by Jill Jaynes
How cute he looks when he’s embarrassed!
He took a sip of beer. “Do you have anything to suggest?”
“I do, actually.” She dotted her mouth with her napkin. “If you want my help,” she added to avoid putting him on the spot.
“I’d at least listen to your ideas.”
“Relax! I’m not going to suggest anything involving alligators or nude Jell-o wrestling or whatever they do in clubs in California,” Leonie said. “First things first: Would you consider putting more enamel pieces here on consignment? Your work is beautiful, and I think it’s a good fit with the pens.”
He caught his breath.
Success! He wants more of his work for sale here, and I’d love to have his pieces around to look at. To comfort me when I feel everything in California is harsh and ugly.
David spoke slowly. “You’ll think this is silly, but when I come into the shop, I crave certain pens. It’s as if in some weird way I’m thirsty and looking at them is the only way to satisfy that thirst. Ones with lacy silverwork or sturdy gold overlays. Pens with guilloché work as good as on any Fabergé imperial Easter egg. Pens with hand-painted scenes of fairy tales done in Russian lacquer art.”
An adrenaline rush left Leonie breathless and trembling. She felt as if she might dance away on the breeze like a leaf. She covered David’s warm, large hand with hers and squeezed it. Why couldn’t I have found such a companion here earlier? “Me, I understand perfectly. Some days I can’t bear to look in the cases for more than a second or two. I drown in the beauty. I get drunk on it and am dazed and dizzy the rest of the day. I’m even sillier than you, yes?”
“Hardly.” He squeezed her hand back and chuckled. “As a kid, I once got stuck at the Getty Center in front of a 16th-century pietra dura tabletop for three hours. It seemed like only a few minutes to me. The tabletop had at least a dozen types of stone in it, and the inlay work was so perfect, only the color change gave away where the stone changed. I couldn’t stop looking at the patterns within each stone, at the small designs, and at the overall effect. Meanwhile, my parents were frantic and had half the staff looking for me.”
She interrupted him. “Let me guess. They found you walking toward the table and backing away from it over and over again?”
“Exactly. You understand.” He squeezed her hand again and let go to slide his spoon into silky crème brûlée. “My parents didn’t, though, and neither did the psychiatrist.”
Talking to David was like talking to a client or to one of the people who worked in the countless art galleries, antique shops, and auction houses in Baton Rouge and New Orleans. Or even to one of the street musicians. Back home, we’re surrounded by beauty. Enthralled and intoxicated by it. Maybe even addicted to it. She clasped her hands over her heart. I never knew how lucky I was until I came here.
“And the worst part of all? My parents wouldn’t even get me the t-shirt of the table.” David’s eyes sparkled with joy and mischief. “Years later, I made one for myself. A t-shirt, not a pietra dura table.”
It’s a good memory for him, not a bad one. “Have you made a brooch or pendant with the table design in miniature?” she asked.
“No, but that’s a fantastic idea.” He paused. “I never answered your question. Would I consider having my art here with those pens? No way. I’d accept in an instant before you changed your mind.”
“Great!” Leonie looked down at her plate and realized she had finished all her food. So had David, despite all his talking. Her adrenaline high plummeted like a hawk, and her body fought gravity to stay upright. She swallowed a yawn. Can it be late already? The time passed so fast and agreeably. “We need to discuss your marketing and what pieces you should bring here, but not tonight.”
He nodded, all joy leaving his face; only puzzlement remained in his narrowed eyes and vertical wrinkles between his eyebrows. “You haven’t mentioned your father.”
Her chest tightened, and she ran her finger up and down her ice tea glass. “I get butterflies in my stomach every time I think about ringing strangers’ doorbells to ask about Jake as if he were a lost puppy.” She grasped the glass with a jittery hand and sipped tea before speaking. “I’ll make myself do it. I’m living in his house and eating his food, so I owe it to him. But once I’ve talked to the neighbors, I have no idea what to do next. Staple ‘lost father’ flyers on telephone poles? Moonlight Cove seems much bigger when one thinks about knocking on every door.”
