It had been weeks, months maybe, since Foster had been on a date. This far too public intimate contact with Heather made her cheeks flame hotly.
Heather stood and smiled. “You have a nice flight.” Her southern drawl was laced with flirtation.
“Uh, thank you…I mean, I will.” Foster was flustered. She fumbled with her shoes, her belt, her laptop, and then dropped one wingtip shoe as she angled for a bench to reassemble herself.
Foster tried to regain her composure while she rode the train to terminal B. She reached for the overhead handlebar as the train sped toward its next stop. Had she forgotten anything? Traveling wasn’t really her thing. She didn’t do it often enough to have a good system in place. She’d made arrangements with Gloria to take care of William Faulkner. Gloria was the epitome of crazy cat sitters, more able to deal with pets than people. She drove Foster crazy with her long pet sitting diary notes and Ziploc bags of collected cat hair, but William Faulkner loved Gloria more than air, so Foster put up with Gloria’s OCD behavior for his benefit.
She wasn’t sure how long this writing trip would take. Two weeks was her hope, but it would all depend on how much research was involved.
The gate area was crowded. No one seemed to understand the concept of a line. Foster wasn’t in the mood to jockey for a position so she leaned against the wall across from the gate and waited. The attorney who’d hired her had purchased a first-class ticket to San Francisco. Having never flown first class before, she was looking forward to discovering what that felt like. The speaker overhead crackled as the Delta service staff announced the first call for boarding.
Foster took a deep breath. This was it. What had she gotten herself into?
***
Evan sank into the overstuffed armchair in the small sitting room of the cottage. The grounds job included free room and board in the cottage near the lighthouse. This had been the home of the lightkeeper originally. But no one manned the lighthouse these days, or in recent decades, and the structure would need some upgrades to be safe for visitors if it was ever turned it into an historic site for tourists.
Too bad, because in Evan’s opinion, lighthouses were unique, something to be protected, experienced. She’d thought of climbing to the top when she’d first moved into the cottage, but the spiral stairs seemed unstable.
Cora always invited Evan to eat in the main house, but Evan was trying hard to keep her distance. She brought meals back to the cottage and ate alone. It was better to have some emotional detachment from the candidate, the target, so that she could remain objective. Losing objectivity could be bad, for both of them.
If this assignment ended up being the real deal, then she was supposed to report her findings and hand Abby over to the Council of Elders. She wouldn’t be required to do any heavy lifting for the actual ceremony, although her assistance might be required for transport. A true positive would need to be taken back to the East Coast for the ritual of transmutation.
Thinking of Abby as nothing more than a candidate didn’t settle well in her stomach. Evan had every intention of handling this case by the book so that she could get back to her old life, but something nagged at the back of her brain. Something sinister was at play here; she felt it but couldn’t yet give it a name.
Evan rolled her shoulder and flexed her arm. She’d been injured in the platform collapse that had caused Jacqueline’s death. No one had anticipated the accident, which was almost impossible to imagine given the fact that eleven elders with various gifts of sight were present. Evan kept replaying the day over and over, and every time, she came to the same conclusion. The accident was not an accident. Some other power had been present at the time of Jacqueline’s death. It was hard to believe she was the only person who’d sensed it.
She rotated her shoulder again slowly. She’d balked at the idea of playing groundskeeper, but as it had turned out, the daily physical labor was strengthening her shoulder. In another couple of weeks, she might even be back to full strength. She brushed her fingertips over the tattoo on her forearm. The symbol meant nothing now unless she was returned to her former status.
A seagull hung in the air just outside the window, balanced on some updraft as if it were a winged hovercraft. Evan chewed the blueberry muffin slowly as she watched from her seat by the window. She’d never spent any time in this part of California and had to admit that the landscape was stunning, ruggedly wild and beautiful. If someone wanted to hide, this would be a good place to do it.
***
The flight seemed shorter than the allotted time, probably because Foster was nervous. This whole excursion had all the earmarks of a bad idea: air turbulence, crowded terminals, and surly flight attendants, yes, even in first class.
One of the biggest perks of becoming a writer was that she got to work at home, alone. People tended to annoy her. What with their noise and chattiness and general neediness.
The drive from the airport took about a half hour. Atlanta had at least fifty thoroughfares named Peachtree, which could be confusing at times, but San Francisco was an infuriating web of one-way streets. It took several passes to figure out how to maneuver to where she needed to be, and then parking was another challenge to conquer. Finally, she stood on the curb facing a narrow Victorian looking building. A bronze plaque next to the mahogany door read Gertrude Hampton, Attorney at Law.
The ancient floorboards creaked when Foster stepped through the door. A wisp of a girl sat at the reception desk in the foyer. She was pale and rail thin with a nose ring.
“May I help you?”
“Um, yes, I’m here to see Gertrude Hampton.”
“Do you have an appointment?”
“Yes, I’m Foster Owen.”
“Please take a seat.” She slipped past Foster and down a hallway lined with doors toward the end of the hall.
Foster tried unsuccessfully to get a glimpse of who was on the other side of the last door. While she waited she busied herself by examining several photos of turn-of-the-century San Francisco hanging in the waiting area.
