Songbird Cottage

by Barbara Cool Lee

  Senior, as the father was called, had been in failing health, but Junior, the one he'd been working with, was usually here by this time.

  He went back down to his office. He had been hoping to talk things over with them, to let them know both that their simple estate sale had turned into something possibly far more valuable, and also to give them the good news that the property had an offer even before it was put on the multiple listing service. He was sure he could get their client and Robin on the same page with an agreement that would make everyone happy. It should be a simple deal, and then Robin could have what he was convinced was her biological family's cottage.

  "This came in on the fax an hour ago," Patrick said, handing him a document.

  He looked down at it.

  "Bad news?" Patrick asked.

  Dylan shook his head. No. It wasn't bad news. Not if he was doing his job, which was to get the best deal for his clients, the Thackerys. This was great news.

  "Just terrific," he muttered.

  He was holding in his hand an offer for the Songbird Lane property from some company called Pajaro Bay Limited. They wanted to buy Robin's little cottage.

  His day had just gotten a lot more complicated.

  He tossed it back to Patrick. "Get me anything you can find on this company," he said.

  Patrick nodded "Important?"

  "It could be," Dylan muttered.

  The heavy redwood gate to the Honeymoon Cottage was standing open when Robin got there just after eight in the morning.

  She followed the little path that wound its way through the gate until she came to the cottage itself: a tiny, elfin building, only about twenty feet square but three stories high, and brimming over with Stockdale design details: pointy roofline, crooked windows, heavy redwood beams, and a round-topped door with big iron hinges.

  The Honeymoon Cottage graced the cover of the definitive work on Pajaro Bay cottages. The big coffee table book sat in a prominent place on her office desk, and she used it to show prospective clients what they were getting into before they committed to buying one of the historically significant houses.

  Now she looked the familiar place over with a practiced eye, comparing it to the little "barn" outside of town, and seeing similarities in structure and execution everywhere she looked.

  This was the very first Stockdale, built by the man shortly after World War II, and it was the project where he first worked with his future wife, Ramona Robles-Stockdale. It wasn't just named the Honeymoon Cottage, it was their honeymoon cottage, and had continued to be Ramona's home until her death some 25 years ago, when it had been closed up during a protracted challenge to the will by Ramona's brother, old Elias Robles. She'd willed the house to her nieces and nephew, and her brother had fought being disinherited. The title had finally been cleared just a few years ago, and the property was sold to its current owner, who had lovingly restored it to its current beautiful condition.

  The front door was open, and a big Golden Retriever bounded out to say hi. "Good morning, buddy," she said to the dog, then followed him in. "I'm here!" she called out, brushing the dog hair off her black tropical wool trousers.

  "In the kitchen!" came the reply.

  Robin stopped in the living room, though. She put her hand on the Robles tiles that framed the fireplace, running her fingers over the glossy pine tree design.

  Ramona Robles had been an amazing artist, light years ahead of her time.

  Her work had taken the Robles family tileworks from being a mere producer of Spanish barrel roof tiles, to one of the most sought-after makers of custom tile work in California. Ramona had designed these tiles for this particular fireplace, and no other. Each of the cottages had tiles like this: unique, one of a kind designs that were fired a single time, and never again reproduced.

  What design had been planned for the little cottage on Songbird Lane before it was abandoned?

  She would have to find out what had happened to the Robles tiles for that cottage. Maybe they hadn't been fired and glazed by the time the cottage construction was interrupted.

  If only she could find the records of what the cottage had been planned to look like, she could finish it herself, maybe even having another tile maker re-create the designs. The plans might be somewhere in the Stockdale-Robles records at the library. And if she was lucky, she might even find Ramona's sketches for the tile work. She would have to make the library her next stop.

  "What's up?" said the voice behind her, and she turned to see her best friend, Camilla Stewart-Knight, looking at her quizzically. "I texted you three times yesterday, but you didn't respond." Camilla looked worried. "Is everything okay?"

