“You’re a local bank manager,” he offered. “You know the community. What does the community need?” He gave another dismissive shrug, as if to say, Surely you’ve thought of this.
Leah stared out at the hills. She had no idea what the community needed; she supposed she’d always kidded herself into thinking she was doing good by lending people money and helping them build savings, but she knew that was bogus. Now she was going to make it a point to find out what she could do to help, because one thing was certain: The choices on which she’d based her life up until now damn sure weren’t making her happy.
The Ferris wheel hit its peak again, and this time Leah felt a sense of elation and soaring joy. As she swept through the sultry night, she felt as though maybe, just maybe, she too could learn to fly.
Chapter 19
Greer was relieved to find that the party was a quiet, intimate affair. About twenty people milled around the small, tasteful home and backyard, where ropes of white lights had been strung in a crisscross pattern over the garden. Being naturally attracted to landscaping, Sterling stood with a glass of white wine in one hand surveying the neat, creative space with an approving admiration.
“Nice work,” he said to Greer. “You see how well he’s used the curves of the rock-lined path and miniature fruit trees to create an illusion of more space and intimate areas? And the corner fountain with the mirror behind it is really a lovely touch.” He breathed deeply and sighed. “And the night-blooming jasmine . . . So many people forget scent when they create their garden. Big mistake.”
“It’s beautiful. I wonder which one is our host,” Greer mused, peering around at the gathered guests.
Whitney and her husband, Luke, a tall, formidable-looking Native American man with a long, graying ponytail and a sharp wit, had joined them. “R.J. is . . .” Whitney looked around and pointed to a very handsome, dark-skinned man in his fifties. His still-black hair hung long, straight, and loose to the middle of his back over a starched, deep purple cotton shirt. His face was less angular than Luke’s, its curves gentler and more disposed to look cheerful without trying, but he shared his taller friend’s noble bearing and artistic presence.
“Wow,” Greer said. “What a striking man.”
“Isn’t he though?” Whitney asked. “He’s full-blooded Cherokee. You don’t find that much anymore.”
Luke smiled, showing his perfect, strong white teeth. “He’s full-blooded all right, and as hot-blooded as a Pawnee on the warpath. R.J. is very active in Native American rights.”
“R.J.,” Greer said, reminded of something. “Was that his painting at Mindy’s house?”
“Yes, the one you liked,” Whitney said. She had not discussed Greer’s reaction to the painting as her premonition about Jenny had superseded it. Though Greer had shared the alarming vision of the black wings hovering over Jenny’s face with Whitney and they had discussed it between themselves, they had also made a pact not to tell Jenny about it. Both Whitney and Greer had grown up with a keen awareness of what others called the supernatural. Whitney’s father had been a Cree medicine man, and both she and Greer understood all too well the damage that suggestion itself could do. So, they had both pledged to do what they could to protect and watch over Jenny without planting the seed of fear in her.
But now the memory of Greer’s reaction to the painting in Mindy’s living room the day of the shower came back to Whitney and she asked, “You did like the painting, yes?”
“Very much,” Greer said. “And I’m extremely curious to know where he painted it.”
“His work is amazing, isn’t it?” Luke commented. “Looking at his paintings compared to mine makes me feel like he’s a master craftsman and I’m some geek with a hammer who’s constructed a pigsty out of some sticks I’ve found out in the yard.”
“Oh, honey,” Whitney said with a laugh, “your work is completely different.”
“I love your art!” Sterling interjected. “That piece you gave Greer is amazing. I mean, it’s a continuation of the style of the Native American art during the internment periods, right down to using actual documents of the time, and it’s clever as hell. I mean, When Poodles Ran Free in Beverly Hills. That’s just brilliant.” He was smiling brightly at the very thought of it.
“And,” Greer pitched in, “I’ll bet he doesn’t make fabulous jewelry like you do.”
At this comment both Luke and Whitney looked wryly at each other. “Yeah, he does,” Whitney said, and pulled her lace cuff back to reveal a magnificent bracelet, an intricate masterpiece of brightly colored stones inlaid in an oval gold base strung on five strands of garnet crystals.
