by Gerry O'Hara
They had dinner reservations for seven o’clock at the Lone Eagle Grill. Christie unpacked quickly and freshened up. She shrugged into her jacket and wrapped a knitted scarf around her neck. It had been a long time since lunch and she was famished.
They walked across the road to the restaurant. Christie was impressed with the architecture here, too. In the same style of decor as the hotel, the ceilings rose three stories high, and tall logs emphasized the alpine appearance. Cash told her that it was rumored that the architects had modeled the restaurant after the famous Ahwahnee Hotel in Yosemite National Park.
The hostess led them to a table near a window. The view of the lake was exquisite. Outdoor lights illuminated the shore, and moonlight flashed and danced across the rippling water.
The meal was excellent. Christie tried to resist dessert, but Cash convinced her to share a chocolate-raspberry mousse. “You have to end dinner with something sweet,” he’d said, and she couldn’t refuse. Afterward they sat in the cocktail lounge by the rugged stone fireplace and sipped after-dinner espressos. Christie could hear a trio singing a country-western song. She couldn’t quite remember the name, but it was a tale of love. She sneaked a look at Cash to see if the words had any effect on him. He smiled and reached for her hand. His touch was gentle, and the light squeeze he gave evoked a feeling of closeness.
The song stopped before the last verse was complete. “I don’t believe it!” A voice interrupted the mood. “Cash McCullough. What have you been up to?”
A tall man, clutching a guitar, walked into the circle of firelight. Cash stood up and enthusiastically shook the man’s hand and clapped him on the back. “Sean Cassidy, it’s good to see you. Are you and your boys playing the festival, or are you just bumming around?”
“Bummin’ around? You’ve hurt my feelings.”
Cash turned to Christie. “Sean and I go way back,” he said. “This is my friend Christie Hamilton.”
Sean leaned over and shook hands with Christie. His grip was firm, his hand callused.
“Glad to meet you, Christie. Cash introduced you as a friend. Hmm, if he doesn’t have more in mind, I’d say he was crazy.”
“You’re putting me on the spot, Sean,” Cash said. “And Christie, too. You don’t want to scare her away, do you?”
“Heavens, no. That would be a terrible thing to do. Hey, Cash, why don’t you join us for a set?” Sean shoved the guitar at him.
“It’s been a long time,” Cash said.
“Come on, it’s like riding a bike. A couple of chords and you’ll be ready to go.” Sean turned to the other musicians. “Boys, meet Cash McCullough. Jason and Thomas.” Sean pointed as he said their names, and each man responded with a nod.
“If I remember correctly, ‘Sugarfoot Rag’ was one of your favorites.”
“You’ve got me, I can’t turn that song down.”
“Jason, you strike the chord,” Sean said.
Cash tapped his foot to the beat of the music, and when the fiddler slid the bow over the violin, Cash and the banjo player strummed hot and fast. At nearby tables customers began clapping in rhythm to the music.
The next song was slower and Sean sang a solo on the first verse, then Cash and the other two men came in on the chorus. Christie could see that Cash was enjoying himself.
“Okay, boys, no more easy stuff. Let’s see where Cash stands on ‘Dueling Banjos!’” Sean said.
“I don’t know, Sean, it’s been a long time since I had that kind of a challenge. I’m afraid my fingers are rusty.”
“No excuses. One, two, three.”
The banjo player hit the first chord, Cash answered with a chord of his own. The tempo increased until it rose to a frenzied crescendo. The room, which had previously buzzed with conversation, become quiet except for the sound of the two musicians. Perspiration beaded on Cash’s forehead. Christie watched his fingers fly across the guitar, saw that the banjo player was just as intense. When they completed the song, the room burst into applause. Cash wiped the perspiration from his face with his arm.
“That was a workout,” he said. “I forgot how much fun that could be.”
“Don’t you play anymore?”
“Never any time. I have my guitar stashed in a closet, but I never get a chance to pull it out.”
“That’s a shame,” Sean said. “You still have the touch.”
“Not enough to pay the rent.”
