“Looks lovely,” she murmured, turning her head to look out the window.
We drove down Templeton’s Main Street, past the grain tower and Templeton Feed and Grain. I pointed out the bakery that baked incredible chocolate chip scones, the steak house that had won culinary awards for their tri-tip, the little hardware store where the staff were retired ranchers whose collective expertise had impressed an LA Times reporter enough to write a feature about them. At the end of the street, the Templeton Stock Auction buildings appeared to our right. The auction yards were closed today, but Hoover’s Beef Palace Café was open.
“That’s where the locals eat,” I said, glancing at my watch. “Are you hungry?”
“As my daddy used to say, I could eat,” she said, smiling.
I laughed and pulled into the crowded parking lot. “Yeah, my daddy says that too. Where did you say your father was from?”
“I don’t think I did say. Actually, he was born and raised in Mississippi.”
“My dad’s an Arkie. They’re practically cousins. I hope you’re not a vegetarian?” I said when we reached the porch of the small café in front of the auction buildings. “If so, we can eat somewhere else. Paso has some good restaurants.”
“Bring on the beef.”
I waved to Sandy, one of the regular servers, and she brought over two menus. We both ordered open-faced, rib-eye steak sandwiches with French fries. While waiting for our lunch, I pointed out the wall of photographs of local ranchers dressed in suits and white cowboy hats.
“Those are all Cattlemen of the Year,” I told her. “My dad was 1987. It was the highlight of his life.”
She smiled. “You’re proud of him.”
I nodded. “He taught me everything I know about cattle and ranching. He taught me to ride and how to train a green horse. He’s quiet, but a rock, you know?”
Her face relaxed slightly. “He sounds a lot like my dad. There’s days I miss him so much I ache. He was a big hunter. Taught me to shoot when I was six.”
She looked around at the counter with the blue stools, almost every one occupied by men in Wranglers and straw cowboy hats. One wall was decorated with wooden plaques the size of license plates with local families’ cattle brands burned into the glossy wood. Another wall held photos of famous local bulls. Thick white coffee mugs advertised the café and local businesses. “This is very authentic.”
“As Western as it gets,” I said. “A small town within a small town. Every rancher in San Celina County comes here at least once or twice a month.”
“I like it,” she replied. “In a strange way, it reminds me of the clubs on a military base. Kind of safe, you know? Where people know who you are.”
Once they brought our food, we were quiet for a moment while we settled into eating.
She cut a small piece of steak and looked up at me. “Are you still close to your father?”
I finished chewing, then said, “Yes, I see him and my gramma Dove two or three times a week. Dove is Daddy’s mom.”
She put her fork back down on her plate. “Losing a mother so young is hard, isn’t it?”
“Yes, but Dove was a great substitute. I would be crazy to shake my fist at God. I’ve really been very blessed.”
“That’s a wonderful attitude. Are you and Gabe going to have children?”
I stared at her a moment, suddenly uncomfortable with her probing questions. Was she interrogating me? Though I didn’t want to go there, the vague thought that she had an ulterior motive made me wary.
“How did you end up in Seattle?” I asked, deciding to turn the tables.
She picked up her fork again. “Oh, like you said about your husband, in a roundabout way. I followed a boy to San Francisco in the early ’70s. Lived there for a while. Took some history classes at UC Berkeley. Married the boy. Divorced him and then went back to college. Changed my major from history to accounting because I wanted to actually find a job that paid me enough money to live.”
I gave a half smile at her comment and my own paranoia. She wasn’t interrogating me. She was just being friendly.
“What?” She touched her chest with her fingers. There were still traces of clay beneath one nail.
“I majored in history.”
Her cheeks blushed a dull red. “I’m sorry . . .”
I cut into my steak. Juice pooled around the sourdough bread slice, turning it a brownish red. “No, you’re exactly right. My degree didn’t do squat to get me a job. I worked as a waitress in a truck stop café after college when my first husband and I needed the money for his family ranch, but that’s about the extent of my formal employment.”
