Two minutes later, I was waving good-bye to Crystal and Tiny Bubbles, who both still looked a bit bemused but accepting of the situation. I congratulated myself on a job well done. I’d just have to do that maybe a dozen more times and the cats would all have homes.
Filled with a glow that I pretended was righteous rather than smug, I put on a second thick sweater and headed into town, filled to the eyeballs with purpose and a desire for the café mocha I hadn’t managed to have yet that morning. Blowing leaves could wait.
I reached town without incident and stood in the bank’s parking lot at the bottom of the hill, staring up at my house perched giddily on thin stilts on the steep greening hill. I noticed then that the narcissus and camellias must have started blooming some days ago, but I had missed the first signs of spring because my gaze was turned inward, where things were still dark and there was no rebirth. Spring was trying hard to gain her dainty green feet that year, but the earth was fighting off one hell of a winter hangover and reacting sluggishly. This made me sad because all too soon she would be shoved aside by summer, the cold’s fraternal and lethal twin. In the mountains, the vernal and autumnal seasons are always short, and because of that, oh so sweet. And I had missed the precious first days.
“I’ll do better,” I promised myself.
I took the back way into town over the wooden bridge that spans the steep-sided creek that bisects the village. It has no diving signs posted at either end that should be unnecessary because even at the height of the snowmelt the creek only runs about two feet deep. Still it’s there for a reason. Cities don’t pay for signs unless they have to, so you know that some moron tourist actually tried swan-diving off the thing and probably wedged his head in the boulders and drowned. It was Darwinism at work.
There is another sign there that I find even more disturbing. It is mostly overgrown by berry vines, but if you look closely you can still read the faded words: NO CATS OR DOGS IN CREEK.
The only way that a cat or dog would reach the bottom of the creek from that bridge, whose railing was waist high and made of overlapping planks, would be for someone to throw them over. I told myself that sign was an addendum to the others, put up because the same idiot had tried taking his pets for a swim, but I didn’t believe it. People didn’t take cats on vacation. What some heartless locals did do was drown unwanted puppies and kittens. They’d tie them in a pillowcase or burlap sack and then throw them in—and they’d eventually die. But not quickly, and not until their bodies had been battered on the rocks that littered the rushing stream.
Impulsively, I dug out my pen—a leaky permanent marker that had already ruined my purse lining—and added to the sign. no THROWING cats or dogs in creek.
There was a rustle overhead, and I looked up to see a small flock of crows resting on the telephone wires. They were watching with interest as I defaced public property, probably hoping I’d go away so they could fly down and see if there were any tadpoles or carrion to dine on.
“I wish you wouldn’t,” I said to them. “I like frogs. Why not let the pollywogs be this year and eat something else?” But they ignored me. I guess I don’t speak bird. Or they didn’t care what I thought about their plans for lunch on this sunny day.
I have also picnicked down by the creek, but it requires real effort for anyone without wings to get down there. There are places where the bank slopes gentle enough for two people to sit, but not until you near the fairgrounds. It’s pleasantly shady under the oaks, and in late spring there are an amazing number of wildflowers down there, among them sweet peas and a spiky lavender plant my grandmother called Kiss-Me-By-The-Gate. In autumn there would be sweet Himalaya berries and feral crab apples that are excellent for canning if you can spare the blood and skin and are willing to risk a case of poison oak. And if the deer don’t beat you to them, of course.
Knowing I had wasted enough time and that the stores would all be open, I capped my pen and headed for Lincoln Street. Mocha first and then clothing.
Queendom Come answered my couture prayers that morning—and at a steep discount, too. The sales rack in the back of the shotgun-style store rendered up two great dresses and a form fitting cashmere sweater in pigeon-blood red.
The dresses were both very different but shared one thing in common: while they would have been great in New York or San Francisco, they were a fashion risk for a store in our homespun town. I wondered how they had ended up here. Usually our merchants were more careful in their selections. Perhaps it was a special order that someone had rejected when they tried it on.
