Fifteen minutes later I was driving down Main Street in Morro Bay. Since it was a Friday morning in March—not a premier time for tourists—I had no problem finding a place to park on the Embarcadero. I walked a block enjoying the cool, damp air, watching the fishermen work on their boats. There were still a few families who made their living by fishing, though, like cattle ranching, it was becoming a part of the bucolic past in this town that was built on commercial fishing. I decided to have breakfast in a new coffeehouse called Bertie’s Bad Beans. It reminded me of the coffeehouse Emory and I went to a few days ago. Was advertising bad coffee a popular trend in coffeehouse marketing these days? I went inside the pink clapboard building and was pleasantly surprised to find an extensive bakery selection. I ordered a large coffee and chose an almond croissant and a cherry turnover. Unlike Gabe, who reacts to stress by losing his appetite, I react by craving food, specifically sugar and carbs.
There were only two other people in the coffeehouse besides the young man who worked the counter. Neither of them knew me. I looked at my watch. It was almost seven thirty. I took a chance and, hoping they weren’t asleep, called Elvia and Emory’s house.
“Did I wake you?” I asked when Emory answered.
“We have a baby, sweetcakes,” he said with a sigh. “Remember? Miguel had a quiet night.”
“Yes, I know. Gabe called the hospital first thing this morning.”
“Elvia came home at six a.m. after she took her mama home. Papa Aragon took over the day watch along with Gilberto and Jose. Ramon is still there. He’s the only one who won’t throw out his back sleeping on the waiting room sofa.” Ramon was the youngest of the six Aragon sons. “Looks like Miguel is going to be fine.”
Hearing those words again, I felt my tight stomach start to relax. “Tell Elvia I’ll drop by the hospital sometime today. I imagine it’s quite an ordeal to get in to see him.”
“Security is tight, but you shouldn’t have any problems. They’ll clear you at the front desk.”
“Is Elvia available?”
“She’s taking a shower. Want her to call you?”
“No, tell her to get some sleep. I’ll call her later.”
“Stay safe.”
“It’s not me they’re after.”
Once I heard Miguel was doing well, I ate my croissant and went through tomorrow’s schedule, making a list of who I needed to contact today to verify details. The cherry turnover saw me through writing out tomorrow’s hour-by-hour schedule. I deliberately put any thoughts of the sniper out of my head, at least for the time being. Surely, he wouldn’t dare try again tomorrow?
After I finished both my work and my breakfast, I decided to drop my notebook off at my truck and take a walk through Morro Bay. The sun was just starting to peek out from behind the clouds, giving me hope that tomorrow might be rain-free. First chance I got, I’d check the forecast.
I walked down the almost deserted Embarcadero. The sound of the ocean, the gulls, the casual shouts of the fishermen were a soothing backdrop to my thoughts. Though my mind had been occupied for the last twelve hours by the attack on Miguel, it now wandered back to Lin Snider. I felt rather foolish about eavesdropping on her last night at the farmers’ market. She was beginning to be an obsession, probably an unwarranted one. Even if she did have a past with Gabe, right now, in the light of this sniper situation, it was small potatoes. By the time I reached the end of the Embarcadero and started up Bay Street toward downtown, I’d decided that once this festival was over, I was going to be mature and invite her into my office. I would flat-out ask her if she had ever known my husband. If there were something nefarious about her hanging around San Celina, I would bring it out in the open, and like mold exposed to bleach, it would fade away.
When I got to Main Street, I lingered in front of a new quilt shop that had replaced the one that closed when the owners, Tom and Tina Davis, moved to Washington State to be near their kids. The new shop—Cotton Ball Quilts—was owned by a mother and son quilting team—Judi and Rob Appell—who had taken the quilting world by storm. They’d been big supporters of the Memory Festival, donating a special quilt designed by Rob called Ocean Memories, featuring extinct and almost extinct ocean creatures. I admired the memory quilt display, glad to see the poster advertising the festival prominently placed. The quilt shop had a booth right in front of San Celina Creamery—our town’s favorite ice cream parlor.
