Meeting MayaWilliam did not call for several weeks, but Maya understood he was suffering, though she could not fathom its depths. His silence increased her anxiety about him and her growing affection for him. But then he called on Sunday morning, September 23. “It’s done,” he said. His daughter had married another woman; he saw pictures on f*******:. He asked if he could take Maya for a drive and lunch. A first.
An hour later, the couple was across the Golden Gate Bridge on the way to Bodega Bay in his Tesla. William wore a scarlet Stanford polo-shirt and blue jeans—his paunch more visible than when he wore a suit—and dock-siders. Maya was in black slacks and wore a light blue collarless shirt and flats. Her hair in a ponytail.
They spoke little on the drive up, mostly about work and tec
