Ana of California

by Andi Teran

  “Not in that cologne,” Abbie replied.

  They sat for what seemed like several minutes in silence.

  “If you need to send me back, I’ll understand.”

  “Is this normally how it goes?” Abbie asked, turning back toward her. “Something uncomfortable happens and you get sent somewhere?”

  “Pretty much.”

  “That’s not happening here. But I think you should hear Minerva out. I leave that up to you.”

  Abbie opened the door and headed to the back of the van, so Ana followed. She handed Ana a crate of produce and they made their way to the entrance of the former Main Street Corner Café, its hand-painted sign fading along the side of the brick building. Ana quickly looked up and down the street, hoping to find a bus sign posted somewhere, just in case, but didn’t see anything. She could always walk to the highway and hitch from there, she thought.

  They made their way inside the restaurant. It looked like a diner, a dark wooden counter lining the back wall, the front area empty, its black-and-white tiled floor in need of tables. Watching over the place, just above the open window to the kitchen, was a stuffed deer wearing a dried Christmas wreath around its neck. There were a few booths lining the wall of windows opposite, most of which were covered in paper, and the back wall was painted in rectangles of varying shades of navy and gray.

  “Come on in,” Will bellowed from behind the counter, paintbrush in hand. “Make yourselves comfortable—that’s a joke—it’s a mess in here.”

  “Where do you want the produce?” Abbie asked.

  “On the counter’s great.”

  There was a tailored sensibility to the man, Ana noticed. Everything he wore seemed made to fit, as if he’d paid careful attention to the right combination of colors and textures, even if they were his grungiest clothes. Up close, she noticed his hair was graying in places, but he possessed a youthful, easygoing confidence that made it difficult to calculate his age. Behind the counter, he didn’t appear as menacing, though the stereo, resting on the back bar, was playing some sort of heavy metal guitar Ana couldn’t make out. Will turned it down.

  “I’ve brought a selection of what’s currently in season at the farm,” Abbie said, in a way Ana thought more stilted than usual. “It’s a sampling of every fruit and vegetable we have right now, plus herbs, preserves, lavender, and some dahlias, which are a sampling from our garden. I can do simple flower arrangements if needed, and we’ll have more peaches, cucumbers, brassica, and various peppers in the coming weeks.”

  “You have any roots?” he asked. “Legumes, tubers, foraged fungi?”

  Abbie hesitated. “We have potatoes, sweet potatoes, and will have parsnips this year. I included some heirloom carrots which we sell at the farmers’ market, along with sugar snap peas. And celeriac and burdock root are out next month. We don’t currently offer anything foraged.”

  “Interesting,” Will said, inspecting the crate of produce. “Honestly, this is better than I’d hoped—not that I didn’t have high expectations—it’s just that I had no idea what kind of farms I’d be dealing with around here. But I’ve heard great things about Garber Farm.”

  “Where did you hear about us?” Abbie asked.

  His eyes lingered on Abbie for longer than Abbie found comfortable.

  “From a few customers up and down the coast,” Will said. “Even some in Berkeley, where I moved here from. Seems you have fans. If it’s not too much to ask, would you mind walking me through each piece, please?”

  “Um, sure,” Abbie said, gesturing to Ana to start unloading the produce. She turned back to Will, careful to keep her voice light and breezy. “So, did you work in restaurants down there?”

  “I did. A few in L.A., San Fran—put in some much-needed time with Alice and the gang over in Berkeley—and now I’m here.”

  “Why here?” Abbie asked, curious.

  Will smiled. “I’m attempting to get something of my own going. Didn’t want to do the whole big-city thing, you know? It’s been done, and everyone’s always getting poached or moving around from restaurant to restaurant anyway. Wanted to try something new. I grew up about an hour up north from here—used to come down to the beach as a child. Hadley’s always had a kind of renegade magic, I guess.”

  “Huh,” said Abbie, busying herself with the vegetables.

  “Ana, is it?” he asked.

  “It is. Wait . . . you lived in L.A.?”

