. "I have the beach view and she has, well, she has the walk-street view. Sometimes she spends her days here so Bella has the ocean to look at."

"Bella's your...niece?"

He laughed. "Of course, she is. I hope you didn't think she was mine." He made a face. "That would be gross. Anyway, Liv and I are twins so we're close. But we're not that close."

I couldn't help but laugh at the look on his face.

"Her husband was a race car driver - not yet pro," he said.

"Maybe he'll go pro before you know it," I said.

"Not if he's dead," Erik said. "He died in a car crash this year and so I asked Liv to come back to California to live with me. Then George, from next door, bought a house in Sun Valley so he sold his house to us."

"I'm sorry to hear about your brother-in-law."

"Thanks," he said, twisting the cap of his bottled water and taking a sip. "Sebastian was a good man. Ambitious, like most men are, but a good man just the same. But that's life, isn't it? One day you're up, and the next- "

"-you're dead," I said. "Life sucks actually."

He didn't say anything right away, as if my sudden brusque tone drove him to be silent. Then he smiled.

"How are your shoulders?"

"They're fine, actually, thanks to your quick adjustment," I said. "But why am I really here? I hope to God you're not, like, stalking me or anything."

He laughed. "No, I'm not. That was pure coincidence, meeting you on the Strand like that."

"Why am I really here?" I didn't mean to let the annoyance creep into my tone of voice, but it did. I also didn't want to abuse George's generosity in watching Michael for free.

"Your friend Rosie referred you to me," he said.

"My social networking work?"

He shook his head.

I frowned, thinking back to the time I had told Rosie not to recommend my work as a fine arts painter to anyone any more. I had quit painting and that was that, I had told her. I had always assumed she'd kept her promise.

"Rosie would never have recommended me for anything other than social networking. I stopped painting over a year ago, before she died."

"The last thing I need is social networking," Erik said. "I'm sorry if Liv made it seem like it was what I needed. All I wanted was a meeting, for a proposition I wanted to offer you."

"What proposition is that?" I asked. "And if Rosie gave you my card, why the hell didn't you just call me and tell me this...this proposition...over the phone?"

"Because it's something I can't talk about over the phone," he said. He turned to face the painting behind the couch and after a few seconds, I did the same. There was a quiet determination in Erik that I recognized.

When he walked behind the couch to stand closer to the painting, I followed him. I swallowed nervously as I watched him look up at the painting, following his gaze from the jogger to the rollerblader, to the couple with the children, and then to the hippie couple holding hands. Then his eyes settled on the woman pushing the umbrella stroller with the little girl holding the paper cut.

The silence that filled the space between us grew thicker with each passing second. But it was as if I had lost control of my voice, and all I could hear was the sound of the blood rushing through my temples. I could have turned around and left him, but my feet were rooted to the ground. I needed to know why I was here.

"Do you like this painting, Sam?" Erik asked, though he didn't look at me when he spoke. "Do you know what it's called?"

It's called Strands, I wanted to say to him, but didn't. As he turned to look at me, I realized I didn't need to say what the painting was called, or whether I knew who painted it.

For Erik already knew.