Feeling guilty for being bored, Andy made a real effort to attend to the conversation. If only Martin had discussed his job from time to time, she might appreciate the expansion that they were talking about.
During a lull, Joe put in a word or two about sales techniques, based on his experience selling computer equipment back before he started writing. “I remember my boss telling me, ‘The customer is always right, even when they are wrong.’”
A round of subdued laughter followed. They obviously thought the concept ridiculous. But Andy didn’t. She followed the same credo. “Joe has made an interesting point,” she said, putting a stop to their laughter. “It’s not an easy thing to do, but it’s highly effective, and it wins the customer’s loyalty.”
“You don’t say,” Marcelene said, looking at Andy with new interest. “Give me an example.”
Andy felt Martin’s foot land squarely on top of hers and knew he thought she’d spoken out of turn. She considered just shrugging it off, then thought better of it. She was an intelligent woman, and there was no reason why she couldn’t add her two cents. She couldn’t imagine Marcelene or any of them thinking less of her for it. It seemed to her that they would think better of Martin.
“Last week I had a customer who complained that the bath and body products we sent her were not what she ordered. But they were. She’d obviously not correctly read the instructions on our Web site and had selected the wrong boxes.” Andy discreetly pulled her foot out from under Martin’s.
“So what did you do?” Marcelene asked, leaning toward Andy.
“We told her to keep the merchandise we had sent her as a gift, and we would send out a new order right away, at no extra charge. Before she hung up, she ordered a case of lavender tea and our honey sticks.” She chanced a sideways look at Martin and knew he was hard pressed to control his anger.
“Bath and body products? Teas? Honey sticks? Web site?” Marcelene shook her head. “Martin told us that Lavender Meadows was just a little hobby, but it sounds to me like you have a real business going there. Have you sold it or—”
“No,” Andy cut in. “Lavender Meadows has been my family’s home for three generations. We won’t ever sell it, but the business belongs to my parents as well, and we’ve hired an employee to help out.”
Smile, Andy. Smile if it kills you. She remained silent for the rest of the evening. By the time Brad Grandolay bade everyone good night, she had mentally planted the rest of the acreage, one plant at a time.
“Good luck on your search tomorrow, Andrea. What an exciting track you are on.” He shook her hand, then Martin’s. “Life will be so much easier for both of you, with less time on the road. I know you’ve been looking forward to this.”
Andy and Martin rode back to the hotel in silence. Once inside their room, Andy put her hand on Martin’s arm and stopped him from taking another step. “Sit down, Martin. We’re going to talk.”
Andy woke at six o’clock, sat up, and saw Martin across the room sitting on the couch working on his laptop.
“Don’t you ever take a break?” She yawned and stretched, staring at the face in the mirror across from the bed.
“Of course.” Already dressed for the day, he closed the lid on the computer and carried it back to the table.
Looking in the mirror across from the bed, Andy saw that her hair was spiked and that a sleep-crease slashed across her cheek. Definitely not a trophy wife. Is that another part of his dream? The thought stopped her. Never had he given any hint of straying, and never had she been given to suspicions.
What would happen to their marriage if she refused to move? What a silly question. Of course their marriage was sound and could weather any storm. Look how they’d handled the separations all these years. While sometimes she’d grumbled, she understood that a man did what he had to do to make a living, especially to maintain the style of living to which they’d all become accustomed. Not that they’d had money to throw around, but the bills were paid, retirement funded, and they’d put two of their children through college and were working on the third. They drove decent cars, paid their tithe at their church.
Are you going to trust Me?
That prompting again. Lord, You know that I trust You.
Do you?
She got up and went to the bathroom, turned on the shower, and washed her fears down the drain. Their “talk” last night had not accomplished what she’d hoped it would. She’d let Martin know in no uncertain terms that he was treating her like a doormat, and that from now on he was to consult her before making plans of any kind. He apologized, blamed it on being overwhelmed by the job change, and promised it wouldn’t happen again.