“I can help. I can introduce you to the neighbors, and then you won’t feel awkward. I also know some of the clubs your father belongs to, so we can contact their members. We should be able to find out quickly whether anyone knows what happened to him.”
“Tomorrow then? Before I lose my nerve?”
“Sure. And to reward ourselves, why don’t we spend Sunday at the beach? We can relax, maybe discuss marketing my art. You could visit my studio to choose what pieces you’d like to carry.”
Why do Californians like the beach so much? Leonie wrinkled her nose. “I don’t like the beach.”
“You don’t?” He stared at her. “Are you kidding? Most people move here for the beach.”
“I came here to have a family again. With Jake.”
“How can anyone not like the beach?”
“The ocean smells bad. The sun is too bright and glares off the sand. The beach is crowded and noisy. It’s also boring—nothing but sand, sand, sand.”
“Where would you like to go?”
“There probably isn’t any such place hereabouts, but I’d love to go someplace quiet and beautiful with lots of trees.” Her face was wistful, and her gaze distant. “I know I’m dreaming.”
“Maybe not.” He leaned back and rubbed his chin. “Have you climbed the cliff at the beach end of the cove? There’s a pretty park up there not many people go to. Rainbow’s End.”
“No, I haven’t been up there. But I should see it before I leave. Can we do that?”
A vein in his forehead reddened. “Leave? Why would you leave?”
Leonie tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “Why would I stay if Jake isn’t here?”
“But… but we’ve only started to get to know… I mean, we’re only just starting to look for him.”
“He’s been gone for weeks! Maybe he isn’t coming back. I decided two days ago that if he hasn’t shown up in a week, I’m out of here.”
“Maybe he’s in a hospital somewhere in a coma. You can’t give up now. We’ve only started looking for him.”
“He’s a grownup. He shouldn’t need to be looked for.”
“That’s cold. He’s your father! If we can’t figure out where he is, you need to report him missing to the police.”
She was determined to keep her voice calm. “There’s time before Wednesday to look for him and report him to the police.”
David slapped the table with his hands. “I’ll come by at 9 to start our search. Be ready.” He walked out without saying goodbye. The wind chimes jangled.
Puff strolled into the dining room and jumped on her lap. Leonie buried her face in Puff’s fur. “I like him. He seems to like me. Why couldn’t we have met in my first week here instead of my last?”
Chapter 7
David arrived the next morning in jeans and a t-shirt showing a Robert Mapplethorpe still life of flowers.
“I didn’t know Mapplethorpe took color pictures.”
“He didn’t very often. He occasionally used color film though.” He looked her up and down. “You look like a different person.”
Leonie squinted at her reflection next to David’s in the window glass. She had decided to canvass the neighborhood in a conservative navy blue dress and with her hair up in a French braid so she would look as respectable as possible. Next to David, though, she looked dowdy and old. She pinched her skirt and twisted the cotton between her fingers. “I look wrong next to you.”
He leaned against the wall and rested his chin in his palm. He looked at her in sil
ence, scanned the shop and its furnishings, and looked back at her. “You look exactly how people would picture Mr. Hamasaki’s daughter.”
She blew out her breath. I look just right then. “What about you?”
He looked down at his art t-shirt and back up at her with a grin. “You want people to recognize me, don’t you?”
“Yes, but… isn’t the picture too upbeat? After all, we’re looking for a missing person.”
“Hmmm. Good point. Maybe I should have chosen the t-shirt with J.M.W. Turner’s Dutch Boats in a Gale to underscores the despair behind our quest.”
She blinked her eyes. If we find Jake, I’ll suggest we make t-shirts out of one or two of his paintings. It would be a great way to advertise the store.
“Mapplethorpe’s name alone probably conjures up despair, even next to a picture of flowers,” she said.
“True. Let’s get started.”
As she slid on her sunglasses with shaking hands, her heart thumped, and her palms perspired. She, who had worked with famous people and met new people every day in her job, had stage fright. I’ve been alone too long, for true. Cats aren’t enough.
