She put on her jeans, a T-shirt, her walking shoes, then put her room keycard in her pocket, slung her bag over her shoulder, and left.
She walked to the transit center by Union Station, where she watched the buses arrive and depart, not sure where she wanted to go. She studied the list of possible destinations. North Hollywood. No. She didn’t want to look at anybody’s name on a sidewalk. Beverly Hills. No. No movie stars or exclusive shops. Chinatown. No. Santa Monica, she read and thought of the beach and sand and salt water. She found the correct bus, got on board, and paid her fare.
She rode, exchanging glances and brief smiles with the woman who sat down beside her. She was Southeast Asian, had warm brown eyes and skin and beautiful gold bracelets and rings. Annie wondered what had brought her here. What life she had come to and what she had left behind. The bus stopped at the Third Street Promenade, and Annie got off. She took a schedule and dropped it into her bag, then oriented herself just to make sure she could find her way back.
It was warm, in the eighties even in the late afternoon. The sun was out, but the sky was hazy, and that part reminded her of home. She window-shopped, walked along the promenade, browsed in the boutiques and gift shops, then walked along the water. The breeze was stiff, but the cool wind on her face felt good after the tension of the day. She let it whip her face and she relaxed a little, breathing in the salty air. She walked past the pier, then checked her watch again. She turned and headed back, but chose a different route, through a residential area a few blocks from the waterfront.
There were apartments here, and small beach cottages. She stopped in front of one, a tiny square of white stucco with a postage stamp lawn that erupted with flowering plants. Hot pink blossoms climbed up the porch rail. Roses twined over the arbor and the gate. Masses of pink, purple, red, and orange blossoms banked the house. The owner had been sitting at the table in the center of the lawn. It was shaded by a purple-and-pink-striped umbrella. There was a cup of coffee and a puzzle book. She stood and stared for a minute and imagined herself walking up that sidewalk, turning the key in that door, then coming back outside and sitting in that chair, watching the sun set over the beach, sipping something as she relaxed. She imagined living there with another person, somebody golden and light, not dark and intense. Someone with whom she could forget everything and everyone she had known before.
She turned and walked quickly back toward the shopping district. The houses soon merged with shops again, and after another few minutes of walking she came to an outdoor market. Just in front of her a woman was hanging out hand-dyed fabric, swirls of magenta, indigo, saffron, and emerald. Beside it were tables loaded with glass beads in luminous pastels, boldly painted masks, figures carved from glossy brown mahogany. She smiled and walked on, past the Chinese herbs, past the greengrocer whose crates of apples, oranges, bananas, and cabbages were stacked high. She smelled barbeque and realized she was hungry.
As she neared the promenade, the crowd began to change. Women and men in business clothes zigged around her with the focused look of people on their way home from work. Everybody was aimed toward home. Where suppers waited, where sleeves would be rolled up, something cool sipped, children bathed and played with or read to before they were tucked into familiar beds. She felt almost as if she were standing outside their houses watching as the light from their windows spilled onto the dark sidewalk. She felt a surge of familiar longing pierce her, and she picked up her pace to counteract it.
She nodded at a swarthy little man with a ponytail who was sitting in the shade of a cardboard box, dropped a few dollars into his hat, passed the art galleries, the upscale boutiques, the jewelry shops, the little bars and bistros, and the late-lunch-early-dinner crowd that spilled out onto the sidewalk.
She stopped before the next door. O’Hara’s Antiques and Collectables was embellished in gold on the door of the shop. Annie checked her watch. It was five o’clock, but she had until seven. There was time, and she could never pass up one of these places, could she? There was something about them that called to her, and this time was no exception. She pushed open the door and stepped inside, then closed her eyes and sniffed, for it was the aroma that always hit her first. It swept her up and dropped her down into the past, the fragrance of something familiar and dear in this strange, unfamiliar place. It was a mix of old paper and mustiness and woodsmoke, perhaps caught in some towel, tablecloth, or blanket. A bittersweet feeling caught at her heart. She walked along the first aisle. The air-conditioning raised goose bumps on her arms, or was it something else?
