Troubled, I walked home without thinking much about the effort. When I was a kid I complained mightily about walking back to Prue’s. It was, after all, up hill. And I was often carrying books. But today I didn’t notice the effort.
I walked on the upper sidewalk. The homes across the street were a good five feet below me, built on the side of the hill that continued to slope away to the small creek below. The sidewalk evened out in front of Prue’s and stopped a few feet past her house because it changed from City limits to county property right outside her property line.
Grandma wasn’t home.
I wandered around the empty house, thinking of various things, but mostly thinking that I was suppose to be relaxing and the Browns were in escrow, and Ben was obviously too busy to return my calls and both Rosemary and Katherine wanted me to breath but I didn’t want to breath. I paused for a moment before Grandma’s recent art addition in the kitchen. She collects old kitchen implements from the mid 19th century. They are all painted a uniform black and arranged in pattern on the white wall. It was supposed to be quite chic but I did not get it. Some of the implements looked sharp and dangerous. In my hands, anything implement found in the kitchen is dangerous.
I picked out a mystery paperback from my suitcase and headed outside to the hammock in the back yard.
And I recreated the afternoon away.
I didn’t move until the sun was very low in the sky. I wandered into the kitchen. Her message light on the answering machine was blinking. I picked up my phone. No messages. Grandma rarely calls my cell except on Sundays at two o’clock, but I know it’s her. I hit the play back button on her messages and noticed that the recycling containers one, four and five needed to be emptied, but I didn’t know where.
First message was from Prue, she was with Pat and Mike, she was eating dinner at their place and she was sorry but my date with Peter will have to wait.
I was on the verge of exploring the refrigerator when the green princess phone rang. I regarded it for a second. But my mother only calls Prue on Sunday morning just before golf.
“Prue Singleton’s home,” I announced.
“Allison? This is Mathew.”
And he rescued me from myself. We would meet for dinner downtown. I voted for the restaurant that boasted outdoor dining and he quickly acquiesced.
What a nice man.
I drove because I didn’t want to walk back to Prue’s in the dark, plus it gets chilly at night.
I parked in the municipal parking lot up the street and carefully walked down hill in my other wedgies – Anne Klein, black and white.
The Groovy Grill is a small place with more outdoor dining than indoor tables, so it thrives in the summer months. Mathew saved us a table on the patio.
I spent a few minutes just appreciating the warm, bright summer evening. I had been so chilled in the last month, that any excuse to wear a sleeveless top and revel in the warm air, was a good excuse.
Mathew looked sophisticated in his blue shirt and tan slacks, almost out of place here in casual tourist Claim Jump. But I appreciated his effort.
He took his time with the menu. He ordered another bottle of white wine – I’d cope, I could drink some red at home. And he engaged me mostly with questions about myself. And as much as I love to discuss how fabulous I am, I found the conversation discouraging.
“What about Tiffany?” I said out loud, mostly as a way for us to stop talking about me.
“What about her?” he replied easily. “How’s your food?”
Good, deflecting question. I glanced down at the only non-vegetarian dish available at the Groovy Grill, Sea Bass. It was fine. The atmosphere was better. The wine was only okay.
“It’s all very lovely,” I assured him. “I just wonder about Tiffany,” I continued, undeterred. “She seems… “ I trailed off. What did she seem like?
“Skinny?” He offered. “I don’t like skinny women.”
All men like skinny women, preferably a model from a Victoria Secret commercial, wings and all. So I wasn’t falling for that line. And what did he see in me? Should I be asking that adolescent question in the face of a real date?
Probably not, I didn’t want to ruin the moment. Ben and I don’t date. He comes to my house and we hang out and order in. Not much of a social life. And not much fun. I was beginning to feel that he was embarrassed to be seen in public with me.
I chewed my fish and kale, or kelp, or green organically grown something and leaned back to feel as much of what was left of the afternoon heat as I could. Something moved across the street, something familiar.