“Bastard,” Luke muttered with so much admiration in the word that it was the highest of compliments. “I hate him so much,” he said flatly, and then the twinkle in his eye caught each of them in turn. “Not that I’m bitter.”
They all laughed.
“What, or maybe I should ask, who is so amusing?” asked their host, who had appeared next to Whitney and was shooting a knowing look at his friend Luke.
Introductions were made, and Greer was charmed to find that R.J. not only looked elegant, he acted it as well, stooping over her hand in an imitation of a kiss. Sterling’s hand he shook strongly with eye contact and a welcoming smile.
“I really like what you’ve done with this space,” Sterling told him. “In fact, I hope you don’t mind, I’ve been taking some mental notes.”
“Sterling is a landscape architect,” Whitney explained.
“Oh, would I know any of your work?” R.J. asked with sincere enthusiasm.
Sterling mentioned several of the more striking homes in the area that he had done, and then with a shake of his head and a sigh he added, “And soon, I’ll be the proud designer of one of the saddest landscape jobs in Shadow Hills, the Golden Door subdivision.” He took a sip of his wine. “I tried to get out of it, but I knew if I did, we’d all be treated to a sterile view of ice plant and ficus. At least I can subtly force them to plant natives and try to hide some of the cancerous growths—I mean, houses.”
R.J.’s face had gone hard, and lines that had been absent in his beaming smile appeared on his brow and around his mouth. “That thing should never have gone through. It was against every zoning law we have. Part of it is actually in a wash area; the first good rain will probably reroute most of the floodwaters right through a few of those McMansions’ living rooms.” He scowled. “Serve them right. I’ll be out there cheering.”
Luke said, “R.J. was one of the organizers of the petitions against it.”
“It’s not over yet,” R.J. said grimly. “We’ve organized a hearing to try to stop phase three. For the second time.” He shook his head, and his smooth hair swung like a solid sheet. “It’s just unbelievable. If somebody comes in with enough money, they can basically talk the city council—who are supposed to be protecting the people who elected them—into anything.”
“You think they bribed them?” Sterling asked, looking concerned.
“I don’t know. I wish I could prove that they did, but it isn’t that simple. You’d be amazed at the number of people who either wanted it or, worse, are just plain apathetic.” He turned to the back door of the house as a new couple, whom Greer recognized as Mindy and Reading, emerged from it. “Speak of the devil,” he said quietly.
Greer was nodding. “Yeah, he’s pretty pro-development. We had a little, uh, heated discussion about it in the shop the other day.”
Mindy had spotted the quintet and was heading over, dragging a reluctant Reading in her wake. Sterling was thinking that he looked vaguely familiar.
“Hi, everyone. The place looks beautiful, R.J.,” she gushed as she kissed him on both cheeks.
“Thank you,” R.J. said graciously, and then extended a hand to Reading. “Nice to see you, Reading. How’s the hunting season going?”
The mention of hunting brought about a visual change in Reading’s countenance. “Great. Me and Jojo brought down a s
ix-point buck.”
“Already?” R.J. looked surprised. “The season just opened Tuesday.”
Sterling spoke up. “That’s where I’ve seen you. Out by the Golden Door development with a recently dead hood ornament.”
“Bagged it by noon,” Reading said. Whitney made a disparaging sound, and Greer remembered the many pairs of antlers nailed to the wall of his storage shed.
“That’s impressive,” R.J. said.
“Well”—Reading dropped some of his self-congratulatory attitude—“to be honest, the fire up at Oak Springs helped somewhat. That’s where we spotted him, out in the open. His usual cover was all burned away.”
“I’m so upset,” Mindy said, and there were tears in her eyes. Greer wondered if she cried every time her husband killed something. But it wasn’t the dead deer that had affected Mindy. “Remember that painting in my living room?”
Greer and Whitney exchanged looks, and Greer felt an icy heat travel up both sides of her body.
