“You know college kids. They adore absurdity. This is a happening place, I’ve been told.” He put a finger over his lips. “We can’t tell my lovely wife we were drinking at the competition, but I figure less chance of people we know overhearing us here.”
“Good idea.” I took off my denim jacket and hung it across the ladder-back chair. The coffeehouse was decorated in what might be described Tropical Hollywood Junkyard. The mismatched tables and chairs were painted bright reds, blues and yellows. Every cheesy Hawaiian and Tijuana trinket you could imagine hung on the walls—banged-up surfboards, red clay suns and moons that they sold at Cost Plus, Beach Blanket Bingo movie posters and way too many coconut shells with comical sand dollar ears and painted faces.
Emory bought me a Mexican hot chocolate and a large coffee for himself. They came in soup bowl–size mugs. “Here’s a plethora of sugar and chocolate to sustain you. Now tell Uncle Emory all your problems.”
I sighed and propped my elbows on the red table. Around us the bluesy music was low and inviting, and people’s conversations were far enough away to be a comforting murmur. “Gabe’s not reacting well to this sniper attack.”
“Completely understandable. I can’t imagine what he’s going through trying to figure out where this nutcase might hit next.”
“It’s more than that. He’s having trouble sleeping.”
Emory loosened his tie. “Insomnia?”
I shook my head no, wondering if I should have just kept my mouth shut. Emory had been my best friend since we were kids playing in Aunt Garnet’s attic back in Sugartree, but it was awkward telling even him about something so personal. If Gabe found out I mentioned this to anyone, he would be humiliated and ashamed. I wrapped my hands around the wide, yellow mug. The heat burned my palms just enough to feel comforting.
Emory leaned across the table and covered my hands with his. His palms were dry and cool, their touch familiar. “This is Emory, your best friend in this whole wide wicked world. You can tell me anything.”
I looked up and inhaled deeply. “I’m sorry, it’s not really that dramatic. He’s having nightmares again. The other night he accidentally . . . he sort of . . . hit me.” I mumbled the last two words, my heart vibrating like a dentist’s drill.
Emory bolted upright, his nostrils flaring in anger. “He what?”
“Please, don’t overreact,” I said, tears stinging my eyes. “He was half asleep . . . he didn’t even realize where he was . . .”
His furious expression told me he was not appeased. “Where did he hit you?”
“On my chest.” My hand hovered over the spot above my heart. “Really, it’s just a surface bruise. It’s not that bad. I wasn’t even going to tell him. But he saw it when I was getting undressed for bed last night.” I picked up my mug with both hands and took a long drink.
“When did he hit you?”
“Accidentally hit me,” I said, gesturing with my hand for him to lower his voice despite the fact that no one was even paying attention to us. “Monday night.”
He gripped his own mug, his knuckles pale. “The first sniper attack was Monday afternoon.”
“When he saw the bruise last night, he . . .” I swallowed, embarrassed to continue. I trusted my cousin, but it still felt like I was being disloyal to Gabe. “He was so upset. At himself, not me.”
“Sounds like a post-traumatic stress reaction.”
I nodded. “I’m sure the sniper attack brought it on. I’ve done some research about what triggers it.”
“Has this ever happened before?”
“He’s had nightmares before—maybe half a dozen times since we’ve been married. I’ve always been able to wake him up. This time it was really hard. And this is the first time he’s reacted . . . that way.”
Emory stared down into his coffee cup. “Has he ever gotten professional help?”
“He’s talked to Father Mark and to Pastor Mac, but I’m not sure how deeply. But he’s never seen an actual therapist or a doctor. We talked about it once, but he never followed through. Being a cop, he’s sensitive about the issue. And it could become public knowledge.” I didn’t have to say how disastrous that could be.
Emory raised his eyebrows. “The infamous permanent record.”
“Yeah, except in his case, it’s true. There are people here in the county who’d love to find some reason to pronounce he’s not fit for the position of police chief.” I looked down at the melting whipped cream, feeling too sick to drink any more. “Besides, you know how intensely private he is. If anyone found out, it would humiliate him. That’s why I haven’t told anyone, not even Dove.”