I started back down the hill to the Embarcadero and my truck, when I happened to glance in the window of Kitty’s Café, a local breakfast haunt that always made the top ten lists of favorite San Celina County restaurants. There were the normal array of colorful ball caps and stained cowboy hats, ranchers and retirees being the only ones usually up and out this early for breakfast. Weather this soupy was a good excuse to go to town to chew the fat with other ag folk, an acceptable alternative to actual work.
What I saw caused me to stop in the street, my mouth open in shock.
My dad. Sitting at a window seat. His head thrown back in laughter. Empty breakfast dishes in front of him. In front of them. Because he wasn’t alone. And the person he was having breakfast with was a woman. Who was also laughing. A woman I’d never, ever seen before in my whole life. She had bright red hair pulled back in a high ponytail. She had big gold hoop earrings. She wore a leopard print headband. Her bright green Western shirt was a paisley print, and she wore a chunky man’s watch.
That was as much as I comprehended before I turned tail and headed back the way I’d come, praying they hadn’t seen me. When I got to the corner, I crossed the street and went down one block. Once I was out of sight, I slowed down, feeling silly for panicking. So what if my father was having breakfast with a woman I’d never seen before? He was free to do that, right? Except my dad didn’t ever have breakfast with people he didn’t know. He didn’t have breakfast with women he didn’t know. Especially ones who wore leopard print headbands. What’s more, he never ate breakfast in Morro Bay. Like me, Liddie’s was his territory. He came to town twice a week and always ate there. The only reason he occasionally went to Morro Bay was to buy something at Cy’s Feed and Seed. He did that mainly to support Cy Johnson, our neighbor. Daddy just preferred to go to San Celina.
If he was eating in Morro Bay, it was because, like me, he was trying to avoid running into people he knew.
Maybe it was because I was feeling edgy anyway, but the thought of my dad dating, something that seemed so funny when Dove and Aunt Garnet talked about it, didn’t seem very humorous when I was presented with reality.
Oh, quit it, I thought. You remember what it was like when Dove dated Isaac. This isn’t any different.
Except Dove didn’t sneak around. She dated Isaac right out in the open for the whole world to see.
Okay, I reasoned, that was probably why Daddy decided to see this woman on the sly. We were, by no means, the type of family who stayed out of each other’s business, and he didn’t want everyone’s two bits worth of advice.
I walked around the corner and thought about how I could avoid Bay Street and sneak back down to the Embarcadero to my truck. If Daddy wanted to keep his tête-à-tête to himself for the time being, who was I to question that? I’d drive the back road out of Morro Bay, past the golf course, and try to pretend I hadn’t seen him with the redheaded woman.
Still, it had appeared that they were finished with their meal. What if they saw me? Morro Bay was such a small town and my purple truck was a beacon. I thought about this as I walked past Cy’s Feed and Seed, so I decided to duck in and kill some time there, give my dad and his companion time to leave. Cyrus Johnson’s parents owned one of the ranches that bordered the Ramsey Ranch. They were our closest neighbor. Cyrus, the Johnsons’ only child, was a bit older than I was, so we knew each other growing up but didn’t hang out in the same crowd. His wife, Love, was helping at the historical society’s Vietnam War booth tomorrow. Like Gabe, Cy had served in Vietnam.
I opened the door of the red sh
iplap building. The familiar feed store scents of leather, hay, chicken feed and sawdust reminded me of the sweetgrass smell of summer.
Cy was alone behind the counter. He had a thick auburn beard and shaggy hair that covered his ears. Love was always after him to trim it. His red and black checked wool shirt and denim overalls gave the impression of an Irish Paul Bunyan. It wasn’t an inaccurate comparison. He had huge shoulders and the stamina of a teenage boy. I’d seen him buck hay bales long after men ten years younger than him had given out.
“Well, hey,” he bellowed out in the empty store. “If it isn’t the heroine of the moment gracing my fine establishment.”
I waved my hand in protest. “Please, I just happened to be there. All I did was yell for someone to get the police.”
“You’ll always be a hero to me,” he said, giving a wide smile.