Raul waved to me. He stood in the doorway of the Chinese Laundry – a gift shop filled with mostly Chinese memorabilia and some Indian imports as well.
“Allison,” he called, “Lean in and eat again, take a bite and chew it.”
I obediently complied, even though everything Raul says has a lascivious undertone.
“That’s right, Allison, and you, pretty boy, move in closer as well. Ah, that is so lovely, the couple at dinner.” Raul filmed a few more seconds then waved to me and dashed off.
Mathew leaned back, now that we didn’t need to be in Raul’s frame together. “It’s always interesting in Claim Jump.”
I nodded and dismissed the incident. “Tiffany seems interesting, she lives on the Ridge right?”
He shrugged. “I really don’t know where she lives, I think on the Ridge with her parents.
“There still seems to be an element of lawlessness up there that people seem to want to preserve.”
“But you don’t know because you haven’t lived here that long,” he pointed out.
“I’ve been involved here my whole life, this is where my family comes from,” I countered, but let it stand at that.
We lingered over dessert, slowly wading through shallow conversation. Maybe this is why I don’t make friends easily, I like to get down with politics and religion right off the bat – it makes conversation more interesting. But according to my mother, politics and religion are subjects never brought up in polite company, or impolite company. Grandma can’t leave either subject alone, and she has more friends and acquaintances than I can count. So I’m still not sure who is right. I just go on dates. Mostly first dates. Maybe Prue was right, I should do something about my social life.
Mathew gallantly walked me to my car and kissed me softly on the lips.
Right in the parking lot.
It was a good kiss, a fine kiss.
But one that strangely left me longing for someone else.
“Good night,” I said.
“Good night.”
I watched him walk away. I drummed my fingers on the door handle, thinking. My phone chirped, message. I glanced down. The office? At this hour? Oh hell, the message was probably delayed, that never looks good for me and it’s a lame excuse – hi, I just got your message, I know it’s been twenty four hours…
I punched in to listen to the voice mail, but I just ended up with an ear full from Rosemary, who was still embroiled in her gates project.
“So Allison,” she started. “What do you think of me building a replica of the gates in front of the Tsukushima Shrine. I’m taking a poll. It’s very Shinto and such a beautiful orange color. We’re looking for the wood right now. And you know those gates that are partially submerged in water? Just fabulous, it’s UNESCO World Heritage Site. I’m thinking of visiting all the World Heritage Sites in the world. Won’t that be a marvelous project? Are you remembering to breath?”
I didn’t listen to the rest of the message. Sometimes I do not share Rosemary’s enthusiasm for travel. Mostly because I don’t. Travel. Well, and share her enthusiasm.
It must be a slow week for her. For that I took some satisfaction. I clicked off the phone and reached for my keys.
“Allison?” The voice sounded just enough like Rosemary to make me whirl around.
“Tiffany.” I said with some relief.
She slid around the corn
er dressed in a long print sun dress that hung in folds from her bony frame. Funny, sun dresses look better on women my size than on the very thin. A tee shirt and Capri’s would look much better on her. But baggy sundresses were de rigueur during the Claim Jump summer.
“Was that Mathew?”
“Who?” I said stupidly, still thinking of Rosemary. “Oh, yes, that was Mathew.”
“What were you doing with Mathew?” Her voice abruptly grew loud and far more accusing. Two couples paused and listened. Small town.
I involuntarily took a step back, but really, I outweighed her by one hundred pounds, whom should be afraid of whom?
“Would you like a drink? Or some coffee?” I offered quickly, distracting her.
She paused between steps, thought about it, then nodded. I carefully stepped towards her and took her thin arm. I led her back out of the parking lot, around the corner to the first place still open – the coffee shop where I had started my day with Danny. Full circle.
I have not idea what it means at all.
I purchased a double mocha espresso with cream for her and a decaf hazelnut latte for me.