  "I'm sorry," Robin said. "It's a long story."

  "But you're okay?" Camilla asked with concern.

  "Oh, yeah. Good, even."

  She let Camilla lead the way back into the cottage's tiny kitchen. The Dutch door stood open to the back yard and its breathtaking view of the bay. "Where's my godson?" she asked.

  "Caleb's gone fishing off the pier with Daddy," Camilla said with a smile. "I was tempted to go, just to get a picture of Ryan trying to persuade a two-year-old to stand still long enough to fish, but I wanted to make sure you were all right."

  "I'm fine, really. Nothing's wrong. Something's, well, pretty good, I guess." She put the frozen croissants she'd brought along on a plate and popped them into the microwave.

  When the timer dinged, they sat at the rickety kitchen table and Camilla poured coffee.

  Camilla had known her long enough to give her time, so they chatted about the weather, Camilla's latest Ebay finds, and the ending of tourist season, before Robin finally wound her way around to talking about what was really on her mind.

  She told about the old barn that turned out to be a cottage.

  "The Stockdale you remember," Camilla said in wonder. "After all this time, you finally found it."

  "I found more than that." She took the little photograph out of her purse and handed it to Camilla.

  "OMG, she looks like you," was Camilla's first response. "A fashion plate, too. Just like you. And I love the hair."

  "Everybody loves the hair," she muttered, but Camilla caught it.

  "Who else has seen this?"

  Robin didn't answer that, but said, "she's not that young, is she? Maybe 40 years old."

  Camilla nodded. "She looks like she kept up with the latest fashion, but wasn't a kid herself. So who is she?"

  Robin shook her head. "That's the thing. I don't know." So she explained about finding the unfinished house, and about all the mystery surrounding it.

  She looked down at the photo, which she'd propped up against the sugar bowl. "I wish I knew who she was."

  "How can we find out?"

  "I don't know. I'm guessing she owned the house. It was her stuff in the attic, I figure. A flowered quilt, a feather boa, stuff that looked really girly. So finding the owner is the first step toward learning her identity."

  "The second step," Camilla said. "After buying the cottage yourself."

  "Yeah, I've put in a bid, but it might get complicated."

  "How, complicated?"

  "Dylan is morally obligated to tell the seller that the property is listed at too low a price, and the news that it's a Stockdale would probably start a bidding war."

  "Well, that's hardly a problem for you," Camilla said dryly. "How high can you bid before you'd need to borrow from your mom's bottomless pit of real estate money?"

  "I have enough," Robin said.

  Camilla smiled happily at her. "Good. You have to buy it. It's meant for you." It was a sign of their long friendship that Camilla could be flat broke herself yet feel nothing but happiness at knowing Robin was rich enough to buy whatever she wanted—even a rare Stockdale with a price that, if authenticated, could hit seven figures.

  Robin knew Camilla had very little money, being married to a cop, but it never seemed to bother her. While she, on the other hand, had enough money to buy anything
she could imagine, but sometimes wondered if she'd trade it all for what her friend had.

  "What I have?" Camilla asked when Robin said the thought aloud.

  "A cute cottage, a hunky husband, and two darling little kids."

  "Yeah," Camilla said. "Speaking of Dylan Madrigal—"

  "We weren't speaking of Dylan," Robin said.

  Camilla just sat there drinking coffee and looking unruffled. "You said you put in a bid on the cottage. Does he know why you want to buy it?"

  "Yes," Robin said, looking down into the swirls of liquid in her mug.

  "That you think it's a Stockdale, or the whole truth? Moving to Pajaro Bay because of your mother? And about being orphaned, adopted, wanting to find your family, and all that?"

  "All that," Robin said softly.

  Camilla sat back in her chair, fixing her with a big smile. "Congratulations, buddy. You opened up to someone."

  "Someone other than you," Robin said.

  "Yup. Someone special, whose opinion matters to you."

  "Yeah," she said. "His opinion does matter."

  "And he took it okay?"

