he smells him before she sees him.
"Why Winston, you big, ugly brute," Delia says to the Beachwoods' Old English Sheepdog, who is lying contentedly in a pile of ivy, long strands of silver fur veiling his watery old eyes.
         She is grateful for the company, and invites the oversized furball into her cottage despite Mrs. Beachwood's explicit "no pets" rule.
         Delia wishes she could have a dog. She wishes she could have a stove top, a bathtub, a real garden and one of those cute ceramic address plaques everyone around here has. And an actual address, for that matter.
         She washes the dye from her hair, cuddles up with Winston on her threadbare area rug and nods off with the pungent but not entirely unpleasant aroma of unwashed pooch swirling through her slumber.
         The next day, she has agreed to take Jackson to the Downtown Farmers Market while Mrs. Beachwood runs a few errands.
         Delia loves the outdoor market because it's a place where all Santa Barbarans come together without regard for dress code or income bracket, and today is no exception. As she and Jackson amble through the street, sampling pistachios, inhaling the scent of cilantro and marveling over exotic cherimoyas and loquats, they brush up against a motley assortment of characters.
         There are celebrated chefs and bouquet-seeking businesswomen. There's a man juggling jungle sticks and another twisting balloons into animal shapes. There are German tourists, war protesters and a pair of pretty college students crooning Indigo Girls tunes for money while strumming thousand-dollar acoustic guitars.
         Delia sees the mayor buying a potted orchid, and comedian John Cleese handing a fiver to a farmer manning a lettuce stand.
         That's another thing she likes about the market. It's one of the few places in town where she can afford almost everything that's for sale. She spots an especially perky bunch of lavender and reaches for her wallet, only to find she has exactly $1.83 to her name, and payday isn't until Thursday.
         "I'm hungry," Jackson says, getting a whiff of Cold Stone Creamery's fresh-baked waffle cones.
         "You and me both, kid," Delia replies. Can't Mrs. Beachwood be bothered to feed this poor boy? Or at least send him off with some cash so Delia can buy him a proper meal?
         He says he wants sushi, but she directs him instead into Pierre Lafond's, where they scan the pastry case for something cheap and filling. Delia notices a "Darla's Donuts" sign and her stomach grumbles in response, but all that's left on the shelf are some crumbs and powdered sugar. She buys Jackson a bagel with cream cheese and watches him eat it, forcing herself to hold off until she can nuke a frozen dinner back home.
         "Mmm, I like bagels," he says. "Mommy used to like 'em, too, but she doesn't eat breakfast anymore."
         "Why is that?" Delia asks.
         "I dunno, " he says, wiping his cream cheese-smeared chin with the back of his sleeve. "She's grouchy all the time. She won't even let friends come over."
         "Your friends, or hers?" Delia asks, wondering if this could finally lead to an explanation for the strange recent goings-on chez Beachwood.
           "Mine and hers," Jackson says, his lower lip sliding into a pout.
         What on earth is going on in that house? Delia wonders. Is Mrs. Beachwood an alcoholic? Is she sick?
         When he finishes eating, she gently wipes his face, takes his hand and leads him up the street toward the spot in front of the mall where his mom promised to pick them up. On the way, they pass Jason P. Jason, who is singing a Beatles song.
         "If the rain comes, they run and hide their heads," he purrs, "they might as well be dead."
         He winks at her and ad-libs a line as they pass.
         "Man, them rain clouds gonna dump something big on you, darlin'," he says, smiling.
         "Excuse me?" Delia asks, spinning around to face him.
         But the man keeps right on singing.
         "When the sun shines, they slip into the shade, and sip their lemonade ..."

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