“Oh, God.” His voice was agonized, his face crumpled with shame.
“Shhh . . .” I touched his unshaved cheeks with my hands; my thumbs caressed his lips. “Shhh . . . it’s fine. You’re okay.”
“Querida, lo siento, lo siento . . .” he started, then choked, his words a wet garble in his throat. “I’m so sorry . . .”
“No, no, it’s okay.” I gently pushed him back down on the pillows. “Hush, it’s okay.” At the foot of the bed, Scout growled.
I crawled to the end of the bed. “Go to bed, Scout. Everything’s fine.”
I touched the top of my faithful dog’s broad head, stroking between his frightened eyes, reassuring him. He hesitated, not comprehending what had happened. I scratched underneath his chin, assured him again that everything was fine. He believed me and went back to his bed.
Gabe lay on his back, staring at the ceiling, a look of despair on his face so profound a sob filled my chest. We’d gone through this before, though not for a long time now. And never this violent. I’d read dozens of books and magazine articles. Post-traumatic stress. It could be set off by anything—fireworks, a car backfiring, the sound of a crying child, a remembered smell, a sniper’s bullet.
“I’m sorry . . .” he started, unable to look at me.
“Shhh . . .” I stroked his hair, his face, kissed him gently, told him I loved him. He turned his head, tried to speak. I kissed his apologies away. We could talk tomorrow.
“I love you,” I whispered, nuzzling his neck, the warm blade of his shoulder, the scent of his skin vinegar sharp with fear, sweet with adrenaline.
He pulled me to him, kissing me deeply; his tongue tasted of salt and of him, a taste as familiar to me as strawberries in May. He was back, the Gabe I knew. His rhythm and his words, the sweet words he whispered over me in the dark—“Querida, mi vida, mi corazon. Tu me completas. Te amo, te amo, te amo . . .”
His hands cupped my face, making me forget for a few breathless moments the physical throbbing of my bruised chest.
After we made love, he fell into a deep sleep, his breaths even, peaceful.
I lay awake, my chest aching, my heart filled with sadness, gratitude, fear, despair. I turned my head to watch my sleeping husband, this damaged man I loved, who seemed poised on a dangerous precipice, just out of my reach.
Lord, please come, I prayed, not knowing what else to ask. Come and see.
CHAPTER 5
SLEEP ELUDED ME UNTIL FOUR A.M. THE SCENT OF COFFEE WOKE me up at six forty-five. Gabe’s side of the bed was empty and cool, telling me he’d been awake for a while. My head felt like it was full of dandelion fluff. I couldn’t imagine how Gabe must be feeling.
He was already dressed for work and stirring a saucepan of oatmeal when I walked into the kitchen. From the outside, I couldn’t tell if what happened last night affected him at all.
“I’m meeting Isaac at the folk art museum today,” I said, sitting down at the kitchen table and picking up a glass of orange juice.
“About his book?” he said, not turning around.
“Yes, and I still need your interview.” We didn’t discuss what had happened last night. I learned early in our marriage how defensive Gabe was about his nightmares, how much they embarrassed him. His strategy? Pretend they never happen. If I brought it up, he’d change the subject or just walk away.
He poured oatmeal into two ceramic bowls. “What’s the subject again?”
“Home. What it means to you. Where you feel at home. Just whatever you want to say about home.”
He set the coffeepot on a wooden hot pad between us. “Do I have to write it down?” His expression was pained, like a schoolboy being told he had a report due on a book he didn’t want to read.
I sipped my orange juice. “No, I’ll ask the questions and write it down. It will be easy. Then Isaac wants to take your photo. He’s trying to get a variety of San Celina citizens.”
“We’ll see,” Gabe said, sitting across from me.
I kept sneaking glances when he bent his head to read the newspaper, wishing I could offer comfort, some words to make him feel better. Finally, I couldn’t stand it. “Are you okay?”
He looked up from the paper, gazing at me from over his gold wirerimmed reading glasses. “I’m fine. Why?”
Was he serious? I twirled my spoon in my oatmeal, my appetite gone.
“Who’s Carlos?”
His expression froze. The clink of my spoon against the side of my bowl seemed magnified in the quiet kitchen. I had broken our unspoken rule—never ask about Vietnam.
