Sunshine Cottage

by Barbara Cool Lee

  A woman with long blond braids and pink flip-flops that matched his came up to put her arm around Hector's waist. He bent to kiss her cheek and she smiled a contented smile that took in not only her husband, but Teresa as well.

  "Ah," she said. "You're the woman with the lovely chakras."

  She nodded.

  "You must be our new literacy tutor," she added. "I'm Rain Archer. I run the herbal shop in Vincente Alley. Stop by some time for a bag of scented potpourri on the house. I think it's wonderful that you're helping our community."

  Then Rain glanced down at the bidding sheet in front of Hector.

  Teresa waited for the big blowup.

  "Why, Hector?! What did you do?"

  He puffed up like a Bantam rooster. "Getting you doughnuts 'cause I love you."

  "And you donated five hundred dollars to the library fund," Rain said. "Even though you don't read."

  "It's for the kids," he said simply. "It's important for the little souls to have their books to read."

  Rain gave him a big kiss. "You are the best."

  The couple wandered off, giving Teresa big, friendly grins as they went.

  Pamela walked up to her. "How's it going?"

  "Honestly? These are the strangest people I've ever met."

  "You must have met Hector. He's a doll, isn't he?"

  "And apparently rich. He just bid five hundred bucks for thirty doughnuts."

  She laughed. "He owns the local garage. He's a genius mechanic, and has probably socked away a ton of money on all the car sales he's made over the years."

  "But still, five hundred dollars…."

  "It's a fundraiser. People are giving to the library fund so they can expand. It's what people do here."

  The man who had said 'nope' to the tattoo question came over. "I told you about Caleb?" Pamela said. "Well, this is Caleb's father. Ryan, this is Teri."

  "Teri Forest," the man said.

  "Don't tell me," Teresa said. "The Pajaro Bay grapevine told you that."

  "Nope," the man said. "My friend Sandra Murphy did."

  She almost knocked over the bidding table and he gave her a quick warning look. They were in a big crowd, and clearly he hadn't realized how startled she'd be. Ryan. Of course. Captain Ryan Knight.

  He reached out to shake her hand. It was a firm handshake, and she tried to meet it with a nonchalant air of her own. "You must be the sheriff's captain," she said calmly, her heart pounding. "It's nice to meet you." She was shaking hands with a big, burly, cold-eyed cop.

  She let go of his hand, and resisted the urge to wipe her hand on her dress to dry her sweaty palm. Detective Graham's friend, she told herself. He's Detective Graham's friend. No need to be afraid.

  Pamela blathered on, oblivious. "I think I'm going to bid on something pretty. But it has to be small enough to take on the bus when I leave."

  Teresa nodded to her. "That's a good idea. Are you looking for anything in particular?"

  She shook her head.

  "It was nice meeting you," Captain Ryan said. "If you ever need me to arrest anybody, let me know."

  He said it like it was a joke, and Pamela laughed. "Can I get you to arrest the elves who put knots in my yarn?" she asked.

  "Out of my jurisdiction," he said blandly. "It'll be thrown out on appeal."

  Teresa smiled politely and then excused herself. "I'm going to get something to drink," she said, noticing a punch bowl in the front hall.

  There wasn't just punch. There was a ton of food, all arrayed on the checkout desk, and on little tables scattered through the front of the library.

  She realized she was still starving. She grabbed a plate and started in: cups of a heavenly butternut squash soup, studded with mushrooms and wild rice. Crusty whole grain rolls with real butter. Salads that put her deli selection from Santos' market to shame.

  And then there was the dessert table. "I may faint," she muttered to no one in particular.

  "Don't do that," said a familiar voice.

  She looked up into those gray eyes, feeling the jolt of attraction again. She felt herself smiling like an idiot, but Logan's returning grin matched hers.

  "I'm so glad you came. I had forgotten all about this until my mom called me an hour ago and told me I needed to make an appearance."

  He was freshly showered, with the dampness of his hair turning it to a dark bronze, and his fresh-scrubbed look even more obvious than before.

  She realized she was wearing a wrinkled dress and dusty flats, but he didn't seem to notice.

  He did notice her plate. "You must be starving," he said. "Come on."

  He led her to a tall bar table and stools and they perched there. She worked on her full plate, while he chatted and ate everything on his own plate—which was all desserts.

  "So are you going to bid?" he asked.

  "I'm on a pretty tight budget," she said, and then stammered out an apology. "I probably should save the food for people who are donating the money—"

  He cut her off. "Don't be ridiculous. You're eating my mom's ten-grain rolls. She'll just have to take the leftovers home if you don't eat them."

  She looked at him surreptitiously while she ate.

  "What?" he asked finally.

  "I was wondering where your tattoo is," she blurted out, then blushed.

  He laughed. "You heard that? Well, it's nothing exciting." He pulled up his shirt sleeve and she saw a number 18 on his bicep. It was a nice bicep, which she also saw but tried to pretend she didn't.