“Where should we start?” she asked, locking the door behind them and trying to ignore Slink’s wail of abandonment.
“Let’s start with Mrs. Itani a few doors down. Your father’s good friends with her. If she can’t help us, we’ll try the rest of your neighbors on this block.”
It took only a few minutes to reach Mrs. Itani’s house, which was a bungalow much like Jake’s house. It had no storefront, though; it was still a residence.
Leonie looked at David, and he gestured at the knocker.
She sighed. She had hoped he would take the lead. She lifted the heavy bronze lion’s head and dropped it.
“Coming!” a high, sweet voice called out. The door opened. A woman wearing neatly-pressed gardening clothes and holding a trowel looked at her.
“Mrs. Itani?”
The woman nodded.
Leonie bowed. “I’m Jake Hamasaki’s daughter, Noriko Leonie, and I’m looking for my father.”
“Come in, come in. Good to see you, David.” Mrs. Itani led them into a living room furnished in modern Swedish furniture and decorated with a few large vases bursting with fresh flowers. But they didn’t stop there. She took them through the house and out into the back yard, where the air was thick with the sweet scent of jasmine. She gestured for them to sit in the airy, white wicker chairs. “Jake isn’t here right now. In fact, I haven’t seen him in weeks, it seems. But I’m glad you stopped by. Jake told me he’d bring you over, and I’ve been waiting. Would you like some tea?”
“Yes, thank you.” Leonie answered quickly in case David didn’t know it was an insult to refuse. She hadn’t known herself until one of Jake’s Japanese culture lectures.
Mrs. Itani went into the house and returned a couple minutes later with a tray holding a cast-iron tea set. She poured tea into two tea “bowls” and set down the teapot. Leonie then poured tea for her hostess. Only after nesting the small, scorching bowl between her hands and taking a small sip did she get to business.
“Mrs. Itani, my father left a few weeks ago and didn’t tell me where he was going or when he would be back. I haven’t heard from him since. I’m getting worried.”
David added, “I’m worried too. Mr. Hamasaki and I were supposed to share a booth at an art festival, but he hasn’t sent me the signed paperwork, and it needs to be turned in soon. It’s not like him to be irresponsible.”
“No, it certainly is not.” Steam drifted in front of Mrs. Itani’s face and softened the ravines of her frown. “He didn’t tell me he was leaving, which is odd. On the rare occasions he goes away, he always asks me to feed the cats and bring in packages.”
At least now I know who can take care of Puff and Slink if I go home this coming week.
Mrs. Itani looked directly at Leonie. “But of course, he wouldn’t have needed my help this time with you there.” She narrowed her eyes, and her fingers turned white around the tea bowl. “Still, I would have thought he would have told me he was going away.”
“Where has he gone in the past? That might give us some clues about where to look for him.” David held his hot tea bowl with his fingertips, which concentrated the heat, Leonie knew. Dots of perspiration broke out on his brow.
“Let me think.” Mrs. Itani set down her bowl, steepled her fingers in front of her chin, and bowed her face over them. “Some years he goes to the Los Angeles Pen Show, but that’s always in February. A couple of times he’s gone to Japan, but I don’t remember where or why. Before he takes on a new line of pens, he visits the factory.” She looked up. “I can’t think of any other place. I’m so sorry.”
David said, “He mentioned to me he belonged to some organizations for people of Japanese ancestry… nikkei?”
Mrs. Itani’s face brightened. “I’ll make you a list.” She went inside.
David immediately set down his tea bowl and shook his fingers in the air.
“Hold it like this.” Leonie demonstrated the technique Jake had taught her. “It distributes the heat throughout your hands. Did you burn yourself?”
Sheepishly, he held out his hands. Poor guy. His fingertips were as red as the feathers of a male cardinal.
“You remember the rules?”
