“You had insomnia last night, didn’t you?” Annie asked. Well accustomed to Lila’s nighttime affliction, in college she’d been subjected to many breakfast lectures on topics such as travel in the Siberian wilderness and Amish quilting techniques. “But it’s true, there’s some Sonoma-Napa rivalry. Our biggie around here is Endicott. Big Bob’s in charge and he’s been growing it aggressively.”
“He’s about 6’5” and wears a huge cowboy hat,” Pete added. Lila recalled spotting such a man at the holiday party, towering over the board chair.
“They just announced that Endicott’s hosting the Sonoma County charity auction next fall.” Annie said. “That thing’s getting big. It’s nothing like Napa’s, but I heard this year Ben Stiller came.”
“Tiny man,” said Pete.
“They all are,” Lila agreed.
“Big heads, tiny bodies,” Annie added. “Speaking of,” she turned to her husband, “Lila’s no longer with Phillip. He’s gone off with some French witch.”
“What’s up with Phillip?” Pete made a face. “What’s wrong with Phil?”
“He’s not like that,” Lila quickly jumped to his defense, a well-worn habit.
“P-Dawg,” Pete offered as an alternative, making Annie laugh and even Lila crack a smile at the impossibility. “OK, but I have a question.” He sat forward, serious. “Can he handle the truth? Or did you have to tell him ‘You can’t handle the truth!”
Lila sat up, alarmed. Why was he quoting Jack Nicholson/drunk Lila Clark doing karaoke? Pete laughed and threw a pillow at her. “Oh come on! I loved it! You were hilarious.”
“Pete!” Annie exclaimed. “I hadn’t mentioned… Lila didn’t know we’d seen the YouTube—”
“You saw the YouTube video?” Lila nearly yelled, tamping down her panic only in deference to sleeping Charlotte.
“Just because it happened at the vineyard here next to town,” Annie said dismissively. “We never would have otherwise.”
“It was awesome, Lila.” Pete laughed again, kicking back in the chair and taking another sip of his beer.
Sitting on the couch, gasping for air like a fish tossed up on a rock, Lila wished intently she’d never drank champagne or never listened to music or something else that would have prevented her performance, like the Butterfly Effect.
Annie steered the conversation toward safer ground, asking after Lila’s Gram. She’d hosted Annie for a couple of Thanksgivings during college. “Remember she invited the mailman?” Annie recalled with a smile.
“She did again this past Thanksgiving,” Lila said, willing herself to save her freak out for the privacy of her hotel room.
“She loves a big holiday table,” Annie said. Lila agreed. Gram would have done well with a large family, but she’d only been able to have one child herself, who, in turn, only had one child. Together with the fact that her husband had passed away 14 years ago, Gram did an admirable job of surrounding herself with chaos. Just last month when Lila had flown home for Thanksgiving she, her mom and her mom’s boyfriend Rodger had been joined by a recently widowed neighbor, a 50-something “singleton” as Gram had called her from the rotary club, two dog rescue enthusiasts, a recently divorced mom and her Goth teenage son, and, of course, the mailman.
Christmas had provided a quiet contrast. Lila had stayed in California; she had that romantic getaway with Phillip, of course. Shellshocked and marooned on the West Coast, she’d accepted a coworker’s offer to join her and her parents. They’d had a quiet Christmas, the four of them eating in silence in front of the TV. Grim and impersonal, it had suited Lila just fine.
“You should have joined us!” Annie chided her. Lila realized it hadn’t even occurred to her. She’d been so caught up in her loss spiral.
The evening ended early. Annie made apologies but admitted that she pretty much had trouble staying up past nine. Charlotte was a harsh taskmaster, waking with predawn ferocity regardless of when she was put to bed. Lila didn’t protest. Those romance novels back in her empty hotel room weren’t going to read themselves.
* * *
Walking down Redwood Cove’s main street, Lila buried her chin down into the warmth of her dark green scarf. The thick fog felt almost palpable as it enveloped her and the surrounding town. It muffled the noise, with only the clanging of a buoy and the rhythmic blare of the foghorn cutting through. Not much traffic made its way down the street, either cars or people, and Lila took her time ambling along.