  Robin thought back to the lunch. Thought of Dylan's hand unconsciously reaching for hers to comfort her when she broke down. The kindness in his eyes when he sat there silently listening. Not interrupting, not lecturing, but just being there for her.

  "He was totally supportive and kind about it," she finally said. "Not a bit of mansplaining that he knew better than me about how I should feel. He just listened. It was nice."

  "Nice." Camilla's grin was even bigger. "Nice is good."

  "I just said he was nice, that's all."

  "Uh huh." She leaned forward, twisting her head to the side like a curious puppy to examine Robin. "Why, my friend, I think I see a chink in your armor."

  Robin suppressed a grin and took another sip of her coffee.

  Then Camilla got up to refill her coffee mug from the old percolator on the stove. When she sat back down she said, "I will wear anything but orange."

  Robin looked at her red-haired, freckle-faced friend. "That's sensible, if a bit of a non-sequitur."

  "Not a non-sequitur. I am simply expressing my preferences now, instead of waiting until the last minute. Pick any colors for your wedding you want, but your maid of honor will not be dressed in orange. That's all I'm saying."

  "You're as bad as my mom! All I have to do is mention Dylan's name, and you go all romance novelish on me. I just talked to him. I didn't profess my undying love."

  "You just shared your carefully hidden vulnerability with him. Just like you would with someone you trusted and cared for."

  "I do trust him."

  "And care for him?"

  Robin frowned. "I can care for someone in a totally platonic way, you know."

  "Sure. I care for Hector Peña in a totally platonic way. But Hector isn't six foot of studly dude."

  "Dylan's not a dude," Robin said automatically, thinking of his sensuous, authoritative presence. "He's a man."

  "Indeed he is. And he loves you for you, Robin. That's rare."

  "Sure, that's what he says now. But we'll get mar—" Robin paused and took a sip of her coffee. "This coffee's getting cold," she muttered.

  "Like your cold feet? Come on, Robin. You were about to say, you'll get married and he'll change his ways. You stopped yourself, but you're already picturing yourself married to him."

  "Yes. I'm already picturing it turning out just as badly as my first marriage did."

  "But that was totally different."

  "I don't see how. Taye was an older man I looked up to. He was my professor, my mentor. He was flattering to me, and he thought I was cute. And once I married him I realized it was a terrible idea to marry someone who's older and wiser than you."

  "I wouldn't call him wiser."

  "He thought he was, and that's what matters. With an older man, you're always second best and you never are truly equal to him."

  "And you see Dylan that way? Dylan Madrigal? As a domineering know-it-all who won't listen to you?"

  "He's fourteen years older than me."

  "Yeah. And that older man just called you to ask your advice because he thinks you know more than he does about Stockdale cottages."

  That stopped Robin, but only for a minute. "That's different."

  "Yeah. It's totally different from how your first husband treated you. Gee, it's almost like he sees you as a…, wait for it…, equal."

  "He's just too old for me."

  "Are you worried he'll become some doddering old man you'll have to take care of?"

  "Have you seen his muscles?" Robin asked incredulously, then immediately wished she'd kept her mouth shut.

  "Um, no," Camilla said. "But apparently you have. Muscles, huh? Interesting."

  "No. Not interesting. Hand me another croissant."

  Camilla held the plate out of reach. "I don't know. Maybe you should be careful. If you want to keep up with Muscles Madrigal, you need to watch what you eat."

  "Not funny," Robin said. "Now hand over the pastries."

  Camilla did.

  While they stuffed themselves, Camilla asked, "so what's your next move?"

  "I want to find out the history of Songbird Cottage."

  "Songbird Cottage?"

  "That's what I'm calling it, since it's on that little track called Songbird Lane. So I'm going to see if I can find any information about it. There's nothing in the books about it, of course. But maybe there's a document in the Stockdale-Robles papers that explains it. Who owned it, who built it, something like that. And ultimately, what the connection to my biological family might be."

  "That sounds good, but that's not exactly what I was asking."