“Well, it was a painting of almost exactly that area where the fire was, on the way up to Oak Springs, and now it’s all black and sad.”
“That fire was so frightening,” Greer said, trying to cover her own shock at her premonition of the fire and wondering feverishly what possible meaning the image of the key could hold. “My son was the one who saw it and called it in. There was a really nice older couple, the Caseys, who almost lost their home.”
There was a general clucking and sympathetic shaking of heads; then Reading spoke up, crossing his arms defensively across his wide chest. “I know it’s hard, but fire is normal—even necessary—in these areas. The ecosystem depends on it; otherwise the shrubbery gets too dense. Look at the oaks: They are designed to survive brush fires. Most of the big ones have seen quite a few in the last couple of centuries.”
Sterling nodded grudgingly. “That’s basically true,” he agreed. “But, as usual, we humans have changed things. We’ve added nonindigenous plants and we water out of season. Not to mention the fact that we’ve built our homes in this ecosystem that’s designed to burn off every few years.”
“It’s amazing, when you see it,” Reading said, almost as though Sterling hadn’t spoken. His eyes had taken on that distant, hungry quality that Greer had seen when he spoke of the fire before. “When it’s done right, everything is black for the first few days, and then, within just a couple of weeks, the seeds sprout and things grow back out of it. Hell, grow back because of it.”
Mindy laid a hand on her husband’s powerful arm. “Reading is an expert at controlled burn-offs. He says if everybody would do it, the risk of fire would be almost eliminated.”
“True,” agreed R.J. “Except for in the more remote and forested areas. The fire isn’t as positive a thing there. And what we’re dealing with now is once again human intervention: people making bonfires and throwing trash and lit cigarettes out, or worse—arson. It’s not the same thing as the old lightning-strike burn-offs every few years. And now you’ve got this big subdivision right on the edge of the national forest land.”
As Greer watched R.J. speak, she saw a glow around his darkened face, a crimson and orange light, a color that signified extreme anger, though he kept his voice controlled, conversational.
Perhaps also sensing potential discord, Mindy spoke up. “Let’s not get into the pros and cons of the development tonight, gentlemen. It’s a party.”
The impending storm averted, the conversation turned to other things, including the upcoming Columbus Day parade, another subject on which R.J. had very distinct views.
“Columbus Day,” he scoffed with a disgusted shake of his handsome head. “Columbus was a slave trader who was directly responsible for the deaths of over eight million native people. He wiped out an entire race of West Indians, and we have actually created a national holiday for this bastard who didn’t even actually discover anything.”
Luke cleared his throat and muttered, “Here we go.” Then he waved his wineglass at R.J. and added, “Not that you’re not absolutely right, of course.”
“That can’t be true! Where did you hear that?” Mindy asked, shocked.
“There are firsthand accounts written by a missionary who was in the West Indies at the time. And the facts were backed up by Columbus’s own son in his personal journal when he took over his father’s ‘noble’ work,” Sterling told her. “We’re talking about public records. It was all business transactions to them at the time. They didn’t see any reason to suppress it.”
“Why isn’t this public knowledge?” Mindy’s expression clearly told the tale that this was the first she had heard any of this.
R.J.’s voice softened. He laid a hand on Mindy’s shoulder and said, “It is. Or rather, the information is out there, but it’s mostly ignored because people want to be proud of their heritage. So, they are understandably reluctant to teach their children that not all their ancestors came here in pursuit of happiness and freedom, that quite a few of them came for gold and slaves. And who wants to tell eight-year-olds that the so-called discoverer of their country committed genocide on a scale that made Hitler look like a school-yard bully? Would you?”
Mindy’s face had the same confused expression that Greer had seen on it in the salon, and then, in an instant, it solidified into something tougher and she said with conviction, “I would tell them the truth. You can’t teach them lies.”
Greer could see R.J.’s fingers tighten on Mindy’s shoulder in an affectionate squeeze. “That’s what I love about you. That, and the fact that you have such good taste in art,” he added, leaning in with a mischievous smile. “Speaking of which”—he straightened up again—“I see a few newcomers who need to have their walls redecorated.” With a wink and grin, he left them.
