“Sex does sell,” Lila agreed, sitting over with Zoe and using her eyes to look at the squares of paint colors spread out before her. She could recall one campaign her SF firm had done for car care products featuring a woman in a bikini and short shorts in all sorts of improbable poses as she soaped up her car. Sales had spiked 17%.
“You want them craving…” Zoe continued, taking a deep inhale and then pushing the air out in a full exhale.
“What?” Lila asked, expecting Zoe to complete her sentence.
Eyes open, Zoe smiled. “That’s just it. They’ll be in the café, surrounded by essence of vanilla, aroused, anticipating, wanting. And then they’ll buy your books.” She gestured over to what was still a dingy, scuffed wall. Pete and his crew would soon tear it down to reveal Cover to Cover, the world’s best bookstore. Lila could see it so clearly she felt like taking a hammer to the wall, herself, in her impatience to launch.
“We still need to agree on a name,” Lila reminded them.
“Yeah,” Zoe agreed. “But it can’t be too triple X or people will think it’s the adult wing of the bookstore.”
Enjoying the parallel track Zoe’s mind traveled—alongside yet never touching—Lila laughed, “OK, so we need to find something that gets people’s attention without mistakenly leading them to think it’s a peep show.”
“What’s it about, really?” Zoe asked, arms behind her back, hands up in reverse prayer position. “I mean, what’s the essence of this café?”
Lila recalled so many conversations with harried and exhausted moms, grateful to have their children corralled for a few minutes in story hour, turning during the rest bit to another mom friend or a magazine as if for salvation. She could picture over-scheduled visitors up from the city on hiatus from work deadlines and conference calls and shuttling kids to soccer practices and piano lessons, kicking around Redwood Cove and taking time to have a coffee and a treat, flip through a book and chillax.
“It’s about time, I guess,” Lila contemplated the precious commodity. “Taking time to enjoy, appreciate, relax.”
“Genius!” Zoe shouted and Lila laughed again, pleased she could always count on Zoe for drama. “It’s About Time! That’s our name!”
“It’s About Time?” Annie repeated, not seeming quite as sold but considering.
“Really?” Lila asked, thinking how in her five years at an advertising firm she’d never, ever approach doing anything like coming up with a name or a slogan. She was NOT a creative.
“I love it,” Zoe declared.
“It’s not that sexy,” Lila worried and then realized she was doing exactly what she’d rolled her eyes about back in advertising: crafting a blatant appeal to people’s basest instincts. Food sex food sex—not to mention the constant stream of contradictions: shopping saves you money, food makes you skinny. Back at the firm it had all increasingly struck her as sad and hollow. Apparently, though, she only had scruples and intellectual distance when it came to promoting other people’s products; when it came to her new café, her very own business venture, she had no problem pulling out the bikini and the bucket of soapy water.
“We should have a poster up at the holiday party,” Annie said, looking up from her magazine. “Or maybe postcards announcing our opening day.”
“Joyce could probably make something,” Zoe agreed. “Though I think she’s already in charge of setting up the tree.” Most of Redwood Cove’s residents were involved in one way or another with putting together the annual holiday bash. Held at the Redwood Cove’s Community Center—essentially a large, converted barn that housed everything from senior jazzercise to toddler tumbling—the locals kept it deliberately low-key with home baked goodies, elementary-school-designed Christmas tree ornaments, and a hodge podge of local amateur musicians assembled into a swing band backing up Redwood Cove’s finest crooner: 68-year-old Fred Trumbull. Specializing in Sinatra, Fred knew how to put on a show.
This year it would all go down on Saturday, December 14. Lila was bringing raspberry jam squares and debating whether she was going to let Zoe talk her into dressing retro. Zoe had assured her that she had some fabulous dresses in her closet—which Lila had no problem imagining was true—but she didn’t quite share Zoe’s enthusiasm for wearing ‘beehives so high they’ll scare the hairspray can.’
The door opened and Pete walked in with a guy Lila recognized as a member of his crew. Both were clad similarly in Carhartt workpants, boots and sweatshirts, though Pete wore a baseball cap and his friend had on his hood. Their boots trod heavy on the already scuffed floors; polishing them would be last on the list just before opening day. Pete made his way over to Annie and leaned over her shoulder, glancing at the magazine and giving her a squeeze around her waist.