“Ms. Hampton will see you now. Please follow me.” She stopped just before they reached the door. “Would you care for water or coffee?”
“Coffee would be great.” The time difference was catching up with Foster. She’d missed her afternoon caffeine break.
“Do you take cream or sugar?”
“Just cream, thanks.”
She held the door open for Foster to step past.
A hazy cloud of smoke filled the dark paneled office. Wait, not smoke, vapor, and it smelled like…strawberries. A stout woman who bore a strong resemblance to Helga from the TSA crew in Atlanta stood and extended her hand to Foster. She was wearing a dark gray skirt suit with a white collared shirt underneath. Her gray hair was cropped short all over her head, offset with large blue-jeweled earrings.
“Sorry for the strawberry haze.” Gertrude Hampton wiggled an e-cig in her hand. “They tell me this contraption will help me quit smoking. So far all it’s done is make me crave pie.” She set the device on her desk and waved to a chair on the other side. “Please, take a seat.”
“Thank you.” Foster had only just sat down when the receptionist returned with coffee. She smiled and nodded as she gratefully accepted the beverage.
As she sampled the coffee, Gertrude studied her from across the desk. She sucked on the e-cig, and it gurgled like when a kid tries to get the last bit of soda pop with a straw.
“Hmm, I thought you’d be…” Gertrude didn’t finish the statement.
“A guy? Yeah, I get that a lot. Foster isn’t exactly a traditional feminine name.”
“Plus, you’ve got that whole scruffy writer look with the jacket and the unkempt, devil-may-care hair…does your generation have something against combs?”
Foster chafed a bit at the critique.
“This jacket is vintage.” She felt the sudden need to defend her fashion choices, if not her hairstyle.
“Thrift stores…ugh…they sm
ell worse than my great-aunt’s attic on a rainy day.”
Foster held the lapel up to her nose and sniffed just to be sure. She thought the jacket smelled good. She’d had it dry-cleaned more than once. Sitting across from Gertrude Hampton’s disapproval, she was transported back to her grandma’s kitchen where she’d received a dressing-down for wanting to wear one of her brother Frank’s suits to her senior prom. That night had ended in disaster, and this meeting seemed to be headed in the same direction.
“Listen, Ms. Hampton, not to seem overly sensitive here, but I figure you hired me for my writing skills, not my wardrobe.” Foster shifted in her chair, setting the half empty coffee cup on the edge of the large oak desk. “If your intention is to insult me into saying no to this assignment then you’re gonna have to try a little harder.”
Gertrude laughed, a genuine, deep down in your belly sort of laugh.
“Don’t get your boxers in a bunch. On the contrary, Foster Owen, I’m starting to like you. I think you might just be the perfect choice for this project.” She set the e-cig aside and leaned forward, resting her elbows on the desk. “First things first, call me Gertie.”
Foster settled back in her chair and finished off the coffee.
“Listen, you should know that this memoir project was my idea.” Gertie’s intense gaze bored into her.
“Meaning?”
“Meaning Abigail may be reluctant at first, but don’t let that discourage you.”
Great. The subject of the memoir didn’t even want the story to be written. Her intuition that this whole jaunt was a bad idea couldn’t have been more on point.
“If Abigail doesn’t want to do this project then why do it?” Foster figured it would save everyone a lot of trouble if she asked the obvious, painful question now.
“Because it’ll be good for her.”
Deciding what was good for someone else, whether they liked it or not, had a familiar ring. Her mother followed the same school of thought. Foster had a twinge of empathy for Abigail Spencer.
“The Spencer estate is about a two- or three-hour drive north from here, depending on how often you stop to sightsee…and traffic.” Gertie shuffled some papers around on her desk as if she was looking for something she’d misplaced. She handed a manila folder to Foster. “This is a bit of history to get you started, along with the address and phone number for the Spencer place. Cell service will be spotty along the coast as you head north.”
Foster frowned. Gertie had clearly decided the memoir project was moving forward, with or without Abigail’s endorsement. Foster would get paid either way, according to the contract she’d received from her agent. She might as well play this out for the sake of her mortgage.
“Is this the area they call the lost coast?” Foster absently thumbed through the contents of the folder, not really focusing on any one thing.
“No, that’s farther north, but the northern part of Mendocino County is pretty rural. It might as well be lost.” Gertie leaned back in her high-backed leather chair. “I think you should leave now so that you arrive before dark.”
“Why, what happens when it gets dark?”
“When it’s dark it’s harder to find the driveway.” Gertie cocked an eyebrow as if Foster had just asked something truly crazy.
“Oh, I see.”
Gertie stood, an obvious signal that the meeting was over. She extended her hand to Foster.
“Call me if you have any trouble or…” Her words trailed off.
“Or?”
“Or if you need anything.”
“Thank you. I’m sure I’ll be fine.” She nodded to Gertie and let herself out.
Once on the sidewalk she realized she’d forgotten to find out any details about this mysterious Abigail Spencer, except for the fact that this project wasn’t her idea. Oh well, she’d meet the woman soon enough. As she turned toward where she’d left her rental car, the chilled, damp San Francisco breeze cut through her shirt. She held the front of her jacket closed. It was June, but damn near cold despite the bright sunlit cloudless sky.