“Mr. Johnson, you are an outrageous flirt.”
He came around the counter and gestured to the coffee area over next to the saddles for sale. “Care for a cup?”
I really didn’t need more coffee, but it would give Daddy and his breakfast date time to leave, eliminating any chance of us running into each other and experiencing a very awkward moment. I guessed that he probably wouldn’t be stopping by Cy’s store today.
“Sure,” I said, taking the coffee he poured. It was strong and thick as used motor oil. I softened it with a liberal dose of cream and sugar. “How’s business?” I sat down on one of the wooden armchairs arranged in a semicircle around a potbelly stove. A rotating group of retired and active farmers and ranchers normally occupied them. “Where is everyone?”
“You missed the early crowd,” he said, sitting down across from me. “They’re here when I open at five a.m., waiting for their first cup and to squabble over my newspaper. Kitty’s Café doesn’t open until six a.m.” He glanced at his large black Timex watch. “Second group should be here about ten a.m. They hang out until lunch.”
I laughed, sipped my coffee. Even with cream and sugar, it was so strong that my eyes widened a little. The buzz from it would certainly keep me going today. “Sounds like you ought to charge a membership fee.”
He rested his massive hands on his knees. “Probably should, but most of ’em are like me, broken-down old ranch or farm boys who just need a place to let off a little steam about how tough ag folks have it. They just sit around and tell old war stories and such. Figure it’s better they commiserate here than tying one on at the local bar, maybe driving away drunk and hurting someone.” A drunk driver had killed Cy and Love’s only son, Tommy, so I knew this was something Cy felt strongly about.
“Telling war stories, huh? I should send Gabe down here.”
Cy cocked his head, picking up my ironic tone. “Does he need to talk about being in-country? You know, we do get into talking about’Nam sometimes. Seems to help some of the guys to talk about it.”
I looked down into my coffee, my reflection small and odd-shaped from the overhead lights. “I was just kidding. Gabe keeps to himself about Vietnam.”
Cy shook his head. “Mom always says that bad feelings are like an overflowing pot of oatmeal; the goop has to go somewhere.”
I looked up at him. His dark brown eyes were sympathetic, and I almost blurted out everything that was going on between Gabe and me. Instead, I asked, “How are Polly and August doing?” His parents still lived on the Johnson ranch, about five miles inland. Cy and Love moved to a bungalow here in Morro Bay, and they helped at the ranch when his parents needed it.
He ran a hand over his broad face. “They’re doing fine. Dad is kicking up a fuss about being at the World War II booth tomorrow, but Mom is making him do it. She even had his uniform cleaned and pressed.”
“That’s great. I’m hoping we see lots of uniforms tomorrow.”
“Gabe going to wear his?”
I inhaled, set down my half-finished coffee. “I doubt that he’ll even be there. I mean, what with Miguel being shot and the sniper still out there . . .”
“That’s bad news. I’m praying it’s not a veteran. We have enough bad press as it is with post-traumatic stress problems.” He stared down at the dark concrete floor.
Before I could stop myself, I heard the words tumble from my lips. “Did you ever have it? Or bad dreams or . . . whatever.” The minute the words came out of my mouth, I was horrified. “Oh, Cy, I’m sorry . . . that is so personal . . . what was I thinking . . . I’m so sorry . . .”
He held up a hand for me to stop. “Now, you just said what was on your mind, and you know that’s how I prefer it. What you asked is a perfectly legitimate question from a friend who is married to someone who served in ’Nam.” He scratched the side of his head with his knuckles. “To be honest, I didn’t come back with some of the bad trauma that some guys did. I saw a little action, but not like some men.” His lips narrowed, hidden by his thick beard. “But even with what I experienced, it flashes back to me at odd times. It can make me break out in a cold sweat or, as Love can tell you, talk in my sleep.”
“Do you ever . . .” I stopped, not certain how to put it without giving away what happened with Gabe and me. “Do you have nightmares?”
“Occasionally. But Love can always shake me out of them. Is Gabe having some problems?”