“But your job as a museum curator. It’s perfect for a history major!”
I smiled. “Yes, but I only landed it because my gramma has so much influence in this town. After my first husband, Jack, died in an auto accident, I was floundering. Dove pulled some strings. I think it started out as busywork because the museum was just getting started. The co-op was added to give the museum some, I don’t know, legitimate reason for being there? My suspicion is both the museum and co-op started out being a big tax write-off for Constance Sinclair.”
“Your patron of arts, I’ve heard.”
“Yes. The hacienda belonged to her family. She’s a descendant of one of the original Spanish land grant families. Anyway, she and my gramma . . . well, they’re not friends, but they have lots of philanthropic interests in common.” I shook my head, remembering. “It was something Dove had arranged to jolt me out of my depression, but it ended up being a great job.”
The café door opened, and we both turned to look at the large group of laughing people who walked in. I waved at two of the ladies who were members of the Cattlewomen’s Association. I turned back to face Lin.
“It’s always been a part-time job, at least pay-wise. There’s no way I could support myself on what I make. I do receive a small income from my cattle herd that I keep at my dad and gramma’s ranch, but before I married Gabe, I was barely scraping by. I’m afraid now I’m a bit of a kept woman.”
“Lucky you,” she said. “I do mean that sincerely. Though with his job as police chief I’m sure you have a lot to do as his wife.”
“Being a police chief’s wife was certainly more complicated than I realized it would be when we got married.” I picked up a French fry, inspecting it before dipping it in ketchup. “Then again, we didn’t know each other long before we got married, so we both had lots of surprises.”
“How long did you date?”
“I’m almost embarrassed to say. We knew each other only four months before we got married.”
She sipped her iced tea. “You courted after you were wed.” “That about sums it up.”
“How long have you been married?”
“Five years. Hard to believe sometimes.”
“Good for you. Sometimes short relationships can be very intense, can change us for life, but it’s not often that they turn into something long-term.”
I tilted my head and looked at her without answering. It seemed such an odd thing to say.
She pushed her plate back. “This is delicious, but I ate such a big breakfast.” Her cheeks were pale; her voice strained. She hadn’t eaten more than a bite or two.
“Are you okay?” I asked, taking my napkin from my lap, ready to help her to the bathroom.
She held up a trembling hand. “I’m just getting over a little bout of flu. Please, excuse me for a moment.” She stood up, faltered a little, gripped the edge of the table. “Really, I’ll be fine.”
I watched her walk toward the restrooms in back. She didn’t look fine to me. I’d give her five minutes, then check on her.
She was back in a few minutes, composed and breathing more evenly. “I’m so sorry, Benni. I think I’m just a little shaky.”
I stood up, picking up my jacket and purse. “I can take you home right now.”
“No, please. I think if we just drive and not get out anywhere, I�
��ll be okay.”
I hesitated, not certain if I should take her word for it.
She laid a hand on my forearm. “I know how precious your time is and this free afternoon is rare for you. I want to continue our tour.”
“Okay,” I said, uncertainly.
“Let me pay for our lunch since I ruined it,” she said.
She overrode my protests, so I let her pay.
When we stepped out of the café, a loud shoop-shoop-shoop filled the air. Lin’s head jerked up.
“It’s just helicopters,” I said in a loud voice. “They’re probably flying out of Vandenberg Air Force Base.”
She gave a nervous laugh. “Sorry, it just caught me by surprise.”
On the drive up to Paso Robles, we stuck to trivial subjects—the weather in the different parts of San Celina County, the best places to buy produce, where the good cafés were. We drove through the treelined streets of Paso Robles, admiring the old Victorians and the small bungalows that made up “old” Paso. She exclaimed over the quaint downtown with the vaguely mission-style Paso Robles Inn and the redbrick Carnegie Library. Like the almost identical Carnegie Library in San Celina, it belonged to the local historical society. The modern new library sat within eyeshot of the original. We drove around the newer neighborhoods, and I pointed out the million-dollar mini-McMansions that now surrounded the town.