  "You asked me what I'm going to do next."

  "About Dylan, you dope. About the six feet of studly manhood."

  "Nothing's changed," Robin said, feeling a bit evasive. Something had changed between them. But what?

  "Okay. I'll let you say so," Camilla said.

  "That's a polite way of calling me a liar."

  "It is, isn't it? So you want me to come with you to the library to do research?"

  "I was thinking of asking Dylan," slipped out before Robin thought about it.

  She started to stammer something about how he had seen the cottage and could help her with the research, but Camilla just smiled. "I think you just answered my question."

  Chapter Eight

  Robin checked her appearance in the window glass of the Owl Cottage before entering. Black tropical wool trousers, Etro red paisley silk blouse. All neat and tidy, right down to her Gucci ankle boots, which she was wearing today since she was determined to traipse across that dusty field again to take another look at the cottage.

  Why was it that Camilla could wear jeans and a pink sweatshirt and feel confident, while she had to be dressed to the teeth every single day? Her psychologist said it was a manifestation of her insecurity, that she had to be so far above reproach no one could criticize her.

  That same insecurity had kept her from calling Dylan and asking him to join her on this research trip.

  She gave a final twitch to her blouse to pull out a wrinkle, then saw who was watching her from the other side of the glass window. So much for not being criticized.

  She opened the door to the Owl and went inside.

  "Good morning, Mabel," she said cheerily to the town grump, Mabel Rutherford, who unfortunately appeared to be on volunteer duty.

  "Good morning," Mabel said reluctantly, shuffling some papers and frowning back at her from behind her station at the checkout desk.

  The Owl had originally been the Stockdale cottage belonging to the village eye doctor. When he died, he donated the building to be used as the town library. His shingle now held place of honor on the wall behind the checkout desk, and its visage, of a stern-looking barn owl peering over its spectacles at the world, looked remarkably like Mabel's grumpy twin.

  "What's funny?" Mabel asked, p
eering up at Robin, which only made her appear even more owl-like.

  "Not a thing," Robin responded. "Just here to do a little research in the—"

  "—Stockdale Room. Of course."

  Mabel had been the self-appointed Stockdale expert before Robin arrived in town, and she resented the intrusion into her area of expertise.

  After saying a properly polite goodbye to Mabel (it wouldn't do to get on her bad side), Robin headed for the front parlor.

  The Stockdale-Robles Room, the sign over the doorway read. She opened the oak pocket doors and turned on the light switch.

  The walls of the tiny room were covered in large photographs illustrating important events in Jefferson Stockdale and Ramona Robles-Stockdale's lives.

  Robin walked around the perimeter of the room, tracing the timeline from Jefferson's return after World War II, to the building of the Honeymoon Cottage, where he first worked with and then married Ramona Robles, who was the daughter of the local tilemaker. The photographs highlighted their lives from there: the birth of their son; the first of their houses to be built on Calle Principal; the dedication of the mayor's house with a grandstand and balloons; the stacks of Robles custom tiles on a pallet, ready to be shipped off to other cities for use in major projects still visible today. A black-and-white pic of the framework for Los Colores, Dylan's commercial building, was one of the final photographs.

  There weren't any dates on the photos. But they told her one thing: none of the Stockdales had redwood siding. None of the Stockdales had brick fireplaces. The little Songbird Cottage was unique.

  She sat down at a table next to the parlor's fireplace to get to work. She found herself examining the fireplace: typical Stockdale-Robles, it had a tile surround with woodland animals in bas-relief, each wearing eyeglasses.

  She grabbed the file filled with sketches of Ramona Robles' tile designs. A drawing of a bird caught her eye, but then she recognized it as the bird from Bluebird Cottage, a little place over on Tejas Street. Ramona never repeated designs, so that wasn't it.

  It took her some time, but she looked at every pencil sketch. There were plenty of drawings of birds, nests, and wild flowers, but nothing she could identify as belonging to Songbird Cottage.