  “I did. Worked for a French chef down there, crazy guy. Set up a Michelin-starred restaurant in an abandoned pizza parlor. Freaking genius if you ask me.”

  “I’m from L.A.,” Ana said.

  “Yeah? Whereabouts?”

  “Boyle Heights originally.”

  “Guisados, yo! The best! Their bistec taco with the salsa roja? Doesn’t get better than that.”

  “Right? But it’s all about the mole poblano. Don’t even get me started on the horchata. King Taco’s where it’s at for al pastor, though. My abuela used to take me there all the time when I was a kid. That’s original Boyle Heights, esé.”

  Abbie continued to look from Ana to Will as she held a peach in one hand, zucchini in the other.

  “So, you both lived down in L.A.?” Will asked, hesitating and not wanting to seem too obviously curious.

  “Yes,” Abbie blurted, surprising Ana. Why hadn’t Abbie ever mentioned that before? “I did a brief stint.”

  “I wondered. I’m sorry for staring, but you seem really familiar,” Will said, leaning across the counter. Abbie kept her distance behind the produce box. “When did you live down there?”

  “It was a long time ago, way before your time. So, here’s what we have at the moment,” Abbie said, gesturing to the counter. “I threw in a few of my preserves, including the ginger, which works with sweet or savory dishes, and some pickled beets and carrots, which are popular around town—served over at Monarch Mansion during their wine and cheese hours. I’m sure you’ll be doing in-house baking—are you doing in-house baking? If not, I bake breads every week and included some zuke—I mean zucchini bread—which came out of the oven this morning. We participate in Community Supported Agriculture every Wednesday, and I can easily set up a business account as we do with another restaurant up north . . .” Abbie had gone pink and breathless. “Ana, the bok choy, please,” she continued.

  “The what?” Ana said, looking over the piles, not knowing which one to pick.

  “The bok choy.”

  Will leaned over and picked it up. “Looks fantastic to me,” he said, smiling at Ana, holding it out for her to inspect.

  “That’s new this season. We also have Japanese eggplants,” Abbie said, looking at Ana again, who scanned the piles before picking up a turnip.

  “You weren’t kidding about your brassica. These are gorgeous turnips,” Will said, taking it out of Ana’s hand before picking up the eggplant and wiggling it. “Eggplant is equally as exquisite.”

  Ana stuffed her hands in her back pockets, hoping Abbie hadn’t noticed her mistake.

  “I’ll take whatever’s in your box next week as well as anything and everything else you have on hand,” Will said. “I’d love to try it all.”

  “All of it?” Abbie asked. “Like, all all?”

  “Yep. I like everything I see.”

  “Great! Let me just run out to the van for the paperwork.” She hurried to the door, before turning back around.

  “Ana?”

  “Oh, yeah! Sorry. I’m still trying to wrap my head around the bok soy.”

  “Choy,” Will said. “Though it’s delicious grilled in a little miso butter with a drizzle of fermented soy.”

  Ana followed Abbie outside, trying to keep up as they crossed the street. Abbie threw open the back doors of the van, jumped inside, unscrewed a bottle of water, and drank half of it as she sat down on an empty crate.<
br />
  “Whoa, dude,” Ana said.

  “What was that?”

  “I think Mr. Carson likes everything he sees, if you know what I mean.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Dude’s into you. It’s totally obvious.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Mr. Carson? Will? He couldn’t stop staring at you. ‘Gorgeous turnips’? Please.” Ana laughed but then stifled it because Abbie had gone completely white, downing the rest of the water bottle and pushing sticky strands of hair from her forehead.

  “Sorry, what did you say?”

  “Mr. Carson seems super rad. How old do you think he is?”

  “Not old enough.”

  “Huh?”

  “Too old for you.”

  “He’s definitely good-looking in a kind of superhero vampire kind of way, but he’s not my type and, yes, way too old for me. You, on the other hand . . .”