I looked away, embarrassed and angry with myself for betraying my husband so easily. Tears burned my eyes. Desperately I tried to think of a way to extricate myself from the conversation.
“It’s all right,” Cy said softly. “Just remember this. He’s not alone. You need to know that, and he needs to know that. I understand he’s in an awkward position being a police chief, but there are ways he can get help. One of our guys goes to a great doctor recommended by the VA. He specializes in post-traumatic stress . . .”
I jumped up, sloshing coffee on the floor. “Oh, geeze Louise, I’m such a slob.” I set the cup down, grabbed a handful of napkins and stooped down, trying to mop up the brown liquid. The napkins became sopping wet in seconds. There was still coffee puddled on the floor.
“It’s okay, Benni,” Cy said, his voice never changing timbre. “It’s just a concrete floor.”
I stood up, holding the wet napkins in front of me. “I need to throw this out.”
He nodded at the counter. “Trash can is over there.”
I threw out the wet napkins, wiping my damp palms down the sides of my jeans. What I had meant to be just a quick dodge to avoid my father and his mystery breakfast date had turned out to be an encounter with the reality of my and Gabe’s situation.
“Look,” Cy said, coming over to me. He laid a hand on my shoulder. “The name of Bill’s doctor is Pete Kaplan. He lives over in Pismo . . .”
“I met him! Isaac is taking his photo for this book we’re doing about what home means. His gramma used to be a nurse to the Dunnites way back when.”
He squeezed my shoulder. “So, keep him in mind.”
I nodded. “I will, though I doubt Gabe would ever agree to talking to him. He thinks that once this sniper is caught, he . . . things . . . will get back to normal.”
“He could be right, but what about the next time? That’s what is so insidious about PTSD. It can hide for years, and one unexpected gunshot, one car backfiring, a scent of something can bring it back.”
“So, what could a doctor do?”
Cy shrugged. “I never asked Bill, but I do know that it sure made him feel better to talk to Dr. Pete. I imagine doctors have things they do, maybe even pills. That’s something you’d have to talk to the doc about.” He patted my shoulder, then walked back behind the counter. “You let me know if there’s anything I can do, you hear?”
“I will. Right now, the most important thing is finding that sniper. I know Gabe won’t do a thing for himself until that’s solved.”
“Then let’s pray that it’s solved quickly.”
I smiled, knowing that he would do just that. I glanced down at his counter, thinking I should buy something while I was here when
I saw the flyer.
“Are you with the right horse? Get an astrological reading of you and the horse you are contemplating buying and see if you are compatible. Free bar of homemade soap with every equine reading.”
“Hey, I saw her at the farmers’ market,” I said, laughing. “An astrological reading to see if you and your horse are compatible?”
He laughed, his cheeks turning slightly pink with chagrin. “Yeah, I put about as much stock in astrology as I do the man in the moon, but she’s a sweet lady. Buys all her feed from me and always donates money to buy food for shelter animals and to the fund we have for kids who can’t afford Girl Scout and Boy Scout uniforms and dues. I figured I could spare the counter space.”
“Have you had any takers?”
He chuckled. “No, but I’ve gotten a lot of ribbing from the fellas around the campfire.” He nodded at the circle of chairs. “They say I’m a pushover.”
“What do you say back to them?”
He gave a mischievous grin. “That it’s a common trait in an Aries.”
“Is it?”
“I have no idea. I was born in April so I used the only sign I know—mine. It was a good comeback.”
I laughed, suddenly glad that I’d confided in Cy. I knew he could be trusted to keep my confidence and that he’d be there if I needed to talk to someone who might be able to tell me what Gabe was going through. “So, you and Emory are compadres. He was born on April thirteenth.”
“Good month in which to be born. They say we are often very creative.” He mock-polished his nails on his chest and gave a deep belly laugh. “Which might be another way of saying we are darn good liars.”
It was only after I’d walked the three blocks to my truck, not even paying attention to whether my dad spotted me or not, that it occurred to me that Lin Snider also shared the astrological sign Aries with Cy and Emory because her birthday, according to her Washington State driver’s license, was April fourteenth, the day after my cousin’s.
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