“Interesting mix of new and old,” she commented. Once she was settled into the truck, her color seemed to return, though I could tell that the day was starting to wear on her by the strained skin around her bright blue eyes.
“Yes, it is. Paso Robles is definitely torn between the old ranchers and townspeople versus the ‘city folk’ who have a lot of disposable income to support the businesses owned by the ranchers and longtime citizens. It’s an uneasy marriage, but seems to be working, for now.”
“How is Paso Robles different from San Celina?”
I rolled my eyes heavenward. “Let me count the ways. In a nutshell, San Celina’s a tad more liberal, what with the college and all. Paso is still, even with the addition of the city folk moving in, more rural. Still quite a few working ranches up here, though the wine people are rapidly becoming a force to be reckoned with in the ag community. The weather is milder in San Celina. In Paso, when it’s hot, it can be blistering. When it’s cold, it’ll turn your bones to chunks of ice.”
“I’ve lived in a place with extremes. It can be daunting. But exhilarating too, in a masochistic sort of way.”
We pulled back onto Interstate 101 and took curvy Highway 46 over the hills to the coast. When we hit the summit, I pulled over. From this vantage point, you could see the rolling emerald hills, dotted with dark green oaks and the deep blue line of the Pacific Ocean in the distance. I had always felt like heaven would look exactly like this spot.
“Oh, my,” she said, stepping out of the truck. The rain had softened to a fine mist. “This is breathtaking.”
“Yes, it is,” I said, feeling pride though I had nothing to do with its beauty. “It’s even impressive in the summer when the hills are brown and tan, but in the spring, well, what can I say?” I leaned against the side of my truck. The cold, wet metal permeated my jeans.
Highway 46 ended at Pacific Coast Highway. A right turn would take us into the artsy town of Cambria, and a left turn south to Cayucos and Morro Bay, and eventually back to San Celina. After a quick drive through downtown Cambria, we headed south on Pacific Coast Highway.
I glanced at my watch. “I wish we could take the time to go through Cayucos and Morro Bay, but it’s already four o’clock, and I have to be somewhere at six.”
I had a meeting with the Coffin Star Quilt Guild at Oak Terrace Retirement Home. Normally our meetings took place during the day, but this meeting was a special one before the Memory Festival this Saturday. The ladies had been working on a quilt for the festival. It would be a silent auction item with the money going to the upkeep of the World War II veterans memorial in San Celina City Park. We planned on finishing it tonight.
“Oh, Benni, I’m sorry to take up so much of your time.” She appeared genuinely distressed.
“No problem. It was a lucky break that my afternoon was free.”
“I hope I’m not keeping you from a date with your husband.”
“No, that’s not it.” I told her about the Coffin Star Quilt Guild and our quilt. “Though I wish it were with Gabe; he’s been working triple time, what with this sniper out there shooting at police officers. I’m sure you’ve heard about it.”
She nodded. “Yes, it’s all over the news. It’s quite disconcerting.”
I quickly defended our town. “Nothing like this has ever happened here in San Celina. Gabe and his team will catch the person.”
“I’m sure they will. It must be very upsetting to your husband.”
“Yes, but Gabe’s handling it like he does everything, logically and carefully.”
“Like a true marine,” she said, smiling.
I smiled back. “Isn’t that the truth?”
We drove back to the folk art museum, and I dropped her off at her car.
It was only after I was halfway to Oak Terrace, while singing along with an old Tanya Tucker CD—“. . . some kind of trouble . . .”—that it occurred to me.
I’d never told her that Gabe had been a marine.