“Always realistic.” Sean turned to Christie. “I think this guy was born sensible. Maybe you can use your charms to get him to lighten up.”
Christie smiled, not knowing how to answer.
“Well, I’ll say good night, and give you two a little privacy. We have the lounge gig all week. Maybe we’ll be discovered. Enjoy the festival, but come and see us before you leave. Maybe we can jam a bit more.”
Cash returned the guitar and the two men shook hands again. Then the trio moved on to serenade another table.
“You are turning into a mystery man,” Christie said.
“What do you mean?”
“You played that guitar like a pro. I never realized you had so much talent.”
“I picked up the guitar in high school. Then in college Sean and a few other friends and I formed a band. We entertained at cocktail lounges and bars, occasional frat parties, even bar mitzvahs. Helped pay for beer and pretzels.”
“You’re modest. You sounded really good.”
“You’re embarrassing me. Why don’t we go for a walk? We might as well take advantage of the weather.”
The moon was nearly full and cast silver streaks across the inky water. Waves lapped at the sandy shore and a stiff breeze ruffled tree branches and whistled through the pines.
Snow-capped mountains were in silhouette on the far shore. The night was magical, Christie thought. Walking side by side with Cash, her body brushing against his, she felt teased by his closeness. She expected any minute he would take her into his arms and kiss her. Instead, he held her hand, and they walked on. She lifted her collar to ward off the chill.
“Are you cold?” he asked.
“It’s the breeze.”
“Do you want to return to the hotel?”
“No, I’m enjoying the walk. It’s a beautiful night.”
“That’s not all that’s beautiful.” He placed his hands on her shoulders. Then he slid his hands up the sides of her neck and cupped her face between his palms. The warmth of his touch set her skin on fire. She looked into his eyes and recognized desire, the same desire that turned her bones to mush.
He was slow to bring his face to hers—agonizingly, deliciously slow. She studied his face, watched his eyes close, waited for the touch of his lips. His kiss was deep, and his mouth tasted as rich as the wine he had consumed earlier. Their bodies meshed, and she no longer felt chilled. She drew her hand around his head and wove her fingers through his thick mass of hair. The kiss deepened, and Christie became light-headed from the sensations that flashed through her body like a hundred-amp electrical shock.
She wished the embrace could last forever. It felt so good, so right, so now. But what about later? she wondered. What about the future? These were unanswered questions. She was not sure if she was ready to risk her heart. Play it safe, common sense told her. But standing in the moonlight with Cash’s arms around her, it was impossible to heed common sense.
Almost as though he could read her mind, he drew away. He held the lapels on her coat for a minute, then suggested they return to the hotel.
In between concerts the following day, they rented bikes and rode the paved trail along Lakeshore. Box lunches and a bottle of wine were in Cash’s bike’s front basket. Christie marveled at the mansions along the lake. They stopped at an Italian-style villa with a diminutive “for sale” sign.
“There’s a lot of money on Lakeshore,” Cash remarked. “Some of it’s old, some of it’s new Silicon Valley money.”
“This is magnificent,” she said. “It looks like something out
of Architectural Digest.”
The mansion was surrounded by a formal garden. A waterfall poured into an architecturally designed river-rock stream; flowering ornamental trees were in bloom and azalea created a profusion of natural bouquets. Color was everywhere, and the soft hue of the mansion complemented the riot of reds and pinks.
They rode their bikes to Burnt Cedar Beach and gave their guest passes to the woman in the kiosk. They pedaled away and then stopped and leaned the bikes against a pine tree and walked to a nearby picnic bench. A pair of shorebirds hopped onto the table and peered expectantly as they opened their luncheon container. Convinced of a handout, the birds inched closer, heads bobbing as they pecked at the table, foraging for stray crumbs. Christie didn’t disappoint them: she broke a piece of bread from her sandwich and tossed it their way.
“We’ll never get rid of those pesky birds if you feed them,” Cash said.
“I know, but they look so needy.”
He shook his head. “You’re a bleeding-heart kind of gal, and that’s sweet. But no more feeding the birds.”