She scooped up a handful of sugar packets and we moved to an indoor table.
“So,” I started with the trivial. “Why are you called Tiffany?”
She methodically opened seven packets of sugar and poured them into the already sweet coffee drink.
“I was born during my mother’s stained glass period,” she said morosely. “My parents were, still are, I suppose, artists.”
“It must have been interesting to have creative parents.” I said, somewhat naively. My father is a scientist and my mother golfs, pretty straight forward couple. No wonder my grandmother shakes her head in despair.
Tiffany shrugged. “Yeah, I guess. I didn’t know any better you know? All their friends are artists or something like that. They sit around and get high off of someone’s home made wine from dandelions or blackberries or pot, then they talk about working and the old days, which are always better. Why is that?”
She fixed me with the first intelligent stare I had encountered from her narrow face. But this was an old question. We had already covered this ground.
“I suppose nostalgia for the past is easier to focus on than planning for the future.” I explained lamely. Why do we treasure yesterday? Well, for one, yesterday is when a loved one was alive. That could account for a great deal.
But I digress. We’re talking about Tiffany.
My phone buzzed. I ignored it. I only twitched at little when the chime went off. At least whoever called left a message.
Tiffany sipped at her hot coffee and grimaced when it burned her tongue.
I focused back on the girl. Girl? Up close I could tell that she was either my age or she never used sun block a day in her life. My Mary Kay consultant would be appalled at the state of Tiffany’s skin. Maybe Tiffany could use something with a bit more coverage than a tractor hat. She looked a bit ravaged to tell the truth.
“Danny is all worked up about this Mathew thing, he thinks I shouldn’t see him.” She sipped at her
coffee again. Then dumped in two more white sugar packets.
“Danny or Mathew?” I asked.
“What?”
“Never mind.”
“Anyway Mathew is so different you know? I’ve been in this town for a long, long time, and he’s the first you know, sophisticated person I’ve met.”
“I know.” I encouraged her.
What was I looking for, insider information? I wasn’t sure. She just seemed, of the young women I encountered, more fragile, more unsure of her place here in what some would call paradise, but only because they managed to keep the family house and paid property taxes amounting to only hundreds of dollars instead of thousands.
Yes, that would qualify as paradise. But the woman before me wasn’t completely sold on the paradise definition.
“Why did your parents move up to the Ridge?” I asked. I didn’t think there was even pizza delivery up there, let alone cable.
She shrugged. “They said that Claim Jump was too commercial.” She glanced around at the half filled bookshelves in the coffee shop. Travel books, in keeping with the Express theme. I thought it was fun.
The only other patron in the shop sighed, finished his coffee and ambled out.
“It doesn’t seem commercial, not like those pictures of Times Square and stuff. Do you think I could make it in the big city?”
“Depends on the city,” I replied pretty honestly. Claim Jump had a total population of 6,000. River’s Bend is currently at 140,000 and climbing or spreading. That would be a jump right there, but New York? San Francisco? She’d be eaten alive. Hell, I’d be eaten alive, that’s why I hang out in my medium size pond, still holding onto my big fish influence.
“Mathew says he’ll take me to Sacramento one of these days. That’s where he really lives.”
“Is he renting up here?” He had made his house sound like his own, ah, those little deceptions we indulge in while dating. No, I’m not hiding anything. Ben, I hadn’t mentioned Ben to Matthew. That made us even.
She nodded. “That’s why no one can come to his place, it’s just a rental, some older guy, used to be a big shot here in Claim Jump.” She frowned, “And he used to know Lucky Masters, or Lucky knew him, something like that. I don’t follow the politics, its too hard.”
Indeed it is.
“I should have gone to college. Maybe it would have helped me get a job. But my parents didn’t care about education, they said school just brain washed you to think conventionally. You know Prue actually helped me pay for some classes at Sierra College.”
“Wow, that was generous of her.” I was a little stunned at that, but then again, that was totally like my helpful grandmother.