A gem in the crown of the Northern California Sonoma County coast, Redwood Cove took the downtown charm of Carmel—minus the highest-end shops—and blended it with the foggy, dramatic coastline and relative sleepiness of Mendocino—without the billion-dollar marijuana industry. About an hour and a half northwest of San Francisco, it was far enough away to embody relaxed, country living, yet close enough to lure the city’s foodies, wine enthusiasts and outdoor adventurers and maintain a thriving economy.
A right off Highway 1 led to the downtown: essentially a five block long, four block wide grid dotted with shops, restaurants and offices. The town community center, a giant red barn converted into a multipurpose room, sat in the midst of the town green which also boasted a newly-constructed playground and park benches. A large parking lot at the end, between the green and the ocean, hosted the town’s seasonal Farmer’s Market.
Main street, Lila’s thoroughfare at the moment, had shops all along one side. Along the other, a white picket fence demarcated a rocky decline. Less steep than at the B&B, it was still a fair drop into churning surf. The stretch Lila walked was covered in cobblestone, dating back to The Gold Rush she learned from a plaque. Historic cobblestone. She remembered how adamantly she’d fought with the man she’d thought was the groundskeeper at the vineyard, and his total indignation. So smug and superior, as if she were some kind of crazy lady.
Slipping a bit on a stone, Lila murmured, “see” as if proving her point to Jake Endicott of Endicott Vineyards. Just because you had a vineyard named after you didn’t give you the right to look down at all the little people. He’d probably like Axelle, too, Lila thought. At least she had a spreadsheet named after her.
A hat in the window of a store caught her eye. It looked the sort a flapper might have worn in the 20s, with a bit of netting. The whole store was filled with hats, pillbox hats and cowboy hats and big Russian military-style faux fur hats with flaps. The next store was all maps. A giant one on display featured the local region’s hiking trails. It looked as if you could set out on a different one every day for months and never repeat a mile.
Annie’s chocolate shop, or at least the one she worked at, was a bit further down but she wasn’t working today. She had every Sunday and Monday off, she’d explained, and Pete was usually able to arrange his work schedule to have Tuesdays and Thursdays off, and then his mom looked after Charlotte the remaining days. Lila hated to admit it, but she felt a pang of envy. Annie had it all wrapped up: the cozy little house, the gorgeous daughter, the loving husband who’d adored her ever since she was 19.
What did Annie know about heartbreak? Lila thought miserably as she made her way further down the street. What did Annie know about making it on your own? Lila dug her hands, clad in matching green mittens that her Gram had knit for her, deep into her pockets.
Crossing the street away from the shops, Lila walked along the side next to the ocean. Gray mist snarled among the waves, crashing up and swirling among the rocks. She paused to stare out moodily into the deep. What she needed was some sort of cape to complete the picture, black and swirling around her. Someone could see her from a distance and ask, “Who is that woman in the cape?” Another would answer, “That’s old Spinster Clark. She lives out on Point Doom with 13 cats.”
With embarrassment, Lila remembered she’d actually worn a cape on a visit to Annie a couple of years ago. She’d deliberately chosen the most ‘city’ outfit she had, all black with skinny jeans, spiky black heels and a cape she’d found on the sale rack at Saks tha
t still had cost a small fortune, black with scarlet satin trim. She’d wanted to look the cool and clever big-time big-city advertising executive and had made quite a show of having her iPhone out the whole time in case she’d been needed. Annie had been dressed like they were about to head to the library to study, in comfy sweatpants and a big sweater.
Which was exactly what she had on now, Lila realized, looking down at herself. Oh how the mighty had fallen. Her iPhone lay silent in her pocket as she resumed her walk along the seawall. Phillip hadn’t called once since he’d ended things. And she’d had such dreams for them. She could still see it, the two of them living in some chic apartment in a trendy part of the city with sleek, modern furniture without armrests and hard, animal print pillows. She’d be pouring them both Martinis—a drink she’d never enjoyed but this wasn’t real life now was it—as he’d be loosening his tie and… asking her what the hell was she doing there in the apartment he was sharing with Axelle?