“Guy in ’Nam,” he said.
“A friend... ?”
“He was killed.”
“Do you . . .”
“I apologize for last night.” He folded the paper and set it next to his plate. “It won’t happen again.”
“It’s okay,” I said, instinctively touching the tender spot on my chest. He couldn’t guarantee that, but saying so would be pointless. “Do you want to go out to dinner tonight, or do you want me to cook?”
He looked down at the newspaper. The headline proclaimed “Sniper Attacks Police Cruiser!”
“A little dramatic,” I said, pointing to the paper. Right now, even talking about the sniper seemed less of a minefield than his bad dreams.
Gabe shrugged. “I’m not sure what my schedule is today. Everything is blown to heck with this sniper out there.”
“How about I call you at work later? I don’t know how much running around I’ll be doing with Isaac, so I might not have time to cook.”
“That’s fine.” He stood up, slipped on his suit jacket.
I went to him, straightened the already perfect Windsor knot of his black and gray diamond necktie. Did he realize that he telegraphed his emotions in his tie choice? No color today, as if any hint of color or brightness might reveal his uneven emotions. “You are unarguably the most handsome man in San Celina.”
“Tiny pond,” he said, not cracking a smile.
“You’d be the handsomest man even if we lived in New York City.” He brushed a kiss across my lips. “Te amo.” He held my gaze, his pupils like smooth black stones in an icy ocean. “Thank you.” He seemed to swallow the word. The shame in his eyes shredded my heart.
I touched his cool cheek. “De nada, Chief.”
After taking Scout for a walk, I headed for work. Isaac’s red Subaru Outback station wagon was already in the museum parking lot. I found him in the co-op charming the artists who’d come in early to finish pieces they would sell at the festival this weekend.
“Hey, Pops,” I said, stretching up to give him a hug. He stood six foot four without his hiking boots and smelled clean and fresh, like just-cut alfalfa. His long cotton-ball-colored braid rivaled Dove’s in length, reaching past his waist. “Did you take your photos of the folk art museum?” His plan had been to come early to photograph the museum’s buildings at sunrise.
“I did. I also photographed Mr. Boudreaux. I think they’ll be good ones.”
“Can’t wait to see them. I’ve done my interview with D-Daddy, just haven’t transcribed it yet. Where’re we off to today?”
“How much time can you spare? What with the festival . . .” His alert raisin brown eyes studied me.
“I’ve set aside the whole day for you. You and I planned this a long time ago. If anyone needs anything concerning the museum or the Memory Festival, they can call me on my cell.”
“Wonderful. We have an appointment with a fellow in Pismo Beach. Then I would like to photograph the Oceano Dunes, the old depot and the Cowgirl Café, where I proposed to your gramma. What do you think of that as an anniversary present?”
“I think she’d love it. Sounds like a full day.”
“If that’s too much . . .”
“Not at all. I’ve been looking forward to this day for weeks.” I linked his arm in mine. “We can keep going until you don’t like the light anymore. Do any of these places include interviews?”
&
nbsp; “Just the Pismo one. I thought we could really make some progress today. I’m anxious to get this book put together.”
“No problem. I assume we’re taking your Subaru. Want me to drive?”
“If you don’t mind.” His face, tanned brown as the pebbled leather cover of Dove’s old Bible, looked tired. But his alert dark eyes missed nothing. “Benni, are you feeling all right?”
The question caught me by surprise. I thought I’d hidden my troubled emotions well with my cheery conversation. “Just a little tired. The rain kept waking me up last night.” The lie skipped off my tongue as easy as spitting.
His expression told me he wasn’t buying my explanation, but he didn’t press me. Though Isaac might be the perfect person for me to discuss my anxieties about Gabe, I wasn’t ready to relive last night.
Inside the car, I adjusted the seat for my short legs. “Ready to roll, boss man. So, what’s the story behind our Pismo Beach guy?”
“His grandmother was a nurse who gave free health care to the Dunites back in the thirties. He lived with her for a little while and used to travel with her on her rounds.”