CHAPTER 8
ABOUT THREE SECONDS LATER, I QUESTIONED MY OWN MEMORY. What had I said, exactly, about his military service? I remembered telling her he joined the service when he was eighteen and went to Vietnam. Had I mentioned he was a marine? I didn’t think so, but I couldn’t swear to it in a court of law. Though I didn’t want to think it, my brain instantly started assessing everything about Lin Snider—her age, her backstory, that last bit of personal information about Gabe. Was she someone from his past? Another ex-lover wanting to rekindle a relationship? Was I doomed to repeat this same scenario as long as Gabe and I were married?
While waiting at Stern’s Bakery to purchase two dozen chocolate cherry chip brownies, a favorite of the Coffin Star ladies, my mind quickly replayed the day with Lin Snider, searching for other words that seemed suspect.
I hated this distrusting trait in myself and consciously tried to suppress it. But I’d acquired it out of defense. Being married to a man with a complicated past, one that had winnowed its way into our present life more than once, had changed how I viewed everything.
The line at Stern’s was long, and everyone’s order seemed to be inordinately complicated. I shifted from one foot to the other, wishing it would hurry, wishing I knew someone in line so I could talk about the weather; how, as always, the students were driving the locals crazy; how I thought the Memory Festival would fare this weekend.
Anything to keep my mind from shifting back to the past, to a memory triggered by Lin Snider’s comment. About another woman named Del. Gabe’s ex-partner. Gabe’s ex-lover.
In the privacy of the old Carnegie Library garden where underneath an ancient pepper tree I’d received my first grown-up kiss from Jack, I confronted Gabe with what I’d learned about his dinner with Del.
“What’s the big deal?” Gabe said, his voice rising in anger, telling me I was smart to find a private place for us to have this conversation. “Don’t people in this pathetic little town have anything better to do than gossip about innocent dinners between old partners?”
“Innocent dinners take place where people can see them,” I said.
“Benni, I’m telling you nothing happened.”
“Yet.”
He glared at me, his eyes a blazing blue against his brown skin. “Is that what you think of me? That I’m a person with so little self-control?”
I stared up at him, silent for a moment, then said, “Just tell me one thing. Are you still in love with her?”
His face looked shocked for a moment, then grew still. Not a muscle moved. Around us, a mockingbird flew from the pepper tree to the edge of the museum’s roof to an old M
artha Washington rosebush that was taller than me. His song was filled with distress and territorial anger and, I knew, a little bit of fear.
Finally, Gabe said in a voice low, rough, agonized. “I don’t know.”
“Next!” the counter clerk at Stern’s Bakery called out, bringing me back to the present. “What would you like, ma’am?”
After buying the cherry chocolate brownies, I headed for Oak Terrace, my mind still dissecting the day with Lin. Was she someone, like Del, from Gabe’s past? Had she and Gabe been lovers? It was not something I liked to dwell on, how many women he’d been with before me. But, sometimes, his past reared up, like a mythical dragon lolling in a cave, attacking when you least expected it.
BY THE TIME I REACHED THE RETIREMENT HOME PARKING LOT fifteen minutes later, I concluded that my mind was lost somewhere along Interstate 101. Was I crazy? One slightly suspicious comment, and I had created a romantic scenario between my husband and Lin Snider. And the truth was, Gabe had rejected Del’s advances three years ago and had never given me any reason since to think anything except that he loved me and was happy in our marriage.
Still, a niggling little voice inside my head prodded: What if she was the person poking around the Harper Ranch and why did she ask you so many personal questions and how does she know he was a marine?
Why didn’t I just ask if she’d been out at the Harper Ranch? She probably had a logical explanation. I was making a mystery out of a molehill.
Wait and see. That was an adage that Gabe usually took with a situation when he didn’t have enough evidence to act. Before undercover narcotics, he’d worked homicide.
“Sometimes,” he’d once said to me about a stalled homicide investigation that was frustrating his detectives, “you simply have to wait for something to happen. You put out feelers, you gather information, you poke all the participants . . . then you wait. If something doesn’t happen . . . you start poking again. If you’re lucky, eventually someone talks or reacts.”
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