He was so contrite, she decided to cut him some slack. She told him that she would go out with the real estate agent as planned but that it was just to kill time while he worked, because she had no intention of moving. She pointed out that between her five days a month with him in San Francisco and his one or possibly two weekends a month in Medford, their lives would continue as they always had.
By the time she’d finished with all of that, she didn’t want to stir things up again by talking about his behavior at the restaurant. If indeed he was jealous, which seemed likely, she would need professional advice on how to deal with it. Meantime, she wouldn’t mention it, and she would be extra careful in what she said to him about the business.
She stepped from the shower, wrapped a towel around herself, and grabbed another to dry her hair. As she opened the bathroom door, she heard another door click closed. A note lay on the table.
Decided to go in early. Enjoy your time with the Realtor. We have tickets for Beach Blanket Babylon at 8:00. We’ll catch a bite to eat first here at the hotel. M.
Ten minutes before nine, after enjoying her room-service breakfast, she sipped the last of her coffee, laid down the paper, and did her final bathroom sweep. With fresh lipstick in place, she checked her bag to see if she had everything, including her room key, and as she left made sure the door clicked behind her. Please, Ms. Real Estate Agent, do not be a cute young thing who thinks everyone in her right mind would want to live in San Francisco. Wonder what would happen if I just blew this off and went shopping for the day? The thought made her roll her eyes.
“Mrs. Taylor?” The soft voice with a slight southern accent made Andy turn from studying the vaulted glass-paned ceiling of the restored Garden Room, a historical feature the Palace was renowned for.
“Yes.”
“I’m Suzanne Solby, Benchmark Realty.” Thick white hair cut to swing freely at midear framed dark expressive eyes and an oval face. While her business suit said professional, her feet in walking shoes said comfort.
By three o’clock that afternoon, Andy was certain she’d been run over by an eighteen-wheeler named Suzanne. They’d traipsed through lofts with two-story ceilings and windows to match, condos smaller than her kitchen-family room at home, condos palatial but with a two-million-dollar price tag; Andy could hardly breathe. Places with views of the bay, others with views of the city. She now knew the difference between Telegraph Hill and Russian Hill, North Beach and the Marina. Her feet screamed, and her head pounded.
And all for nothing. Well, maybe not for nothing. Today’s house tour reconfirmed that she would hate living in the city, and that even if she did like it, she and Martin couldn’t afford to buy anything unless, of course, he was turning straw into gold. The prices were outrageous! She wondered if Martin had any idea what kind of money they would have to spend to get a place.
“Martin and I have reservations tomorrow for breakfast in the Garden Room at nine. Would you like to join us?” Andy hated to admit it, but she was setting the woman up for a fall. Once Martin saw the pictures and then saw the prices, there would be no more talk about moving.
“How lovely. Thank you. I’ll see you then at nine.”
Hope loved the sounds of the Saturday Market, from the moment the vendors began setting up at seven a.m. until they all packed up
and went home again after noon. Preparations had started at J House with mixing the whole-wheat yeast dough for the elephant ears at four thirty in the morning. Since she was usually awake by then anyway, she’d taken on that job. There was something about the yeasty fragrance of rising dough that met a need deep within her.
Maybe it even went back to biblical times and Proverbs 31, where the perfect godly woman provided for her household. Or perhaps she just loved yeast dough. It all depended on how spiritual she was feeling at the moment. She’d mixed the first batch, set it to rising, mixed a second, and filled the two thirty-cup coffeepots with water. Thank God for the ten-cup coffee maker, or she’d be in caffeine withdrawal.
Celia’s cry meant the Saturday Market was officially open for business. “Elephant ears, get your hot elephant ears and coffee here.”
“Hey, Starshine, how’ve you been?” Hope greeted the aging hippie who still insisted on wearing peasant blouses and long skirts with gathered rows. Multiple strings of beads adorned a neck going wattly, and a knitted shawl, in glorious shades of purple shot with silver, warmed the woman’s shoulders.