The Dunites had been a controversial community of people who’d started living in the Pismo Dunes back in the thirties, flourishing there until the last community member died in the early seventies. They’d been often called California’s first hippies.
“She probably told him some really cool stories,” I said.
“Hope so. His definition of home should be interesting. His answer to the ad I put in the newspaper was very intriguing.”
On the drive south on Interstate 101 to Pismo Beach we talked about the book. He was tossing around titles, still looking for the exact right one, though so far we hadn’t been able to think of anything better than “San Celina at Home.”
“I’ve completed sixteen interviews,” I said. “I have your list and will be doing more of them next week once the Memory Festival is over. I might be able to conduct a few of them during the festival.” I turned my head to smile at him. “Multitasking rocks.”
“It does, indeed.” He leaned his head back against the leather headrest, closed his eyes and gave a big sigh.
“Hard night?” I asked.
“Just thankful for a moment of quiet. With all the moving, building, switching things around these last six months at the ranch, it’s hard to find a peaceful spot to take a nap.”
Last summer my great-aunt Garnet, Dove’s only sibling, told us that her husband, my uncle WW, had been diagnosed with Parkinson’s disease. Everyone agreed that they should sell their house in Sugartree, Arkansas, and move to California. Their only son, Jake, had accepted a new job in Maine, but he didn’t know how long it would last.
When Aunt Garnet and Uncle WW moved out here, we also unanimously agreed that the ranch house needed an addition. The sisters supervised the construction. To everyone’s surprise, they worked in perfect harmony, having perfected the good cop, bad cop shtick. The contractors finished two weeks ahead of schedule, anxious to hightail it out of there. I couldn’t imagine why.
The addition to the four-bedroom ranch house I grew up in included a wheelchair-accessible bedroom, a roomy bathroom with a walk-in shower, a sitting room and even an apartment-size kitchen. The plan was that they’d live a completely independent life with the comfort of knowing that Dove, Daddy and Isaac were only a hallway and a closed door away.
I glanced over at Isaac. This project seemed to have affected him emotionally; he’d been less jovial and teasing lately. Maybe it was the subject—home, family, memories. I wondered about what memories he carried of his upbringing. We agreed from the onset that we’d both be subjects of this book—that he’d interview and photograph me and vice versa. So far, neither had happened. We’d been too busy with our other subjects.
Was he having as much difficulty figuring out how to photograph me as I was trying to decide how to interview him? Though our relationship was comfortable now, even loving, it had begun because of a sad incident in his life. He’d come to San Celina a few years ago to look into the murder of his granddaughter, Shelby, a budding photographer attending Cal Poly. Her grandma had been his fourth wife, and though he and Shelby hadn’t been related by blood, he’d known her since she was born and they’d had a special connection. Her murder had affected him deeply, I know, though he rarely spoke of it . . . or her.
During our “investigation” of Shelby’s murder he met Dove, fell in love and they married. Though initially I’d been suspicious of him, I’d grown to love him like a grandfather. Still, I wondered if it bothered him that, except for a few distant cousins, he had not one person in this world physically related to him. I glanced over at his face, golden brown from the sun, his silver and turquoise cross earring as familiar to me as his bear-size hands. I never knew his age until last year when Dove threw him an eighty-fourth birthday party. He would be eighty-five soon, though he didn’t look it. He claimed it was Dove who kept him a young buck.
A freeway sign announced Pismo Beach at the next exit. I glanced over at Isaac, wishing I didn’t have to disturb his nap. But we’d be there in a few minutes, and I had no idea where to find this person we were meeting.
He opened his eyes as I slowed down to take the turnoff to Pismo.
“Destination?” I asked.
“Harry’s Bar,” he replied, blinking his eyes.
That was a surprise. “Hmmm . . .”
He turned to look at me, one thick white eyebrow lifted. “What’s that mean?”
“Bit of a rough-and-tumble place.” I gave him a half smile. “Or so I’ve been told.”
He chuckled and tugged at his ear. “Actually, we’re meeting in front of the bar. He was going to be downtown anyway and said it would be easier if we followed him to his house. He said we’d know him by his unique vehicle.”
“What’s that mean?”
He shifted in the seat, pulled at his seat belt cross strap. “His name is Pete Kaplan. That’s I all know.”