He nodded. “I’ll ask for your help if I need it.” He examined his fingers. “They’re already feeling better. I think they’ll be okay.” His smile made her feel gooey inside. “Did anyone visit Jake or did he visit anyone that you can remember?”
Leonie stared at his smile. He has such inviting lips. They were fuller than the typical white guy’s lips, but not so full they didn’t go with his face. In fact, all the parts of his face went together breathtakingly well. She sighed.
Dave’s eyebrows lifted. “Tired already?”
Her hands involuntarily clutched her tea bowl tighter. “No. Just thinking hard. Jake did go to some meetings. A bonsai club, I think. Maybe a Japanese calligraphy club.”
“I think you’re right about those two clubs. Let’s hope Mrs. Itani knows who’s in them.”
“What’s a nikkei?”
“A person who immigrated from Japan or one of their descendants. I think you probably count.” He gingerly picked up and cupped his tea mug the way she had shown him. “You should think about joining one. It would be a good way to start meeting people and maybe make some friends.”
She shook her head. “It seems a backward way to meet people. Pushy, too.”
“Not in California. People move here from all over. If they want to make friends, they have to make the first move. No one’s going to show up at the door with a pie like in some 1950s sitcom.”
“You’re kidding, right?”
But his expression was open and sincere. He’s telling the truth.
Tears sprang to her eyes. She batted them back. But one escaped and rolled down her cheek.
Instantly, David leaned over and put a hand on her arm. Warmer than usual from holding the tea bowl, his hand sent a zing up and down her spine. Despite that zing, and despite her efforts to hide the resulting shudder, his touch made her limbs soften and her lax body lean toward him. His touch was comfort. Reassurance. Encouragement. Perversely, her tears flowed freely now.
“Leonie, what’s wrong?” He stroked her arm gently.
“I didn’t know.” She sniffled and managed to slow her tears.
“Didn’t know what?”
“I was expecting pies. Brownies. Homemade jams. Invitations to visit. When no one came over to welcome me, I assumed people had taken a dislike to me. I didn’t know why.”
She immediately wanted to take back her words, her show of vulnerability. Most men would respond with a laugh or a patronizing remark making light of her distress.
David was not most men. “Feeling rejected is the worst.”
His voice—he sounds half-strangled, as if he’s talking about himself as well as me.
She shivered again, this time in pity. Her words had ripped open some painful memory of his. Although she didn’t know what that memory was, there was a pain above her breastbone that ached in sympathy.
She put her hand on top of the one stroking her arm. “You’ve made me feel so much better. Thank you.”
She didn’t look at him. But she could feel the tension leaving his body and sense his arm slide back to his side.
“How do you know that the rules of my healing magic don’t forbid you from thanking me?” he asked in his usual good-humored tone.
“I guess I don’t. We have such different backgrounds. We’re such different people.”
Before he could respond, Mrs. Itani came back out with papers in her hand. “I’m sorry to have taken so long. But I wanted to write down the name and phone number of every possible contact I could think of.” She handed the papers to David.
He quickly scanned the names and smiled at Mrs. Itani. “This is going to help us a lot. We really appreciate your time.”
Looking worried, Mrs. Itani sat down. Her hands found each other and folded in her lap. “It was no trouble. Jake’s my friend. If there’s anything more I can do to help you, please let me know.”
Leonie rose. “Thank you for your help and for the tea and hospitality. May I ask you a question?”
“Of course you can ask.” Mrs. Itani’s face relaxed, and her mouth quirked. “Of course I can decline to answer.”
David laughed, and their mutual apprehension about Jake receded.
Leonie said, “I have—Jake has—a diseased apple tree. Every apple is hard and misshapen, just like the fruit in your apple tree. Is there a way to make the tree healthy again?”
“Apple tree? I don’t have an apple tree.”
David’s sudden cough sounded suspiciously like a muffled chuckle.
Heat rose in Leonie’s face. She had blundered somehow, but she soldiered on. “This tree, the one with a bushy shape.” She walked over to it and touched a diseased apple. The tree was pregnant with fruit, and every single apple was mottled and hard.