The first gown was a Joseph Ribkoff, a draping, black, burnt-out velvet, and possibly peeled off a flamenco dancer—probably by a handsome bullfighter lost in a moment of passion. I looked in the three-way mirror and saw a dress that outlined all my erogenous zones and lifted my breasts up into an anatomically impossible position for anyone over eighteen. It screamed sex and yet still struck me as a power frock. Only a woman who was very sure of herself would wear anything that sensually unapologetic. I took a small breath and then unzipped.
The other dress was by Save The Queen, imprinted with a phallic body-length graphic of the Eiffel Tower on lycra of antique gold and copper. Again, it was a dress for someone bold and fearless and unafraid of their sensuality. I felt that I needed both frocks. Not that I was actually having sex with anyone, or planned on having a series of hot dates with anyone in particular. It was the power and confidence the clothes exuded that attracted me. I had been lacking in both for a very long time. These garments, vested with the assurance of their designers, would help me be strong the next time I went into the world as a woman rather than a widow.
I turned back and forth on tiptoes, looking at myself from every angle.
Of course, I probably would date again—eventually. Hormones would drive me to it. Booze and pills—and memories of a lost love—were never meant to be a permanent substitute for sex. Nor did I want the sodden life of the permanently soused. Molly and Dell were all the example I needed to convince me of this. Still.
“I’ll take them,” I said to the new girl hovering outside the dressing room before I could change my mind. I winced a little at the total bill when it was rung up on the old black and gold register, but was determined to have something that I really wanted. It was the first time I had really wanted anything since Cal died. I looked at that as a good sign.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
One of the most striking differences between a cat and a lie is that a cat has only nine lives.
—Mark Twain
Tyler and I went to the 134 Threadneedle Street located at 27 on Golden Avenue. Don’t ask. Someone was being clever. We dined that night in the east wing of the refurbished Victorian. The house had been built for a pair of twin sisters called Grant who despised one another but refused to live apart. Instead of either surrendering the home, they constructed a massive wall right down the middle. The two halves mirrored one another, but the west wing was done in shades of rose and the east in lavender. I’m certain that the new owner would have liked to have done extensive remodeling to make the old building more accessible, but it was designated as a historic home, which meant no structural changes. You were greeted on the porch by a hostess and then sent into one side of the house or the other through separate front doors, one done in stained glass and the other festooned with velvet drapes.
I’d eaten at 134 before, but not in a long while. Not since Cal and I celebrated our last anniversary. The house had high ceilings and enough stained glass in what used to be the front parlor windows that I couldn’t help but think that I was drinking at an altar. It made me feel a bit sacrilegious, so I usually kept my back to the windows, kept my elbows off the high-top marble table and concentrated on the long-haired brunette who played jazz guitar on Friday and Saturday nights—in the east wing on Fridays, west wing on Saturdays. That night Tyler offered me a seat facing the window. I took it reluctantly and figured that if worse came to worst, I’d let Tyler wrestle wi
th my spiritual guilt for me. I felt sure that he would be strong enough to overcome it.
But perhaps worse wouldn’t come to worst, I thought optimistically. My psyche hadn’t done a complete one-eighty on me, but there had been definite changes in the last few days. The impulses that had been prompting me to action—or inaction—for the last three years had all originated in my past experiences. Now, because of Tyler—and Atherton—I was doing things because I felt hopeful about the future. I was again looking forward instead of back.
Traffic surged by as we looked out the few pieces of clear glass into the tiny lot lined with crepe myrtle. Irish Camp is part of the long corridor that links the land of technology with fine skiing. People were rushing up the mountain to get in their last licks on the slope before spring melted the snow. The alley of myrtle seemed to lean over the hurrying cars, their shadows severely aslant because of the setting sun.
I caught a whiff of seared beef on the air that eddied through the door to the kitchen and my mouth began to water. My appetite had woken up and in yet another way I was remembering why it was good to be alive.