  “What time is it?” Abbie asked, looking for the watch she never wore. “We’ve got to get going. I still need to make one more stop, and I wanted to take you to the bookstore, have you pick something out for your birthday.”

  Ana had forgotten that part of the day again.

  “Listen, I’ve still got to go over the produce list with Will, I mean Mr. Carson,” Abbie continued. “The bookstore is right across the street; you can see it through the windows on the other side of the café. Why don’t you head over there, and I’ll meet you in a minute. I trust you, but I’ll be watching from the window. Is it just me or is it a hundred degrees outside?”

  • • •

  Ana tossed her hat into the van and headed across the street in the mid-August heat. Summer up here was nothing like the summer in L.A. Despite Abbie’s protestations, it was a perfect day with a cool breeze and periodic clouds breaking over the town. She took a moment to let the sun warm her face before looking up and down the street, mapping it to memory. There was a lone man smoking a cigarette along the curb and two women in vintage-looking dresses chatting in front of Moon Pharm General Store just a few doors away. Even though she’d rather pop in and see Rye, she did as Abbie said and headed for the bookstore. Though she hadn’t noticed it since the day she arrived, there was a sliver of a store next door to the Moons’ with a handwritten sign in the window that read BUNGLE RECORDS, USED AND NEW VINYL. She made a mental note to check it out, that is, if she was staying. Ana stood there for a moment trying to decipher the band stickers in the window from across the street when the door swung open. Out walked someone dressed from head to toe in dirty motorcycle gear complete with helmet, a record tucked under his arm. She could only see the rider’s eyes, which met hers briefly. She took that as her cue to duck into the bookstore.

  A bell above the door rang as she entered. Though the space wasn’t intimate, it felt inviting with its creaky floorboards and shelves stuffed with books. The whole place was lit by lamps that cast a golden glow—the kind of place you’d want to linger inside of on a gray day, she imagined. Behind the counter a scrawny young man Ana assumed must be in college, judging by his university T-shirt and cardigan, sat up. He appeared startled to see a customer walking toward him.

  “Good afternoon,” he said, adjusting his glasses.

  “Hello,” Ana said.

  “May I help you?”

  “Just browsing.”

  “Any particular genre?”

  “Art books, I guess, and poetry, please.”

  He pointed to the shelves nearest to the door. “Poetry is next to fiction over there and art,” he said, gesturing to the rear of the store, “is just past psychology in the back, though our selection is limited.”

  “Thanks,” Ana said. “Is this your shop?”

  “Kind of. Not really. It’s my grandfather’s. He’s not feeling well today. Who is?”

  “I feel you,” she said.

  “If you’re looking for hiking maps, guidebooks, or more information about the area, that kind of thing, I’ve got it all here at the counter. Might be helpful if you’re new to town.”

  “Actually, I’ll take a look at a guidebook with a map, if you have one.”

  He handed her a travel guide, more like a brochure. She carried it with her to the back of the store, passing a table full of books with handwritten signs advertising recent employee picks. From what Ana could tell, there was only one employee doing all the picking, and that employee enjoyed graphic novels and noir. The art section took up half a bookshelf in the back corner. She scanned it for her favorite, Frida Kahlo, finding a large picture book to flip through. She opened it to an image of the artist lying in a desert, leaves springing from her open chest, and placed the guidebook with the map of the coast inside to study it. Though she wasn’t ready to bolt just yet, it was important to figure out exactly where she was in relation to where she could go if need be.

  The bell above the door rang. She shut the Kahlo book, hiding the travel guide inside, and turned around expecting to see Abbie. Instead, there was a flash of helmet. She returned to the map until someone began loudly opening and shutting books at the table behind her. She turned around and faced the same biker from across the street. He was still wearing his helmet, and his half-unzipped uniform was streaked with dried mud. She glanced at him as his hand floated up in a slow-motion wave.

  He removed the helmet and smiled. His eyes—panther eyes, she decided—were tired and murky green. He looked a little older and taller than she, with a bad case of helmet head. He was slender, so if anything went down, she thought, even right there in the store, she was confident she could semi-take him even without a weapon.