On the lake a Windsurfer’s sail billowed as it smoothly glided above the water. A motorboat towed an inner tube with a pair of children, legs dangling over the side, screaming as they picked up speed. In spite of the activity, the lake appeared serene.
“We’d better hustle,” Cash said after they finished lunch. “You might want to take a short nap before we go out tonight.” They rode their bikes back to the hotel, passing other cyclists, joggers, and walkers. Nodding hello to the people they passed, Christie thought it was a perfect day to enjoy the brisk mountain air.
Cash had tickets for an evening concert at the Biltmore, an older casino in nearby Crystal Bay. They had an early dinner at the hotel, then took a shuttle bus to the Biltmore. It was a sold-out performance, every seat occupied and people standing along the walls. The lights dimmed and the band trotted onto the stage. Applause filled the room. The bandleader struck a chord and the concert began. Sweet trumpet music and the sorrowful notes of a saxophone were bound together by the piano player knocking out the melody. Christie thought of New Orleans: this sounded like the jazz she had heard on Basin Street. It all came from the same heart, she reasoned.
Afterward, they went to the cocktail lounge at the Lone Eagle. Christie was surprised to see two of the musicians from the morning concert playing with Cash’s friends.
“They can’t get enough of the music,” Cash said. “These guys can play until dawn. As long as they have a breath left and an audience in front of them, they’re good to go.”
They sat at a small table near the fireplace and ordered wine. Cash moved his chair closer to Christie’s.
“Are you enjoying yourself?” he asked.
“Very much. The music is wonderful.”
“You’re wonderful.”
“That’s a lovely thing to say.”
“You’re a lovely woman.”
“Wow! The music is really getting to you, isn’t it?”
“Not any more than you are getting to me. I mean it, Christie.”
His words burned brighter than the candle on the table. She didn’t know what to say to him. The weekend together had cinched it: she was in love. No backing away from it, no maybes, she would give him her heart if he asked. And the way he looked at her right now, the words he had said, hinted that he might be ready to give her his.
The following afternoon they drove back to Reno. Christie’s parents lived in a gated community. An attractive stretch of green lawn dotted with sycamore and pine and views of a nine-hole golf course created an attractive entry. The streets curved around the residences, which ranged from single-story ranch to large two-story brick colonials and Tudors. The Hamiltons’ home was near the pool, an amenity that Christie’s mother enjoyed. Cash parked, and as they climbed out of the car, the front door to the house swung open. Christie’s mother stood on the threshold and waved them in with an enthusiastic welcome. She enveloped her daughter in an affectionate hug.
“Darling, I couldn’t wait to see you. Daddy’s on the patio firing up the barbecue. He insisted that nothing but his special chicken would do for his little girl.”
Christie winced at the “little girl” description, but she knew that she would always be her parents’ little girl. She turned and introduced Cash. He extended his hand, but Christie’s mother was too quick, and she threw her arms around him. Christie smiled at her mother’s exuberance, confident that Jackie Hamilton heard wedding bells the minute Cash walked through the door.
“Just call me Jackie,” she said as she led them to the kitchen. “Can I fix a drink for either of you?”
“I’ll pass,” Cash said.
“Mom always has iced tea in the fridge.”
“Teetotaler, huh,” Jackie teased, pulling a large pitcher from the refrigerator.
“I can’t have alcohol, because I’ll be flying in a few hours,” he said.
Drinks in hand, they proceeded to the patio. “Mike,” Jackie called, “Christie and her friend are here.”
Mike Hamilton shook Cash’s hand. “Glad to meet you, sir,” Cash said.
“None of this sir business, you’ll make me feel old. And I don’t feel that way.”
“Of course not, Daddy. Mom tells me that you volunteered for the Reno Symphony docent program again. I’ll have to spend a weekend this summer and attend one of the concerts.”
“Yes, and bring your friend. You like classical music, don’t you, Cash?”
Cash put his drink down before replying. Christie saw that he was a bit uncomfortable about answering her father.
“Cash is a fan of jazz and bluegrass,” she said.