Tawny Brookes, the chef’s daughter, came by to greet us and explain the specials. There were people before us, but we were head of the line. Right or wrong, the law gets good service in Irish Camp.
Tyler had never eaten there, and took his time studying the bill of fare and discussing the specials. This was a family-run business and the menu was solid rather than ambitiously exotic—their only affectation was to serve pommes frites with the steak, yet French fries with the hamburger. The ambience leaned heavily toward the romantic, and the wine list was more than merely serviceable. I gave it four out of five stars and hoped that Tyler would like it, too.
“I like a restaurant that has moderate pretensions and manages to live up to them,” Tyler said softly when we were alone, and I found myself smiling at our similar trains of thought. But not too broadly. I knew everyone in the restaurant and he probably did too. I didn’t feel like causing any more gossip than was necessary. There would be some talk about this night. My gold dress and bronze sandals would assure it.
Feeling carnivorous, we both settled on steak and ordered a pinot noir from one of our local wineries. There are several in the area. We hadn’t yet caught up to Napa and Sonoma, but our modest wines were beginning to win some awards and enjoy wider distribution.
“So, tell me something about yourself that I don’t know,” Tyler said. His gaze was more than merely polite or curious; it was downright speculative, and I wasn’t sure I cared for that.
“Like what?” I asked.
“Nothing big. Do you have a nickname?”
I thought about the advisability of answering this truthfully. You generally don’t get nicknamed for your good points. “Sort of. Cal used to call me Goldilocks—because everything was always either too hot or too cold for my tastes.”
“Ah.” Tyler smiled and nodded.
“You?” I asked.
“No, no nicknames. But I can swear fluently in Spanish and Vietnamese.”
I nodded, willing to play this game, especially since it beat talking about my work or other peculiarities. “Very useful in LA. Less so here, though. Let’s see…well, one of the oddest things about me is that I am a tetrachromat. I have use of four color ranges instead of just the normal three available to humans. You wouldn’t believe what storms look like to me.”
His gaze sharpened and I could see that he was trying to calculate if this might somehow explain why I was the way I was.
“I’ve heard about this. It happens only in women, right?”
“Yes. I got my DNA tested when I was doing a piece for a magazine, and one of the researchers suspected that I might have this mutation. Basically it means that in addition to the blue, green and red cones in my eyes, I have an orange one as well. Supposedly I can see one hundred million hues. Maybe that’s why I look at the world differently. For me, there’s more to see.” So much for avoiding mentioning my work or my peculiarities. I tasted the wine. “Okay, your turn. What’s something no one up here knows about you?”
“Hm…Well, as a boy, I had a live dog named Tartuffe and a dead dog named Tinker.”
“A dead dog?” I sounded startled.
“Tinker was my great-uncle’s favorite hunting hound, and I rather liked him too. He sent Tinker to a taxidermist when he died. After my Great Uncle Liam passed on, his wife cleaned out the den and I inherited the dog.”
“Did you want him?” I asked.
“Hell, no. Mom made me keep him in my bedroom and he gave me nightmares. But I couldn’t throw him out either. Aunt Mara would ask after the damned thing, and I couldn’t have faced her if I’d chucked Tinker out.”
“I suppose you couldn’t toss him then. Do you still have him?”
“Yes, but he’s in storage. Tinker was the only thing my ex-wife didn’t ask for in the divorce settlement. I have a certain fondness for him for that reason. Still, now that the moths have been at him, he’s more than a bit off-putting and I keep him under wraps. Anyhow, it’s safe to visit me at home.”
I thought that rather depended on how he defined safe.
“And Tartuffe?”
“Gone to the great hunting ground in the sky more than a decade ago. And not taxidermied. I’ve been moving around too much since then to have another pet. A live one, at any rate. I hope that will change now. It would be nice to have a dog again, an open honest creature who never sulks or lies.”
I saw his eyes narrow and his lips part, and rushed into speech to forestall what I thought was coming. “Okay, that’s pretty weird. I haven’t any dead animals. Just live ones,” I said.