Starshine’s knitting needles clicked along as she visited. She sold her hand-knitted wares right off her back, along with those piled on the tables of her booth. In addition to selling her own product, she was in charge of collecting the vendor fees and crisis solving. The most volatile disagreement was usually over who got what booth space. They’d started out on a first-come-first-served basis, but after all these years, those with the longest attendance got their pick of locations.
“Doing better.” Starshine tucked an errant strand of graying hair back in the loose bun she wore, a bun that always seemed to be on the verge of collapse.
“You had your coffee yet?”
“No, thanks, brought some herbal tea today. Swearing off caffeine.” Starshine refolded shawls and scarves as she talked, stacking colors to set off each piece for best show.
“We really missed you.” Hope leaned across the table to give her a hug and whispered, “Was it malignant?”
“Yes, but it’s gone now. Snip, snip, and my youth is over. No more babies for old Starshine.”
“Did you want more?” Somewhere Hope remembered hearing of Starshine’s children, and it wasn’t a pretty story.
“No.” A lock of hair slipped down at the vigorous shake of her head. “But it’s the thought of it, you know, the finality.” Starshine smiled, revealing a missing canine tooth. She worked hard at her knitting; there was always a started project in her hands, needles flashing. But like so many other people, she couldn’t make enough to buy medical insurance, let alone dental coverage. And yet she made too much money to qualify for welfare, where she could at least get medical care.
“If I can help you with some of the medical costs … ”
“Hope, you cannot afford to write checks for my medical bills.”
“No, I can’t, but I have a discretionary fund for J House, and a friend or two with deep pockets.” She ignored the sheen of tears in her friend’s eyes. “When I think of all the people you’ve helped.”
“I don’t do … ” Starshine started to protest.
Hope shook her head, eyebrows raised. “Sometimes one has to be on the receiving end of help.”
“Hope!” A man’s voice rose above the market’s hum.
Hope waved to signal she heard, then turned to Starshine. “I have to go, but you think on what I said.” Hope squeezed her friends hand and threaded her way between the vendors, answering greetings as she made her way to the steps where Roger waited for her. “Hey, mon, what’s up?”
“Bad news.” Roger lifted his hands in defeat. “Kiss split.”
Hope closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “When?”
“No one knows. She left this note.” He held the folded paper out to her.
Thanks for the shower and food. Wish I could stay, but I can’t.
“Can’t?” She looked up at her husband. “Strange word, don’t you think?” She read the note again.
“That got me, too. The others assured me they’d told her we could deal with an angry pimp, that there are safe houses and that we’d get her into one.”
“Did he come for her?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Guess we’ll just pray she finds her way back to us. We’re the best chance she has.”
“Unless she goes home.” He handed her half an elephant ear. “Have you had anything to eat this beautiful day?” He glanced up where the sun was already burning off the fog, leaving wisps around the granite towers of Grace Cathedral up on Nob Hill. North Beach and China Town still lay in the shadows.
“Nope. Just coffee.” Probably the reason for my indigestion. “Maybe I’d better give up on the hard stuff.” She rubbed her middle, all the while keeping eyes on the shifting kaleidoscope that was the Saturday Market.
“Cream in it might help. Maybe you ought to go have a checkup?”
“For an upset stomach? Hardly. I’ll get a couple of antacids.” She and Roger paused shoulder to shoulder for a moment, looking out over their neighbors gathered in one place and obviously enjoying it. She waved back at Pierre and Brian, the two men who had recently purchased Speedy’s, the grocery at the corner of Union and Montgomery. They’d come from New York and discovered the store, which had been a neighborhood icon for fifty years or more but had been going downhill. With a new look, a good cook, and friendly servers, the deli section was quickly becoming a gathering place. The men bought a lot of fresh produce from the Saturday Market vendors.
“We need new dough,” one of their girls sang out as she returned to the kitchen for the next batch.