She’d heeded Mark Twain’s famous observation about wintry summers in San Francisco but now was doubting she’d packed enough sweaters to survive her two-week stay along the blustery Pacific coast.
It took several moments of sitting in the sunbaked warmth of her rental car to chase away the chill. A few minutes later, she entered the Spencer estate address in her phone and hit go.
“Proceed to the route.”
Why did Siri always say that? The whole point of using GPS was that she had no idea where the route was, except that it was north. A few missed turns, rerouted along one-way streets, and finally Foster spotted the red-orange struts of the Golden Gate Bridge rising above the treetops of the Presidio. The far end of the bridge was completely hidden in the dense marine layer. She followed traffic as if they’d all decided to drive off the edge of the earth together. As the road rose from the fog, a tunnel painted with a rainbow was visible just ahead. Like a sixteen-year-old on her first road trip, Foster honked the horn as she drove through. She couldn’t stop the smile that followed.
Chapter Three
The phone in the study rang and Abby reached for it. Cell service wasn’t great on the property so Abby rarely used her personal phone. The landline in the house was more reliable. She sank back into the chaise and dropped the book she’d been reading into her lap.
“Hello?”
“Hi, Abigail.”
“Hello, Gertie.”
“I met with Foster Owen.”
Abby let Gertie’s statement hang in the air for a minute.
“I still don’t think this is a good idea. I thought I asked you to cancel this project.” Abby pressed two fingers to her temple where she felt a headache beginning.
She’d voiced her concerns, but Gertie was stubborn and Abby had sort of been good-naturedly bullied into considering the idea. Even after all these years, Abby sometimes thought Gertie didn’t really get her. Gertie had her perception of who Abby was, and that perception fit neatly into the prearranged box Gertie had for Abby. But Abby wasn’t who Gertie thought she was. She struggled to be seen, by Gertie and perhaps everyone else.
“Just give the project a chance. After a couple of days, if you see no merit in capturing the Spencer family history, then we abort the whole thing.”
“You say that, but I don’t believe you.”
“Abigail…”
“Are you simply trying to force me to interact with someone?” The process of researching a memoir would no doubt be intimate, and Abby was already dreading every minute of forced closeness.
“I thought you were a fan of Foster Owen. Now you can meet in person.”
“Are you trying to set me up with Foster Owen?” Despite her best efforts, the pitch of her voice went up. Why hadn’t she guessed this from the beginning? Gertie was so concerned that Abby would end up old and alone that she was forever trying to set Abby up. Every single time, regardless of the contrived interaction, all Gertie’s attempts had ended without success.
Gertie failed to understand that the primary goal in seeking a fortress of solitude was to actually have solitude.
Anxiety began to knot in her stomach. Sure, she was a fan of Foster’s books, but she certainly didn’t want to meet her in person or have her stay here. It was far too stressful to have a complete stranger in the house for one night, let alone two nights. A week was unimaginable. Her head began to throb.
“Please call her and ask her not to come.”
“She’s already on the road…left the office about an hour ago.” The gurgle of Gertie’s e-cig came through the phone, and then she exhaled as she spoke. “By the way, with a name like that I expected Foster to be a man. Did you know Foster was a woman?”
“Yes, I knew Foster was a woman.” Which made Gertie’s attempt to set her up even more curious. Gertie’s other targeted attempts at romantic meddling had been with men. Abby had never really dated anyone of either ge
nder, so how would Gertie know her preferences?
Of course she knew Foster was a woman. She made a point of knowing who authors were, or at least trying to know them through their books and blogs. Although, Foster didn’t have a blog. From what Abby had been able to discern, Foster seemed to exist in a world apart from social media or the internet. The fact that Foster guarded her privacy so carefully made Abby even more curious about her.
“Abigail?”
“Yes?”
“Just give it a chance, okay? I worry about you up there all by yourself. Sometimes meeting our heroes is a good thing.”
“She’s not my hero.” Abby pinched the bridge of her nose and squeezed her eyes shut. “I have to go. I don’t feel well.”
“Just try to relax, Abby.” Gertie’s voice softened. She knew Gertie meant well, but sometimes she had the maternal instincts of a stone. “I made a promise to look out for you, and that’s exactly what I’m trying to do.”
Whether I like it or not. Abby sighed.
“I know.” She’d try her best to be gracious.
“Okay, now don’t stress yourself out about this.”
The absolute least helpful thing to say to someone with social anxiety.
“I have to go.” Abby desperately wanted to get off the phone.
“Call me later and let me know how it’s going.”
“Okay.” The headache was now climbing the back of her neck, knotting all the muscles as it passed.
She settled the phone back in the cradle and headed for her room. The heavy curtains, when drawn, cast the room in blissful darkness. If she lay down for a while, maybe she could ward off the worst of the headache; maybe she wouldn’t have to deal with Foster’s arrival until the morning. She curled into a fetal position and used a second pillow to cover her head. Even the sliver of light seeping along the edge of the drapes was too much.
Spencer's Cove Page 3