“You said you’d be here an hour ago,” Annie said grumpily.
“I did,” Pete agreed. “Things are going slow at Endicott these days.” At the mention of Endicott, Pete drew instant curiosity from the women in the room.
“You’re working over at Endicott?” Lila asked.
“Yup.” Holding up his hands and looking at them all he took a step backward and dug himself in much deeper, saying, “Something’s going on there but I can’t tell you guys anything about it.”
“Oh really?” Annie asked, alive with the scent of a story. Closing the gap between herself and Pete, she hooked a finger in his belt loop. “Now why would you say anything as silly as that?”
Pete backed up and literally hit a wall. “I don’t even know if what I heard is true.”
With the sly smile of victory, Annie gave his chin an affectionate scratch. “So you heard something.”
“Things at Endicott Vineyards are slow,” Zoe repeated, standing up. Sleuth on the case, she ticked the fact off on her fingers, followed by, “Pete has heard a rumor as to why.”
“Family drama?” Annie asked, looking deep into Pete’s eyes. He pulled down the brim of his cap in a last-ditch attempt at deflection.
“Does it have to do with—” Stopping herself just before she blurted out Jake’s name—she was 28, after all, not 13—Lila lamely finished, “The vineyard?”
“Yeah.” Pete felt comfortable stating the obvious. “It has to do with the vineyard.” Looking at his friend, he asked, “Help me out, man.”
“You’re on your own with this one,” his friend chuckled, heading back into the kitchen and out of sight.
With a gasp, Zoe exclaimed, “I knew it! Oliver’s gay!”
Tilting her head, Lila bit her lip and wondered, not for the first time, how Zoe’s mind made its connections. Also, how would Oliver being gay slow things down at the vineyard?
“Nope,” Pete replied.
“Come on, honey.” Annie toyed with the strings on the hood of his sweatshirt. “You know we’re going to get it out of you.”
With a mighty sigh, Pete rubbed his eyes, then face, then surrendered. “All right.” Zoe cheered and drew near; Lila couldn’t help stepping closer herself. “It’s Big Bob Endicott. I hear he had a heart attack a week or two before Thanksgiving.”
“Oh no! Is he all right?” Lila remembered Jake had mentioned he had a heart condition.
“I don’t know much.” With a pointed look toward his wife, Pete added, “The family’s trying to keep it quiet. But what I’ve heard is it was a mild heart attack and now he’s at home resting.”
Big Bob confined to a bed. Lila pictured him wearing his trademark Stetson while propped up on pillows, barking orders at anyone foolish enough to come within earshot.
“We are so out of touch with our hearts,” Zoe observed.
“I wonder if he’ll step down?” Annie mused as she returned to her magazine stack. “Hard to see that happening, though.”
“Remember, the family’s keeping things quiet,” Pete repeated as his wife nodded.
As Zoe began opining on Omega 3s, magnesium deficiencies and heart health, Lila sat back with the paint chips and her thoughts. A heart attack. Mild or no, that was the
real deal. She remembered Jake talking about the hectic pace they kept, the constant meetings and networking and travel. The dinners and, of course, the wine. Big Bob had certainly earned his name, in width as well as height.
Strained as things had been between him and his father, Lila guessed that this was rocking Jake’s world. Maybe even because things were strained. Jake’s father had played such a larger-than-life role to him. Villains became much more complex once they revealed their frailty.
This called for a Bundt cake, Lila realized. She hadn’t spent 18 years under Gram’s roof for nothing. Births, deaths and any serious illnesses or accidents that raised the specter of the latter all required a delivery of food. Family-pleasing casseroles usually suited welcoming newcomers. They’d also do in the other circumstances, but a nice slice of cake with a hot cup of tea struck Lila as just the thing during a time of trouble.