Emory’s voice was ragged. “Benni, what can I do for you?”
“What you’re doing, listen.”
“Keep in mind, any doctor Gabe talks to is bound by ethics to keep his confidence.”
“Yes, but doctors have receptionists and office staff. He’d have to pass by other people in the building. If we claim it on our insurance, there’s a record.”
“He could find a doctor out of town.”
“I have argued those points with him, believe me. I know those are all the excuses he uses to avoid it. But I can’t make him go if he doesn’t want to.” I pushed aside my half-finished drink. “I should let you get back to work. Thanks for listening to me vent.”
Emory stood up, helped me with my jacket. “I feel like I didn’t do anything except buy you something to drink.”
“You listened. Sometimes that’s the best thing a friend can do.”
We walked outside where the sky had turned steel gray.
“Looks like another storm is brewing,” I said, looking up. “I can’t say I’m unhappy about it. We need the grass. The hills are already so green I almost have to wear sunglasses.”
“Typical El Niño year,” Emory said.
I couldn’t help smiling. “Listen to you, sounding like a native Californian with your fancy-pants El Niño weather talk.”
By the time we parted ways at the stairwell leading up to his office, the rain had turned into a steady downpour.
“You and Gabe still need to come over for some ribs,” Emory said. “My barbecue’s all put together now and working like a dream.” We’d moved under the awning, but the wind was blowing the rain sideways. He flinched when a rain blast hit the side of his face.
I gave a small laugh. “Looks like we’ll have to wait until the sun comes back out.”
He kissed my cheek. “Sunny weather is just around the corner, I promise. Call me if you need anything.”
In the ten minutes it took me to drive to the folk art museum, the rain turned into a deluge. At the museum, there were only four cars in the parking lot. One was Lin’s gray Ford sedan, which, I noticed, still had a broken taillight, though she’d patched it with red tape. Though I don’t know why, I felt compelled to write down her license plate number.
“You know, you’re just looking for something to think about other than your own problems,” I said aloud as I wrote the number on the only paper I could find in my purse, my checkbook register.
I checked the front door to make sure it was locked. The museum was closed on Wednesdays unless we had a special tour. It was also one of D-Daddy’s days off, so the building felt especially deserted. His cheerful whistling of upbeat Cajun songs had become a dependable museum staple. Around back, the co-op building door was open. Conversation and laughter overflowed from both the woodworking room and the alcove off the great room where we kept our two pottery wheels. The great room, where the quilters normally set up their quilting frames, was empty.
In the pottery alcove, both wheels were in use. Lin Snider worked the smaller one, wearing a snug gray T-shirt and stained blue jeans. She was even thinner than I’d first thought, since the two other times I’d met her she’d been wearing a jacket or a thick sweater. Bonnie, one of our regular potters, worked the larger wheel.
“Hey, ladies,” I said, holding up my hand. “Nice day for pelicans.”
“I love it,” Bonnie said. “Takes me back to my childhood days in Portland. I’m part duck, you know.”
Lin just smiled, not stopping her wheel, her hands expertly forming the smooth wall of a pot.
Back in my office, I puttered around, filing a few things, dusting my desk and bookcases. For once I was caught up on all my paperwork and really didn’t have a lot to do except deal with the four messages concerning the Memory Festival. They all were easy and taken care of in twenty minutes. It felt strange being caught up with a free afternoon stretched out in front of me.
I called Elvia at the bookstore. “Hey, little mama. How was my goddaughter’s checkup?”
“She’s right on schedule,” Elvia said.
“So, anything at the bookstore you need my help with? I’ve got a completely free afternoon.”
“No, it’s very quiet here today. Everyone must have stayed home. You know cowardly Californians and rain. We duck and cover until the sun comes back out.”
“Ain’t that the truth. I can’t believe I have a free afternoon with nothing to do. Maybe I’ll go home and take a nap.”