“Bluegrass, huh? I don’t know about that, but I enjoy classic jazz—Erroll Garner, Dave Brubeck, Miles Davis.”
“You know your bands. Miles Davis is one of my favorites,” Cash said.
“Looks like we’ve got something in common. And before the summer is over, maybe we’ll convert you to a symphony enthusiast, too.”
The afternoon went by quickly and then it was time to leave for the airport. Jackie hugged Christie and whispered, “He’s a keeper, hon, a real keeper.”
Christie pulled away slightly and said, “I know where this is going, Mom. You have that grandmother look in your eyes.”
“Yes, and it’s about time.”
Cash and Mike were discussing whom they considered the greatest trumpeter. Reaching the door, Mike gave Cash a friendly pat on the back, and told him he would make reservations for a July musical.
“The production of Wicked is scheduled, a must-see. It’s already sold out, but I may be able to wrangle a few tickets. Will you come?”
“You can count on it,” Cash said. “Thank you for your hospitality, Jackie, Mike. This has been a very pleasant afternoon.”
“I was so glad Christie was bringing you here. Mike and I looked forward to meeting you,” Jackie gushed.
On the road Christie said, “My mother comes on a little strong sometimes.”
“Your parents are great. I meant it when I said it was a pleasant afternoon. I enjoy being with family.”
“Anybody’s?”
“You know what I mean. Special families.”
Christie leaned back, taking in the meaning of what Cash had said, “special families.” She hoped that he would always consider her part of that category.
The flight to San Francisco was routine. Afterward, Cash drove Christie home.
“Thanks for a wonderful weekend,” she said.
Cash touched her chin, tipping it up. His mouth brushed hers and she wanted to grab him and bring his mouth to hers in a deep kiss. His nearness unsettled her, setting her nerves on fire. All weekend they had been close, touching, holding, kissing; emotions had run rampant within her. Now, in the quiet moments of returning home, there was a sudden letdown. Three days together, and now they would be apart. She closed her fingers around the collar of his shirt and pulled his face back to meet hers. Forward
? she thought. Maybe, but she wanted, needed his kiss.
“What do you have in mind?” Cash murmured a moment before her mouth captured his. Searing sparks prickled up her spine, and her mind was clouded with sensations, not answers. The kiss, the tight alignment of their bodies as they embraced, the heat of the moment, filled her, overpowered her. She wanted more, but it would have to be enough. For now.
The week dragged by. Christie’s cases were uncomplicated and did not fully absorb her: an obviously forged check, a holographic will that stood up to review, and a manuscript that was purported to be written by an obscure author. She anticipated the weekend at Big Sur with Cash. Sunny weather was promised through Sunday, if you could trust the weatherman.
Signing off on the last document, Christie went to lunch. She was back at her desk after a quick sandwich at the deli. As she was hanging her sweater over the back of her chair, the phone rang. She reached for it and said hello. It was Cash.
“Disappointing news,” he said. “I can’t make Big Sur this weekend. I have a new case and it’s going to take all my time this afternoon and most of tomorrow. I’m sorry, Christie.”
“I am, too.” She had been looking forward to spending Saturday in Big Sur. They had planned on leaving early in the morning, attending her art instructor’s exhibit, walking the beach, and having an early dinner high up on the hill at the Ventana Inn before returning home late that evening. Her spirits, so high just a few minutes ago, dropped to the floor.
She leaned back and swiveled in her chair, thinking about the lost opportunity. Then her chair sprang upright and she bounced out of it. It was still early; if she made a quick detour home for a change of clothes, she could be on the road to Big Sur before three. She’d spend the night.
She thumbed through the Rolodex until she found the Big Sur Inn. Dialing, she kept her fingers crossed that there would be a vacancy. As much as she wished Cash was going, his presence was not a prerequisite to enjoying the weekend.
The desk clerk was polite and helpful, taking her reservation and mentioning that today’s weather was quite nice.
Before she left she ducked into Tom’s office to tell him that she was leaving early. After a quick stop home for a change of clothes and to feed Tosha, she was threading her way through light traffic and heading south. She would arrive at Big Sur with a tad of daylight left.