“Yeah, but I couldn’t stick with it.” She squinted at me. “You’re successful, you have, shoes. Aren’t your parents proud of you?”
“It’s been my experience that the average parent finds it difficult to be proud of a child who is not doing exactly what the parent herself would do. So no, my mother has never approved of me.”
“Your grandmother?”
“My grandmother is very cool.”
“Yeah.” Tiffany said. “She really is.”
“Well.” I didn’t know what else to say. She was not going to give me much after all. “Thank you for having coffee with me.”
“Are you after Mathew?”
“After? I haven’t gone after any man.” I replied haughtily. Really, I believe that deep in my black little heart. A woman has to maintain some illusions. “In fact they come after me.”
I had no idea how right I was.
5,
I listened to Carrie’s voice mal message as I drove to Prue’s. It was a long description of the last night’s charity event for the Boys and Girls Club. Patrick was kind and sweet, Carrie looked good. There didn’t seem to be much more to it than that.
It was too late to call Ben.
I fell into my vaguely uncomfortable bed determined to sleep but couldn’t. I tossed and turned. I even tried breathing. Nothing. Resigned, I pulled on a tee shirt and clean shorts. I tapped out the last Aleve in my bottle, made a mental note to pick more up at Safeway tomorrow.
What to do? It was only midnight.
Wind ruffled the pages of my book. I leaned over to pick it up, then paused. I stared at the book and the fluttering pages. I looked at my window, but it was shut. The wind was coming through the door, from the back of the house – west.
The wind never blows in that direction.
I was still standing in my bedroom trying to figure out the wind situation when Grandma called my name.
“Allison!” I heard Grandma on the stairs. I stepped out to the landing.
“Oh good, you’re awake.” She rested her hand on the banister, with her other hand on her heart.
“What’s wrong?”
“Fire,” she breathed.
; When you think disaster in California, earthquake is the most popular. But our big annual event is really fire. And in September, fire happens a lot. So much that we call it fire season. We have earthquake weather, but that’s kind of random, ask a native to tell you about it. But Fire season happens every year, that’s why it’s a season. In LA, the first storms are usually fueled by the Santa Anna winds, here it’s just fueled by a million acres of national forest. Locked, loaded and ready to roar.
A forest fire is the crazy local resident who doesn’t get out much except on special occasions, and apparently this was a special night.
Prue’s hair was as wild as I’ve ever seen it, as if she had just rolled out of bed, which was the case. I went to the window.
“Should we drive out?” I jerked the curtains open.
Cars choked the street, two lanes of traffic both headed down the hill. No one seemed to care that they were blocking anything and anyone traveling up the hill. We couldn’t get out. Well, we could get out, but I was not confident about the kindness of strangers in this particular instance. I don’t think the drivers were in the mood to merge.
“I don’t think…” I said, but I was interrupted by Pat and Mike yelling in the foyer.
“Come on!” Mike called out from the foyer.
I held Grandma’s arm and she slowly made her way down the stairs, getting to my room took all her energy.
“I’ve never run so hard in my life.” Pat put his hands on his thighs and gulped in air.
“You don’t’ run,” Mike pointed out.
“Well, a special occasion.”
“We should get out, we don’t know how the fire is moving.” Mike said, rather sensibly.
“And go where? Especially if we don’t know where the fire is going?” Prue demanded.
“The wind,” Mike faltered.
“No, the wind can change. I’m not going.” Prue declared.
“Be sensible, the authorities will want to evacuate us anyway.” Mike said.
“If they can get up here to find us,” I said.
“We can all walk,” Mike suggested.
“Sure,” I said, “but where will we go?”
“No, we stay here and protect the house,” Prue set her jaw stubbornly. Ah, that’s where my mother gets it. I myself am not stubborn, just mostly in the right.
Catharine Bramkamp - Real Estate Diva 02 - Time Is of the Essence Page 12