“That sounds heavenly. I may do that myself if it stays this slow.”
“Okay, see you mañana.”
The rain on the roof pounded harder, like a platoon of raccoons performing war maneuvers overhead. The weather outlook for this Saturday didn’t look promising. How many exhibitors would cancel if it was raining this hard? How many people would decide to stay home and watch movies? Maybe having this festival in March wasn’t the best idea in the world. The problem was, there weren’t many free spots left on San Celina County’s crowded events schedule.
A swoosh of wind rattled my office’s small window.
“Yikes,” I commented out loud.
“Indeed,” Lin agreed from the doorway.
“Hey.” I twirled my chair around to face her. “Is the wheel working okay? Any leaks in the ceiling?”
“Yes and no,” she said, laughing. “Tell me, how often does San Celina have weather like this?”
“Not real often. This is real Pacific Northwest weather.”
She chuckled. “Then I should feel right at home. I’m from Seattle.”
“I apologize for any crazy drivers. Californians do not know how to drive in the rain.”
“Nor do many from Seattle.” She smiled and wiped her palms down the sides of her jeans. “My two hours are up. I have a question. Do you fire pots here?”
I opened my side drawer and took out the price sheet. “We have a small kiln out back. They fire once a week unless there’s a bigger demand, like around holidays. The dates they fire are on the sheet.”
“Got it.” She folded the sheet into fourths and stuck it in her back pocket.
There was a moment of silence. The rain on the roof slowed to a steady thrum.
She glanced up at the ceiling, then back at me. “I know the weather’s kind of bad, but you’d said you could possibly show me around San Celina. Are you free any time soon?”
“Actually, I’m free right now.” The minute the words were out of my mouth, I regretted them.
“Great!” She looked down at her clay-stained clothing. “I brought a change of clothes. I can be ready in a few minutes.”
“No hurry.” I watched her walk out, wanting to slap myself in annoyance. Why was I giving up a rare free afternoon to give a stranger a tour of our county? Maybe because I was still feeling a little guilty about my inhospitable moment with her in Liddie’s.
Too late now. I would have to make the best of it.
“What are you interested in seeing?” I said once we settled in my truck. “San Celina County is pretty diverse. North county is hilly ranch land, there’s the coastal towns, wine country, even a kind of deserty plains out in east county. What type of situation are you looking to live in?”
She fiddled with the dark blue cashmere scarf she had wrapped around her neck in an intricate, fashionable knot that Elvia could probably name. “Oh, I don’t know. I just keep thinking I’ll know the place if I see it. How long have you lived here in San Celina? Are you a native?”
“Sort of.”
She gave a low, pleasant laugh. “That’s vague.”
I pulled onto Interstate 101 heading north. “Let’s work from the top of the county down. I’ll show you Paso Robles, which has become a popular place for people to retire and then swing over on Highway 46 to the coast. You might like Cambria. It’s a pretty little town that has a real artistic feel.”
“I’m in your hands,” she said, pulling a small notebook out of her leather purse. “I’ll take notes.”
“Have you been to the Chamber of Commerce?”
“I did that right away. A woman named Cyndi was a big help. I always send away for literature before I visit a place, then check the computer to see if the county has a website. So I do have a general idea about the places you’re talking about.”
“Cyndi Silva is amazing. No one knows this county better than she does. She and I went to Cal Poly together.” I laughed. “Then again, I could say that about half the people in San Celina County.”
Her expression was thoughtful. “That must be comforting.”
I didn’t answer, not certain what to say. I’d actually never thought about it in that particular way.
“Have you checked out a lot of other places?”
She turned to look out the window. “About seven or eight. Finding a home, the right home, is . . . well, it isn’t as easy as it might seem.”
Her choice of words startled me silent. I’d never doubted where home was, where I would spend my entire life. Even when Gabe and I married, we didn’t discuss where we’d live. It went without saying that it would be in San Celina. His job was here and, well, it was my home.
But, a little voice inside me asked, what if he lost his job? Did that ever occur to you? What if he wanted to leave San Celina? Could you? Would you?