The first few booths she passed were a disappointment. They were full of California kitsch. Fifties toasters, chairs, furniture, everything in shades of pink and baby blue, lots of chrome and pointy angles.
But farther on, a stall was full of clothes. A vintage sweater from the forties would have caught her eye even if she hadn’t had goose bumps. It was cashmere, in that shade of reddish orange called persimmon, her favorite color. It’s your color, she could hear him saying. It goes with your hair and your eyes. She took it off the hanger, touched the beautifully beaded design on the front. It would go with her dress tonight. She put it on. It felt soft and warm against her skin, like a comforting hand. The tag swung from a thread on the sleeve.
She walked past the men’s booths, so easy to recognize. They were dark lumpy collections of telephones, tools, war medals, golf clubs.
As she approached the till, antique of course, a small rounded woman greeted her.
“Good afternoon,” the woman said. She smiled and Annie was struck by the beauty of her eyes. They were a pretty, clear aqua with kindness crinkles at the corners.
“Good afternoon,” she answered back and realized with embarrassment that she was wearing the merchandise. “This sweater is yours,” she confessed.
“No problem,” the woman said. “Hold out your arm.”
Annie stuck out her arm.
The woman brought out a pair of scissors and snipped off the tag.
“I’ll start your tab,” she said.
Annie smiled and nodded. She never left one of these places without buying a memento. A handkerchief, a piece of lace, a book, a paper fan. She would not buy a fifties toaster, though, however badly she wanted a keepsake.
“I was just going to start a new pot of coffee,” the woman said. “Would you like a cup when it’s ready?”
“I would,” Annie said. How generous. How unexpected, she thought, and she felt grateful out of proportion.
She walked and looked, and it was in the back she found the curiosity. It was a series of walled-in rooms with windows, like a house within the store. It had probably been someone’s office at one time, but the owner had used the space to recreate a Victorian home, even siding the outside of the walls with gingerbread cutwork and moldings. Annie stepped across the threshold into the make-believe parlor and opened her mouth in wonder. She felt as if she’d stepped out of this century and into another.
Two wine-colored chairs were drawn close beside a parlor stove. Oriental rugs lay on the floor. Warm light spilled from Victorian lampshades onto polished mahogany tables. Maxwell Parrish prints decorated the walls. She blinked, stood, and looked for a moment before moving into the bedroom. A cradle was pulled close to a four-poster bed. It was empty.
She passed quickly into the kitchen. It was arranged as if someone had been in the midst of making a pie. The rolling pin and pie plate lay on the Hoosier cupboard. There was even a piece of crust and a sprinkling of flour for effect. She poked it with her finger, almost expecting it to be soft and pliable. The table was covered with a red-and-white checkered cloth and set with Blue Willow dishes. An assortment of cast-iron pans covered the burners of the Monarch cookstove. She wandered out again to the parlor, her eyes sweeping over the room one more time.
They were drawn this time to something she hadn’t noticed before—a small red square on the wall. On it was embossed a picture of Jesus. His face was gentle. He held a lamb in his r
ight arm and in his left a shepherd’s staff. The edges were frayed, but the curly letters embossed on the fuzzy backing were perfect. She read its message, her heart thumping, as if the words had some great meaning. My Sheep Hear My Voice.
She walked toward it, raised her hand to touch it, and as soon as she did, she knew that she was meant to have it. She took it down from the wall, held it gingerly, then turned it over and looked at the back. Someone had written something in lovely Spencerian script. Earth Has No Sorrow That Heaven Cannot Heal.
The words pierced her heart, a wound instead of a balm. She glanced down at the name beneath the sentiment. Annie Wright Johnson. Silver Falls, North Carolina, 1920.