A small garage in the back corner of the garden had been refitted into a cozy painting studio. The French doors into the yard stood open, and several paintings rested on easels or were hung on the walls. The lights were on, and Greer and Sterling took it as an invitation to peruse the art. Excusing themselves, they drifted toward it.
The first canvas, lit by a small spot from overhead, was so beautiful that both Greer and Sterling took a deep, sighing breath in unison as they stopped in front of it. A creek bubbling over stones looked so full of motion and depth that Greer would have sworn the water was actually running. Over the stream, cottonwood trees in the first young green of spring dappled the sunlight on the water’s surface, and where the sun struck the water, it lit up the depth beneath, showing the many colors of last year’s fallen leaves.
“Oh my,” Sterling sighed. “I like this guy!”
“I have to have that,” Greer said. “Oh, I hope he hasn’t sold it. I just feel like I have to have that in my home.”
“We’ll corner him in a minute,” Sterling told her. “Don’t you have a birthday coming up?”
Greer looked him in the face very solemnly. “You cannot buy me that painting,” she told him severely.
“You’re not the boss of me,” Sterling said, a mischievous smile playing at the corners of his full mouth.
Greer’s eyes caught the glint of his, and she whispered, “That’s not what you said earlier tonight.”
Sterling’s strong hands reached out and encircled her waist. He pulled her up against him and pressed the small of her back with his palm, holding her firmly there. “I can give you anything I want,” he said.
His voice had gone soft and deep; Greer didn’t know how to respond, but she liked it. They stayed motionless for a moment, two pairs of green eyes, one set in crème satin and the other in polished mahogany, gazing into each other, caught up. Finally, sensing the presence of others, they broke away and moved on to the next painting.
This one was similar to the canyon view that Mindy owned. It was not the same canyon—this one was darker; only the very tops of the mountains were haloed in gold, as though touched by the first light of sunrise. It was beautiful but somehow harsher too, far more sparse and fo
reboding. Greer thought it looked vaguely familiar, as though she had seen the place from a different point of view, or in a different season.
Next to her, Sterling sighed again, but this sigh was filled with sorrow. “It sure doesn’t look like that anymore,” he said quietly.
“What do you mean?” Greer asked him.
“That’s the hillside site of the development, before they sliced off the top, cut steps into it, and covered it in man-made materials.”
“Oh,” Greer said. The grading of the mountainside had begun before she had moved into the area; she had never seen it in its raw beauty. She stepped closer to the painting with the feeling of approaching a memorial.
As Greer studied the painting, she felt the internal sway of an approaching premonition, as if her very skeleton had softened and undulated in a wave, though outwardly she remained still.
Stepping forward once again and releasing Sterling’s hand, she let go of the precise image and focused on the feeling welling up inside of her, willing herself to see.
There it was, just between the two main peaks of the hills in the foreground—an old-fashioned key, blackened by fire.
And then she stepped back as, with sudden violence, the entire hillside was engulfed in flame.
Chapter 20
Weston walked Leah to her car. It was a long walk for Leah, and as they went, she was forcibly reminded of an old print she had once seen in a psychiatrist’s office.
The black-and-white lithograph was a cartoon for a periodical in the eighteen hundreds, showing a stylized image of a mentally disturbed man. In the picture, the man, his face twisted in a grotesque grimace of tortured agony, fought against a dozen tiny demons, each drawn with evil intent on their dwarfed, malignant faces. One stabbed at the man with a hot brazier, another pulled ruthlessly at a rope fastened tight around his neck, others pinched or worked away with miniscule pickaxes and pitchforks. The print was an exaggerated impression of misunderstood mental anguish, but right now, as Weston walked beside Leah to where they had left her car, she felt she could relate. If only she could have spotted one of the miniature devils that seemed to be laboring so diligently to cause her distress, she would have snatched it up by the back of its scrawny little neck and drop-kicked it into the middle of traffic on Foothill Boulevard.
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