Heaving a deep sigh, Lila trudged slowly in the fog and wished she didn’t have to drive home that night. Thinking of it as home didn’t even feel right. Annie lived in a home, with Pete and Charlotte and cozy lamps and chenille blankets. Lila lived in a box with a futon and a wide-screened TV her roommates always had turned on to America’s Next Top Model. Which she had to admit she found addictive. But that was beside the point—the point that she was alone. Utterly alone. As she had been her whole life, she thought with another sigh, dredging up the cloak self-pity she kept for such circumstances. From somewhere in the misty sea, a fog horn gave a forlorn bleat.
Across the street a brilliantly lit store with gleaming wood floors cut into her gloom. “Cover to Cover” read the sign above the door in burnished gold letters embossed on weathered wood. The bookstore drew Lila like a tractor beam. Crossing the street, she peered into the windows framed with the little white lights of the season. The entryway had a couple of fliers advertising a local play and an upcoming New Year’s Eve block party plus a small hand-written help wanted sign adding just the right amount of clutter to make it homey.
Swinging open the heavy wood and glass door, Lila stood in the entryway taking in the local recommended authors section, the new fiction table, the bargain bin, and one overstuffed armchair that remained unoccupied. Grabbing a paperback with the classic pink cover with a pair of shoes on it signaling chick lit, she claimed the chair and wondered what team of goons they were going to have to use at closing time to kick her out of the store.
Chapter 3: Take. These Broken Wings.
“Do you have a fire extinguisher?”
Lila considered just saying ‘yes’ to Gram, but her conscience won out. “I’m not sure,” she admitted.
“Put the phone down and go take a look,” Gram instructed. “You need to have one. Check in the kitchen.” With a smile, Lila agreed and put the phone down to go check. Gram still lived in a world of phones with cords that needed to be set down while one went from one room to the other. She owned a cell phone, but it was usually turned off or the talk button eluded her.
Lila padded in her socks along the hardwood floor, walking the short distance from the living room to the kitchen, really one long room all together. In her new apartment. In Redwood Cove.
It had all happened quickly. Her head was spinning from the cavalcade of recent, massive changes in her life. It had begun at the bookstore, the one with the gleaming golden wood and gorgeous chairs. She’d settled in as planned, finding unexpected happiness in a used book section. The store carried a surprisingly large number of P.G. Wodehouses in paperback, making Lila exclaim in delight and gather three back at her chair to page through.
The owner, a matronly Brit named Marion, had stopped to chat about the Wodehouse, apparently a personal favorite she felt was overlooked in the literary canon. Lila wholeheartedly agreed and together they were off discussing favorite characters and settings and Lila found herself answering the benign question, “What brings you to Redwood Cove?” with an unintentionally honest, “I lost my job and my boyfriend but decided to come along up here on a holiday by myself to see my old friend Annie.” Which, in turn, prompted a little chat about Annie, known and beloved by Marion in their small town, working just a few shops down on Main Street. And led to Marion pausing, giving her a quick but serious appraisal, and then asking “I don’t suppose you saw the help wanted sign in our window?”
Lila had, indeed, seen the sign and though she hadn’t considered it personally at the time, it suddenly made perfect sense. After some more conversation about her English degree from Colgate and her previous experience in client relations and database management, Lila had been hired on the spot.
“I’ve got a good feeling about you,” Marion had said as they were saying goodnight. Lila had been tempted to ask “Did I have you at Wodehouse?” but guessed Marion wasn’t the type to get references to big Hollywood movies.
A quick phone call to Annie and Lila had a lead on what she described as “the perfect apartment.” Five blocks from Main Street and the coast, the apartment was the fourth floor of an old Victorian home converted into units. From just the right angle in the kitchen, she could see a patch of ocean and rocky coastline.