She blinked and had to read it again, not sure what she had just seen. Her heart thumped out of time, and her mouth went dry. How could this be? The unlikeliness of it felt like a dash of cold water in her face. Silver Falls was a stone’s throw from her home, just a few miles from her own town of Gilead Springs. And the woman’s name! What kind of coincidence was this? This woman who shared her name, who understood sorrow, had reached across miles and years and had tapped her lightly on the shoulder and spoken. She felt as if she were standing with a foot on two moving pieces of land and must decide quickly what to do. Whether to think it was an unlikely coincidence, signifying nothing. Or something more. Whether to believe. Or not.
Taking the picture with her, she sat down in the rocking chair. What did it mean, this message? And what did it mean that she had found it here, in this place, to which she had come to hide? She fingered the soft velvet and read those words again. My Sheep Hear My Voice.
She hadn’t heard His voice for so long she couldn’t remember what it sounded like. Was she not His sheep, then? She had thought she was at one time. She had known it. But now she didn’t know anything for sure. She looked down at the lamb. At the kind face of the shepherd. She breathed deeply in and out. Where was He? This Christ of Calvary who healed hearts and changed lives? She did not see Him anymore.
“Here you are.”
Annie startled. It was the woman, holding a paper cup of coffee.
“Sorry,” the woman said. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”
“That’s all right. Thank you.”
“That’s nice, isn’t it?” The woman glanced at the picture in Annie’s hand.
Annie nodded. She raised her face to the woman and hoped she didn’t look as if she’d seen a spirit. “Where did you get this?”
“This is Lottie Anderson’s stall,” she answered. “She takes a lot of buying trips. New York, North Carolina, even Europe some years. She could have picked it up anywhere. I could call and ask her if you really want to know.”
Annie shook her head. “That’s all right.”
“Want me to take it up front for you?”
“I’ll just hold it if it’s all right with you.”
“Of course,” she said agreeably, then disappeared.
Annie leaned back in the rocker, and then she was not in Los Angeles any longer, but back there, in the high-ceilinged kitchen, sitting at the oak table, feeling the smooth oilcloth under her hand, and sipping sweet tea, hearing the clink of dishes, the clatter of pots, the murmur of familiar voices. She closed her eyes, and the peace she longed for hinted its presence like the faint scent of something beautiful drifting past on the breeze.
Three
Annie showered and dressed for dinner, as nervous as if she were going to the prom. She wore the amber necklace and earrings again, the beautiful russet sweater and the gold silk dress. She was waiting in the lobby a full ten minutes early, standing by the revolving doors, watching for Jason Niles. She felt an empty nervousness.
“Annie.” A voice behind her.
She turned and saw him. He had come in from the opposite direction.
“I need to make a quick stop at my house,” he apologized as he led her to the car. “I haven’t been home yet.”
“Sure,” she agreed.
“I have to check on my daughter and make sure she’s set for the evening. Besides, it’s on the way.”
“No problem.”
He wove his way through traffic, snaking over one freeway after another. He got off at an exit to El Segundo, drove awhile longer through a tidy green town, then turned into a newer-looking housing development and stopped in front of a small ranch house. The lawn was green. A chubby short palm tree was its only decoration.
“Come in and meet Delia,” he invited.
“What a beautiful name.”
“My wife chose it. She died two years ago of cancer.”
“I’m sorry.” She said the words gently and with feeling, but nothing more, for what more was there to say? She felt a kinship with him she hadn’t before. She followed him into the house as he called his daughter.
“Delia! Delia!”
No answer, but after a minute a round-faced teenaged girl appeared from the kitchen. “Hey, Mr. Niles,” she said, greeting him. “Delia’s out back.”
Shooting hoops, Annie saw as they approached the glass door. Jason opened it and called his daughter again.
“Delia, come here. I have someone I want you to meet.”
She came running. Sweaty, her long brown hair wild. She wore shorts and a T-shirt and was barefoot. She dropped the basketball onto the small patio and came inside. She gave him a hug, thin arms wrapped around his waist. She looked around nine. Maybe ten. He leaned down and planted a kiss on her cheek, and something in Annie’s chest began to ache.
Delia released her dad and turned to face Annie with frank curiosity.