Mr. Kaplan’s vehicle was indeed easy to spot. When we pulled right in front of Harry’s, the street quiet on this cold and foggy Tuesday morning, the old ’60s Volkswagen bus looked like something right out of a history book. It was a faded blue, green or gray—hard to distinguish—and was covered with hand-painted Day-Glo orange and yellow daisies and crooked peace symbols.
The man who opened the driver’s door when we pulled up also looked like someone from another era. He pulled off a navy knit cap showing a full head of curly, shoulder-length gray hair. With his silver-streaked beard, faded blue jeans and red and black tie-dyed T-shirt, Pete Kaplan could have played the part of the draft card–burning hippie in a Vietnam-era movie.
“Mr. Lyons?” he called, walking over to our car. His voice was as rich and smooth as the thrum of an oboe.
“Yes,” Isaac said, unfolding himself from the Subaru’s passenger seat. “It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Kaplan.”
The man smiled, revealing perfect white teeth that were either a lucky genetic break or totally fake. I briefly wondered if this guy, who appeared to be in his late fifties or early sixties, was one of those rich kids who lived off Mom or Dad’s money while living the free and “independent” life of a vagabond. Remembering what Gabe had gone through last night, I also wondered if this man had spent the Vietnam War in Canada or in a fancy college, saved from the draft by his parents’ connections.
“The pleasure is mine,” the man said. “Please call me Pete.”
“I’m Isaac, and this is my granddaughter, Benni. She is also my assistant.”
“Hello,” the man said, giving me an easy smile.
We all shook hands, and then I leaned against the Subaru, waiting for further instructions from Isaac. I’d assisted him often on his shoots and learned my job was to stand quietly to the side, fetching equipment when he requested it. When he took photographs of people, he never just jumped into the session. He always talked to them first, looking for—he told me once—their core, t
he essence that made them unique.
“Some hide it better than others,” he’d told me once. “That doesn’t make them more interesting, just more difficult to find. People often mistake brooding or silence for depth. The truth is we are all deep. All humans have sorrows and joys, beauty and ugliness, gut-wrenching memories that both enrich and shame them. My job is to show their humanity honestly, without artifice. Sometimes that means showing not only who the person is, but who they aren’t.”
That was why I loved going out in the field with Isaac. I always learned something about photography and about life.
After a few moments of conversation with Pete Kaplan, Isaac came back over to me.
“We’re going to follow him to his house. He said you could do his interview next week. I explained to him about your schedule this week.”
“Thanks,” I said. “This week is definitely a killer.”
When we arrived at Mr. Kaplan’s house, I realized that I had not been far off. He obviously wasn’t hurting for money. It was a beautifully restored California Mission–style bungalow perched on a cliff overlooking the ocean. Even I could tell it was worth a lot of money. His living room boasted a huge picture window, its view of the sea like a constantly changing painting. His overstuffed leather sofa and chairs felt expensive and buttery soft. He served us cappuccinos from a fancy brass and silver Espresso machine in the kitchen. The freshly ground coffee beans scented the airy room with a sweet, nutty smell. The plain white walls of his living room were bare except for a large oil painting over the natural stone fireplace of a rustic cabin nestled among sand dunes.
After sitting down across from us, he started to tell us his story.
“The summer before my senior year in high school . . .”
I interrupted. “Excuse me, but is it okay if I take some notes?” I pulled a steno pad out of my backpack. “That way you won’t have to repeat yourself next week.”
“Absolutely,” he replied. “That summer I was seventeen I lived with my grandmother. My parents were having troubles that summer, and they didn’t know what to do with me. Grandma Jack was my dad’s mother. Her name was Jacqueline Martha Kaplan. She’d been a combat nurse in World War II and was as tough as they come. That’s where she acquired the nickname Jack. She and my mother never got along. Grandma Jack’s bohemian lifestyle rankled Mother. The one thing they had in common was they both loved me. Those three months living here in Pismo and going out on rounds with Grandma Jack changed my life. Grandma Jack treated me like an adult, listened to my opinions. She taught me that I had a right, a duty, actually, to follow my heart, to live the life I wanted to live, not the one planned for me by my mother and father.”
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