  “The Hex. Great band,” he said, pointing to her T-shirt. “For a girl band, that is.”

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  “I’m not being sexist, I just prefer my punk with a male bravado.”

  He had one of those smiles that curled up at one side, purposefully sly, she thought to herself, dangerously confident.

  “Let me guess,” she said. “Henry Rollins?”

  “Ha. Typical. Ian MacKaye.”

  “Not ruling out a Black Flag T-shirt hidden somewhere in your gym locker, but Fugazi’s an obvious second if we’re talking old-school American punk.”

  “Minor Threat, actually,” he said. “Fugazi’s post-hardcore.”

  “Unlike you, right?” she said.

  “Wow. Burn. Let me guess,” he continued, moving a little closer. “Frida Kahlo.”

  “You saw me reading it.”

  “I didn’t. Like you said, it’s the obvious choice. Also, I know that shelf doesn’t have much beyond Monet and Norman Rockwell. Which Frida are you looking at?”

  She shut the book.

  “Why are you so curious?” she asked.

  “You don’t remember me?”

  “No. Should I?”

  He repeated a slow-motion wave.

  “I don’t understand what—”

  The bell clanged and Abbie walked through the door, stopping for a moment at the counter.

  “We had a moment a couple weeks ago,” he said.

  “Look, dude, I don’t know if this is your go-to pickup maneuver or whatever, but I’m not from here, so there’s no possible way we’ve ever met.”

  “C’mon, Curls,” he said. “Think.” He smiled and did the slow-motion wave again.

  “What did you just call me?”

  “Ana!” Abbie said, making her way to the back of the store. “What did you find? Oh, Frida! Love her. Hand it over.”

  Ana remained silent, still eye to eye with the stranger.

  “Hello, Ms. Garber,” he said, turning toward Abbie.

  “Oh. Hello, Cole,” she responded, looking from one to the other.

  “How’s everything over at the farm?”

  “Fine,” Abbie said, her shoulders suddenl
y stiff with tension.

  “And how’s Mr. Garber these days?”

  “He’s fine,” said Abbie, in a tone that did not invite further discussion. “Please give my best to your mother. Shall we, Ana?”

  Abbie headed to the front counter, so Ana followed, glancing once over her shoulder.

  “Seriously, you don’t have to do this,” Ana whispered.

  “I want to. It’s your birthday, hon.”

  Between this and the stranger—Cole—still somewhere in the back of the shop, Ana was at a loss for words. The way he’d said “Curls” echoed in her head.

  “Happy Birthday,” the bookstore clerk said. “How old are you?”

  “Sixteen.”

  “Sweet. All I got on my sixteenth birthday was a cow and a black eye. I’ll go ahead and throw in a bookmark for free. It’s not like anyone ever buys one.”

  “How kind of you,” Abbie said. “Tell Grandpa Henry I hope he feels better soon.”

  “He has a headache every Friday, you know. He’s probably over at Sal’s downing a pint. . . . You ready?”

  “Just this,” Cole said, suddenly standing behind them, placing a book on the counter.

  “The Beats: A Graphic History!” The bookstore clerk beamed. “I’ve been waiting for someone to buy this! You won’t be disappointed, I promise.”

  There wasn’t much room to move between the counter and the front door, but Abbie turned and made her way toward the exit. Ana stood wedged in between the counter and Cole.

  “Hey, man,” the store clerk continued. “I’ll call you when The Subterraneans comes in. Still don’t know why you don’t just order it yourself, but thanks for actually giving me work to do.”

  “I like to support local business,” Cole said, turning to look directly at Ana. Did girls really fall for that sort of thing?

  “Kerouac,” she said, looking right back. “As obvious as it gets.”

  She squeezed past him to the door, willing herself not to turn around at either his “Hey” or “Wait.”

  Abbie held the door open and glanced inside the bookstore before shutting the door with purpose and giving Ana a look.

  “How did the meeting go?” Ana asked, not making eye contact.