She’d call Gram tonight for a recipe, she decided. Looking at the clock she revised that to tomorrow; it was 10:30pm back East. It had already been five weeks since she’d last seen Jake—not that she was counting but she was pretty much counting—what was another day? An interminable eon, she admitted, letting herself acknowledge for a moment just how much she wanted to see him. And now that she knew about his father, even more than her exploding curiosity over why and how he’d pulled out of the lease, she felt worried. His family and his father’s entourage seemed more like a pit of vipers than a support network. She’d stop by Jake’s house Friday before work, she decided. No more wondering, wishing, waiting—she was done with the entire W-word family. It was time to grow up, put childish things like insecurities aside and get serious with some Bundt cake.
* * *
At quarter of ten on Friday morning, Lila could think of several thousand reasons why she shouldn’t be in her car, neatly wrapped Bundt cake riding shotgun, nearly at Jake’s house. She hadn’t called first, for one. That had to be the work of a true idiot. Who just stopped by anymore? Sure, in the 1960s development of a neighborhood that Gram had lived in for the last three decades, where every house was just about 1,500 square feet and every lot was just about 15,000 square feet and neighbors borrowed tricycles and returned wandering dogs, it was perfectly normal to pop by. It might even strike neighbors as strange to not have an impromptu visit from Gram bearing garden clippings or sharing a theory as to why the oil truck had stayed down the end of the street in front of the Coleson’s for so long yesterday afternoon.
But this was Redwood Cove, and this was Jake Endicott, and what the hell was she doing? Lila wondered as she turned off onto Jake’s street. Too late now to call, she knew she’d sound nothing less than insane with, “Hi. I’m outside your house.” He would look out his window and she’d be sitting in her car staring at him, waving.
There was also the small matter of the scene she’d been at the heart of the last time she’d seen him. At his vineyard. When he’d fought with her date in front of his guests. And she’d taunted him, yet again, about being a spoiled rich boy hiding behind his father. She seemed to love that insult; it popped out whenever she felt under attack. It was a comforting storyline: he’s the asshole rich guy so who cares what he thinks anyway and, in contrast, she’s the hardworking, salt-of-the-earth heroine who could do no wrong. Who knew what sort of horrible, inappropriate, rude thing might pop out of her mouth this morning as she tried to do something nice? Why don’t you ring for one of your servants to feed the cake to you? Don’t worry, I’m sure your father has the best healthcare money can buy, unlike the migrant farmworkers toiling in your fields?
A silver Mercedes M-Class SUV was parked in Jake’s driveway. Glistening in the morning sun, it looked like it had been test driven right from the dealership. Lila parked alongside the road and looked sheepishly at her Honda Civic’s cloth upholstery stained with coffee and tea and gum. She hadn’t taken it to a car wash since arriving in Redwood Cove almost a year ago, hadn’t even thought to do so until this moment.
Heaving a sigh of resignation, Lila zipped up her windbreaker and forced herself outside the car. Around the passenger side to retrieve the Bundt cake, she reluctantly grabbed the card, too. So pleased with it yesterday, the card now struck her as absurd. Why hadn’t she just bought a straightforward “Thinking of your family” get-well-soon-type card from the drug store? Why did she have to go for the pretentious leaf print blank card? So she could fill it with her scintillating thoughts, which were, essentially, ‘thinking of you and your family, hope your father gets well soon’?
A cold wind bit at her cheeks as she approached the front door. She had little memory of it; the one time she’d been to his house she’d entered from the back door facing the water. By the time they’d headed out again to his car night had long since fallen. From the front it looked like a smallish, shingled beach cottage, nothing fancy. Large paving stones lead up to the door. After a tentative tap garnered no response, she lifted her hand to give it a more hearty rap. The door opened. To Vanessa.
Scowling didn’t quite capture the dark and deeply displeased expression on Vanessa’s face as she kept the door open just about a foot.
Speechless, Lila struggled with a sudden urge to hurl the Bundt cake over shoulder into the shrubs and run, run like the wind back to her car and peal out into the street. The only problem was that the street was a dead end so she’d have to circle back past the house. Either that or perform a slow and lurching three-point-turn in front of the house. Neither would suit her purposes.
“Yes?” Vanessa asked with all the graciousness of one answering a call from a telemarketer during dinner.