“Delia, this is Annie Dalton. She might come to work with us at the paper. We’re going to Mr. Kroll’s house for dinner tonight.”
“Hi,” she said.
When she smiled, Annie saw that she had big new teeth in front and a missing molar. “Hi,” Annie answered and smiled back.
“I’m going to change clothes,” Jason said, heading down the hallway. “Delia, show Annie around.”
Delia shrugged and smiled again. “Well,” she said. “What do you want to see?”
Annie laughed. “Well, what have you got to show me?”
Delia shrugged again, still smiling. “I could show you my rabbit.”
“That’d be just fine,” Annie answered, and she followed Delia back outside.
“Don’t get lost, Delia,” the baby-sitter warned. “The pizza’s going to be here in ten minutes.”
“I won’t,” Delia said to the baby-sitter. “He’s over here,” she said to Annie and led the way to a hutch in the corner of the yard. “His name’s Thumper.”
Annie peered into the chicken-wire cage and saw two pink eyes staring back at her. Thumper was an extremely well-fed ruby-eyed white Giant Angora. Her 4-H days came back in a rush.
“Wow. He’s beautiful,” she said. “Do you take care of him yourself?”
“Mostly.” Delia opened the cage and took out the rabbit. He was an armful for her and squirmed to be put down.
“Have you ever clipped him?” Annie asked.
“I’ve only had him a couple of months,” Delia answered. “But the lady who gave him to me lives down the block, and she said she’d show me how.”
“I used to have dozens of these,” Annie said, smiling. “But I lived in the country.”
“On a farm?”
“Yep.”
“What other animals did you have?”
“A big flock of sheep. Cows. Chickens. A dog. A couple of really mean geese. And two llamas.”
“Wow.” Delia smiled, showing the gap in her teeth. “Where was it? You have an accent.”
“It was in the mountains of North Carolina. But that was a long time ago. I live in an apartment now. In Seattle.”
“Are you gonna move here and work with my dad?”
“I think so,” Annie said. “I’m pretty sure.”
Delia nodded and put Thumper down in the grass. “I have to guard him,” she explained seriously. “If he gets out of the yard
, the dogs will get him.”
Thumper made a break for the gate, and Delia blocked his way. He tried again, and after a few moments it became a game. Delia and the rabbit playing dodge while Annie watched. She was a beautiful child, so unselfconscious and free.
“Here I am.” It was Jason, cleaned up and dressed.
“That was a quick change,” Annie said.
“I’m pretty low maintenance.” He turned to his daughter. “Give me a kiss,” he said, leaning down. “I’ll be back late, so don’t give Gina any trouble when she tells you to do your homework and get ready for bed.”
“I won’t,” she promised.
“Good-bye, Delia,” Annie said. “It was nice to meet you.” She looked hard, memorizing the small lively face, the warm brown eyes and shiny hair.
“See you,” Delia said. She was back to playing with the rabbit before they turned to leave.
****
Max Kroll lived with his wife, Rachel, in a beautiful house in Hermosa Beach. Actually on Hermosa Beach, and palatial estate would be more descriptive than house. It covered at least two lots and was a low, far-flung sprawl of redwood and arbors, golden, airy wood and high ceilings, bonsai and koi ponds, no doubt financed by his wife’s income as a real estate broker. Annie knew no paper paid this well, whether you were the big dog or not. It was beautiful, clean, open, refreshing. There was nothing about any of it that reminded her of home, and she liked that the most.
She liked the people, too. She liked crusty old Max Kroll, for all his bluff and bluster. She liked his wife, Rachel, who proved to have a sharp wit. She liked Jason with his quiet ways. They ate on the deck, the surf a regular rhythm in the background. They had fresh Pacific oysters with a tart Chablis, then some kind of curry coconut chicken dish with thyme-grilled asparagus and more wine. Then chocolate raspberry cake and strong bitter espresso. She supposed after she came to work here she wouldn’t be hobnobbing with the boss, but tonight it was grand. She felt exhilarated and sure.
At the Scent of Water Page 5