“Were you born in Seattle?” I asked.
There was a second of hesitation before she answered. “No, I was born in Illinois, where my mother was from. But I think I told you, my dad was in the army and we moved often. I haven’t had any family in Illinois for years. My father died when I was in college. My mother died when I was five years old. Both my parents were only children and so was I.” Her words didn’t hold one ounce of self-pity that I could detect.
I stared at her a moment. “I’m so sorry. I understand, I mean, about your mother. Mine died when I was six and I’m an only child too.”
“So you know what it’s like to be alone.”
I didn’t answer, hoping that it appeared I was in tacit agreement. Truthfully, I had so many cousins, extended family members and friends like Elvia with large families who’d always accepted me as one of their own that I’d never felt alone. The sadness of her situation floored me.
“You said you were and weren’t a native to San Celina,” she continued. “What did you mean?”
Safe emotional territory. I grabbed for it immediately. “I was actually born in Arkansas, but my parents came to San Celina when I was a toddler, so I don’t really remember living anywhere else.” I smiled at her and took the next exit. “I’m going to swing through Templeton. It’s where we bring our cattle to auction. Many people probably don’t know that there are still working ranches in California and that we’re actually the biggest agricultural state in the union.”
“I didn’t realize that. What about your husband? He’s San Celina’s police chief, right? Does he like his job? Is he a native?”
“Yes, Gabe is San Celina’s chief of police. He’s not from here.” I braked to let a group of schoolkids cross the street. It looked like they were heading for the stock auction buildings. It reminded me of a field trip our third grade class took to the Templeton Stock Auction. I’d been disappointed because I went there once or twice a month with Daddy to eat at Hoover’s Beef Palace Café in front of the pens and watch the cattle being auctioned off s
o it didn’t feel like a real field trip to me. “I guess he likes his job most of the time. I think sometimes we Californians might drive him crazy. He’s from Kansas.”
“Really? What part?”
“Derby. It’s a town about fifteen miles south of Wichita.”
She nodded while we watched the children meander across the street, the little girls holding hands, the boys pushing and shoving each other. “I’ve been to that part of Kansas. It’s lovely. Midwestern people are very kind, I’ve found. More, I don’t know, dependable than . . .” Then she caught herself. “Oh, my, I didn’t mean to imply that . . .”
I waved a hand at her. “I know what you mean. Yes, Gabe is definitely dependable and it is real pretty around Derby.”
“How’d he end up here in San Celina?”
The last child—a raven-haired boy in a red-striped T-shirt—crossed the street. He turned to wave at us. I waved back. “Like how many people get places, by accident, fate, God’s providence, whatever you want to call it. After high school, he joined the service and served in Vietnam. After his tour was up, he went to visit his uncle Tony in Southern California and stayed for a while. He applied at the Los Angeles Police Academy and worked for LAPD. About six years ago he took the job as San Celina’s police chief.”
It was a condensed version of Gabe’s life. When Gabe was sixteen, his dad died and Gabe started going wild. His mother sent him to live with Uncle Tony, his dad’s older brother. When he turned eighteen, Gabe joined the marines and went to Vietnam. Once he came home, he applied to the LAPD, eventually working undercover narcotics in East LA. He married, had a son, got divorced. He was also single with lots of other female relationships for more years than I liked to think about. Then he came to San Celina.
“Vietnam,” Lin said softly. “I had some good friends who served there. They were never the same after they came home. Is Gabe okay?”
“Yes,” I said, a little taken aback by her personal question. “It was a long time ago.”
“Time is relative with things like that.”
“Suppose so.” My voice sounded more curt than I intended, but I didn’t want to discuss Gabe’s Vietnam years with a virtual stranger, even if I did sympathize with her situation. Changing the subject, I quickly went into tour guide mode. “Templeton’s still a quiet little country town, but it’s getting kind of upscale now too. There’s a new neighborhood of custom-built homes over by the freeway. It might be a smart place to buy a house right now.”
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