“I have a Bundt cake.” Lila raised it up before her like the baby Jesus. The card, with “Jake” written in blue pen on the envelope, fluttered down onto the front stoop. Vanessa looked at it as if it were a cockroach. Noticing the Ray Ban aviator sunglasses perched atop her blonde coif, Lila wondered if she’d ever seen Vanessa without sunglasses. Here she was, wearing them indoors on a cloudy, December day. Maybe she literally never took them off?
“Who is it?” an equally annoyed-sounding voice asked from behind Vanessa. A hand snaked out to open the door another couple of feet to reveal Vanessa’s less gracious companion: Ashley, Jake’s sister-in-law. Lila recalled that when she’d spotted Ashley at the auction she’d had been wearing that same look of distaste spread across her manicured brows, sculpted cheekbones and plumped lips. Examining Lila, she squinted her eyes and said, “I know you.”
“It’s that girl from the chocolate shop,” Vanessa explained.
“The bookstore,” Lila corrected, seemingly unable to offer any of the other ways she’d like to be introduced, such as her name.
“Is that a cake?” Ashley asked, horrified.
“Yeah.” Lila found herself wrapping her hands protectively around it. Poor thing, it hadn’t been brought into this world for such abuse.
Turning to Vanessa, Ashley demanded, “Don’t get those carbs anywhere near me.” With that, she left the doorway.
“It’s for Jake,” Lila said.
“He’s not here.” Vanessa reached out, multiple bangle bracelets tingling and jingling as she moved her hand. “I’ll make sure he gets it.”
Bundt cake snatched by Vanessa, door closed before she could think to say another word, Lila stood on the doorstep in the December wind. Over by the driveway she saw a flutter of paper and realized her card had blown away. Just as well. Shaking her head, she started back toward her car.
Driving away, she consoled herself that it could have been worse. The door could have been ajar and she could have stumbled in upon Jake and Vanessa rubbing each other with oils in front of the fireplace. She could have delivered herself in a cake and popped out with a singing message meant for Jake but delivered to Vanessa and Ashley.
Punching on her iPod for some Howard Jones she wondered when she’d ever, fully, truly graduate from 8 grade. Cruel joke, that. Gather all those teenagers together in an auditorium on a warm, June day and declare them don
e with middle school. No more messing around with baby stuff; it was time to run with the big dogs! Truth was, life seemed to supply an endless and nearly constant supply of opportunities to revisit that special time of early adolescence. With all that practice, she should be awesome at it by now.
* * *
Grasping the large, carved wooden sign hanging in Cover to Cover’s front door, Lila turned it around with a thunk: Closed. A few holiday shoppers still lingered around the store, but it was already a few minutes past six so Lila needed to lock up. Outside, the street lamps cast pale light along the cobblestone sidewalk. Lila marveled at the predictable, yet still somehow surprising onset of the darkest days of the year. Already December 9, it was less than a week away from the Redwood Cove holiday party, and less than a month away from her one year anniversary living in the town. Given that elusive, elastic quality of time, it simultaneously felt like she’d been living there much less and much longer.
“You sure it’s cool if I head out now?” Godfrey triple checked, black messenger bag already slung over his buttoned up black overcoat, gray scarf wrapped like a boa constrictor all around his neck. When you possessed all of 110 pounds on your slender frame, you didn’t take any chances with drafts.
“Yeah,” Lila reassured him once again. “It’s no problem. I’ll close up.”
“Excellent.” Godfrey gave her a salute as he headed out the door. “Until we meet again.” Lila chuckled as she locked the door behind him. His favorite Sci Fi show had been moved from Wednesdays to Mondays, throwing his entire weekly schedule into turmoil. He’d come to Lila with such gravitas this morning she’d worried that he was about to inform her of a terrible illness instead of asking if she could close up in his place. “It’s on at 9 and there’s a lot I need to get done,” he’d explained. Lila had happily acquiesced, wondering what exactly required three hours back at the house in preparation for watching a TV show. Blogging? Getting into costume? She decided sometimes it was better not to know.
Christmas in Wine Country Page 27