Gazing out at it from the window in her new apartment’s kitchen, Lila felt excitement bubble up into a smile across her face. It was, clearly, insanity taking over. Her roommates back in San Francisco had nearly checked her into a mental hospital. Or, they would have had they cared much. Instead, they made a few remarks about needing to go see a therapist or taking a valium and posted an ad on Craig’s List for a new roommate. Adding, this time, ‘must like to party!!!’
She had to agree with them that it made no sense, leaving her career in advertising—which had, admittedly, hit a bump but no doubt could be resumed elsewhere—to become a low-level service employee ringing up sales at the cash register. In an independent bookstore, no less; what could be more on the fast lane to extinction? She couldn’t explain about the gleaming wood and the Wodehouse and huge red wrapped box in the corner with a gigantic silver bow, a symbolic Christmas present to the town for all the gifts bought for boys and girls. Marion had explained that each year the bookstore asked local kids whose families didn’t have much for the holiday what kind of book they’d most want. Marion then made ornaments for a big Christmas tree they kept in the window, each one with a child’s first name, age, and book request. Every year they managed to give hundreds of books away for Christmas.
Under the sink of her new apartment, Lila found a small, shiny red fire extinguisher. Picking up the phone again with Gram, she reassured her.
“Good. Keep it there, perfect if you end up with a kitchen fire,” Gram advised. Lila didn’t have the heart to tell her she had barely cooked once in the past year. But, then again, maybe in her new life she’d start cooking, too.
“Gram, I can see the ocean out of the window in my kitchen!” Lila felt like a little kid, telling her about a star she’d gotten on her spelling test.
“Oh, this is so nice! And you’ll be so close to Annie!”
“Just a couple of miles—not even a ten-minute drive.” Annie’s husband, Pete, had been a godsend with the move, bringing over a couple of guys he worked with to help carry boxes up the four flights of stairs and assemble her bed. Her belongings had fit into a 17-foot UHaul. A couple of things for the bedroom and a coffee table, very little furniture to speak of. The bulk had been clothes and shoes, boxes which she wished she’d labeled less conspicuously. On the third trip up the stairs with boxes labeled “sweaters” the guys had started teasing her about her priorities.
Sitting down between two boxes, both labeled “sweaters”, Lila listened as Gram filled her in on local news. A neighbor had had her gall bladder removed. The daughter of a woman from church had had a baby boy, 9 pounds 5 ounces, named Liam. Then she moved to weather disasters; Gram always seemed to know them all, especially if they were in California. Lila had given up trying to explain that California was a huge s
tate and a mudslide or an earthquake in San Diego or Eureka had as much to do with her in the SF Bay Area as something going on in Maryland did to Massachusetts. Besides, there was something a little comforting in knowing her Gram was watching out for her, even if it made no sense.
Both needing to take care of things, they got off the phone. Gram had to tidy up, though Lila would have bet her life’s savings (not much since she was actually in debt) that her tiny salt box was neat as a pin. Lila needed to unpack. Nothing but boxes in her living room. Opening one up to her right, she took out the silvery grey cashmere sweater wrap on top, perfect for foggy mornings.
The phone rang again. The caller ID read: mother. Stabbed with a shot of guilt and anxiety, Lila wondered if she could let it go through to voicemail.
“Hi, mom,” she answered, bracing herself. They typically corresponded through email; Lila knew her mom must really be upset to pick up the phone.
“How are you going to live on a bookstore clerk’s salary?” her mother began. Lila could almost see her pacing in her apartment outside Boston.
“Well, I think—”
“Aren’t all independent bookstores going out of business?”
“Um…”
“And, really, Lila. A small tourist town on the coast? Didn’t you learn anything from my mistakes?”
“It’s not a—” Lila began protesting while realizing that that description fit Redwood Cove perfectly.
“It’s exactly like Hyannis. Nothing but a tourist trap.”
“Listen, Mom.” Lila sat up straighter and found herself insisting that this was actually a well-thought-out move and career change for which she was prepared and planned.
“You’re prepared for this move?”
Christmas in Wine Country Page 5