Tyler leaned back.
“Maybe too weird for a first date?” he guessed. “Let’s see. I also have six nieces and nephews. Three of them play the tuba. Badly. All the time. I was going to say that the other three had no sense of rhythm, but the fact is the tuba players haven’t got a beat either. I’m supposed to go down to Lakewood for a concert in May but am praying for a small crime spree to keep me here.”
This made me laugh ruefully. “I understand. My brother has two children—more than that I will not say. I have managed to avoid all little league games and dance recitals this year. My sister-in-law is punishing me by withholding school pictures. I could say something about her, too—but won’t.”
“That’s probably wise. We may not care for them, but bottom line, they’re still family.” Tyler put his glass down. He was smiling but his gaze was still a bit fixed. He was definitely after something. “Maybe it’s your one hundred million hues, but the way you react to me is interesting and different. I think you see someone or something that others don’t perceive,” Tyler added softly as the bread basket arrived.
“Pigments of my imagination?” I suggested, and got a small smile.
“Maybe. I definitely think that I should have you tell me something about myself. What do you think I don’t know about myself and should? What do you like? What would you change?”
“How do I see you differently than others? But how would I know? I only see the world as I see the world. I have no way of making comparisons with my vision and other people’s,” I complained, not being shy about helping myself to a nine-grain dinner roll, but reluctant to voice any real observations about my host. The rolls were warm and plump and looked perfect on the silver-banded bread plate. Tyler looked rather perfect, too, but I left him alone. In fact, I moved carefully when I did anything that night. I had discovered why the dress had been on the sales rack. The zipper in the thing was not strictly vegetarian. It liked biting into flesh if you stretched incautiously. It was a good reminder on many levels.
“Fair enough,” Tyler said. “In my experience there are three general categories of reaction that women fall into when dealing with men in uniform: vaguely guilty and therefore overly respectful, vaguely guilty and therefore belligerent, or they are attracted to the uniform—as opposed to the man in it—and the power
it represents. Their seductions tend to be more like hostile takeovers because they feel powerless. But you’ve never had any of these common responses. I don’t think you see the uniform at all. Your mind is always looking at something else. I’d like to know what that is.”
I was constantly searching for ambushing felines, but I couldn’t say so.
“And that’s truly unique?” I stalled, and sipped my wine. I am not fond of most reds, but this was lovely on the tongue.
“Nearly, at least in my experience. The ones who react differently are too stupid to be cautious. The rest are too smart to ever get involved in the first place. Cops don’t always make the best husbands, or so I’m told.”
“Which am I?”
Tyler grinned at me. “Time will tell.”
I nodded. “Maybe I don’t react to you in the normal way because I’m not thinking of you just as the sheriff,” I suggested, making something up on the fly. “We tend to know our neighbors here in Irish Camp, not just their public personas. Maybe I see you as a person who is doing a job but who has other interests as well.” It sounded good, but now that I said it, I realized I hadn’t actually considered Tyler as someone separate from his work. Not really. Like so many things, he had been largely lost in my preoccupation with loss, pain and fear of talking felines.
“Maybe, but if so, you see me as someone to hold at a distance. I’ve known stray cats that were less wary. I think this means that you’re attracted to me—as a man, as opposed to a uniform—but reluctant to do anything about it. Even to be friends.”
Obviously he didn’t know that many stray cats. They were way warier than I am. I didn’t say this, though. I didn’t want to sound defensive because for once I didn’t feel the need to defend myself.
“I hold everyone at a distance these days,” I admitted. Then I told one of the few truths I could disclose at that point: “I’ve never been good with sympathy. It cuts my legs out from under me, and there was an awful lot of it around when Cal died. As you know, he lost big-time at the longevity sweepstakes a couple years back. We weren’t expecting it. No one was.” I was amazed at how glib I sounded. But it was that or cry, and I didn’t shed tears in public—not unless I slammed my hand in the car door.
A Curious Affair Page 15