“That’s the second one already. And the coffeepot is half empty.”
Hope watched as more customers strolled in from the street. One of these days they might have to rent a cop to direct traffic. The article in the San Francisco Chronicle about their market being a good Saturday destination, in spite of the main one down at the Ferry building, was bringing in plenty of newbies.
Thanks to the early morning chill, she recognized several of Starshine’s shawls warming shoulders. You could count on San Francisco fog through the summer and much of September, as long as the inland valleys remained hot.
“Who’s shopping for us today?” Hope asked.
Roger held up two string bags. “How about you and me?”
“I’m game.” Hope waved at the two musicians who were just setting up. “Hey, guys, you’re late.”
“I know. The traffic is getting worse and worse.” Rafe, the darker one, took his hammered dulcimer from the case and set it on the frame while his partner tuned his guitar. The worn guitar case lay open in front of them, waiting for donations. The two men—one with dreadlocks tied back, the other with head shaved and shiny—had been playing at the market for the last couple of years, even though they now had more real gigs than they could handle. They often boasted the Saturday Market had given them their start.
The notes of “Scarborough Fair” wended their way through the hum of conversations.
Roger and Hope had just purchased a crate of late peaches when Roger laid a hand on her arm. “We’ve got trouble.” He nodded toward three men, all in black, strolling into the lot. A diamond ring caught the sun’s rays when the man in the center raised his hand.
“You know him?” Hope slit her eyes against the sun’s glare.
Roger nodded. “King D’Angelo. I’ll bet he’s Kiss’s pimp. She said King, right?”
Hope nodded but didn’t ask how he knew the man. His years in vice while on the San Francisco police force had put him in touch with much of the thriving lowlife of the city. She touched his arm. “Be careful.”
Roger rolled his eyes at her, squeezed her hand, and melted into the crowd.
“I’ll carry that in for you.” The young fruit vendor took her box of peaches and headed for the side door to the shelter.
“Thanks.” Hope busied herself searching for
the best buys on tomatoes, salad fixings, and vegetables, all the while hoping she wouldn’t hear angry shouts or gunshots. Keep him safe, Lord. He’s my mon, my life, my love. “I’ll take that full box of tomatoes. I know they’re pretty ripe. We’ll make sauce.” She took a quick look around and didn’t see anything out of the ordinary. Don’t worry. He’s good at what he does.
Hope moved on to a different stall. “Hi, Nita,” she said, fingering the mounds of cabbage and bok choy. “How much?” When the older Filipino woman named a price, Hope shook her head. “No, you’re not charging enough. I know you would get more from someone else. I’ll wait to see what’s left.”
“No, no, that for you.” Nita leaned under the makeshift counter and brought out a box. “I bring you this special.” She handed Hope long slender Japanese eggplants that glowed in the sunlight, a deep purple with slashes of cream, as if lit from within.
Hope’s face brightened. “I thought these were done for the season.” Coveting eggplant was probably not against one of the commandments, but oh, she loved it diced with garlic and onion and stir-fried in sesame oil. Nita had given her the recipe several years earlier. Rarely did she find this kind in the grocery store. “You are so good to me.”
“Least I can do.”
When Hope pulled her money from her pocket, Nita, black eyes snapping, flapped her hand and shook her head. “No, no, gift for you.”
“You’ll never make a living giving the good stuff away.”
“Look who’s talking.” Starshine stopped behind her.
“Oh, hush.” The three woman laughed together. Shaking her head, Hope continued on to the next stall.
The hot oil of the spring-roll booth joined the other smells, drawing Hope to the far corner, the spot for her friend and mentor, Mai. A line had formed right after opening and hadn’t let up. Mai made two kinds of spring rolls, vegan and pork. While she’d expanded her business from a handcart to her own restaurant down the street, she still ran the cart herself on Saturday mornings. When Hope asked why, she said it kept her in touch with the neighborhood and was the cheapest form of advertising she could find.
Saturday Morning Page 9