  "What does it mean?"

  "It was my high school jersey number. I was eighteen years old and my jersey number was eighteen, and I thought that was a big deal." He took the last bite of his chocolate cake. "It seems like a long time ago now. So what about you?"

  "Me?"

  "Any tattoos?"

  She covered her hand and shook her head. She watched him down a whole cinnamon roll in three bites, then follow it with a bite of a walnut-studded brownie.

  He glanced at her. "What are you thinking about?"

  "Whether I should go get some dessert," she said honestly.

  He handed her the last cookie from his plate. "Here you go. Wanna check out the bidding?"

  "Sure," she said.

  He held her chair for her while she got up, then took both their paper plates and put them in the recycling bin.

  Then he held out his hand to her and she took it. They went back to the bidding room to check out the displays.

  "It looks like a demented Chihuahua," Logan said softly.

  Teresa stared at the little painting which had been helpfully placed on a pedestal at eye-level. There was an assortment of artwork arranged around the reference room. Most pieces were clearly homemade, but there were some stunning works by very talented artists interspersed throughout, many with high bids on them.

  This painting was not one of them.

  "No," she said to Logan. "I think it's supposed to be a bat."

  "I don't see it," he said.

  "No?" She leaned closer to the painting. "See the pointy black nose? And those leathery wings are pretty good, too."

  "That's the window curtains behind the Chihuahua's head."

  "Window curtains?" She turned her head sideways. "Maybe. But I think they're wings. Big, leathery ones, with ugly veins in them."

  "Hello, Logan," said an elderly woman.

  "Why, hello, Mrs. Harris," he said with a big smile. He put his arm around Teresa, then seemed to reconsider and took it away. "This is Teri Forest, the community center's new literacy tutor. Teri, this is my first grade teacher, Mrs. Harris."

  They smiled at each other, then Mrs. Harris said, "so what do you think of my painting?" She gazed proudly at the bat/Chihuahua, and Teresa grabbed Logan's hand, hard, to keep from laughing.

  "It's unique," she said, with all the grace she could muster. "It's unlike anything else here."

  "It's my very first painting," Mrs. Harris said with great pride. "Doesn't Josephine look radian
t standing in the rain?"

  "She does," Logan said, nodding in agreement, and gripping Teresa's hand for support. With a perfectly straight face he added, "I think your granddaughter has never looked lovelier."

  "Oh, yes," Mrs. Harris said. "I took a picture of her to paint from in my class at the community center." Then she looked down at the bidding sheet and saw it was blank. Her face fell, and she seemed to be about to cry.

  "It's early yet," Teresa said quickly to Logan, loudly enough for the woman to hear. "When do you think the bids will start coming in? I'd better start deciding what I want to bid on soon, hadn't I?"

  "Yeah," he said, equally loudly. "We'd better find out how the bidding works."

  They walked away.

  A few minutes later, Teresa went back to put a small bid on Josephine the demented bat/Chihuahua, but someone else had bid twenty dollars under the name Rasputin.

  When she told Logan about it, he just said, "that's nice. She's really a wonderful person," and they moved on to look for other things.

  "Are you going to bid on anything?" he asked her, after they had made almost the full circuit of auction items. Somehow, they had been holding hands for most of the time, and it seemed natural.

  "I don't think so," she said. "I'm on a pretty tight budget, and there isn't really anything I nee—" That sentence was caught short. They came to the final room, labeled FRIENDS OF THE LIBRARY, and she saw the riches inside.

  She let go of Logan's hand and entered the room. Books. A big table with all the special books the volunteers had gleaned from past donations.

  She went around the table, just admiring the choices. Leather-bound volumes. First editions. Handmade chapbooks with illustrated covers.

  Logan was chuckling behind her as he watched her slowly examine all the books. "So, find anything you want?"

  "No," she said. "Nothing I can afford. I mean, I just—" Then she stopped.

  On a side table with some lower-priced books stood a full box set of the Harry Potter series. The dragon on the case and the quirky lettering in the sky above the dragon's head brought back all the memories of adventure.

  "The dust jackets are all torn," he observed. "And the spines are cracked."

  "But it's a full set," she said. "All the text is there. All those words." And they would be hers. She could spend weeks savoring the whole story without worrying about when they would be due back at the library.

  There was no bid on the sheet. She wasn't due to get another stipend until the first of the month, but her rent was paid, she didn't have any other expenses, and…. She rummaged through her purse and found she had a five dollar bill from the change she'd gotten after buying her salad at Santos' Market.

  "$5.00," she carefully printed on the first line of the bidding sheet.

  There was a space next to the bid amount for her name. She began to sign her name, "Teresa S—"

  She scribbled it out, then wrote a large and firm "Teri Forest" on the line.

  She blew a raspberry.

  "What's wrong?" Logan asked.

  "Oh, nothing." She would make a terrible secret agent. She couldn't even remember the name she was supposed to be using.

  "Come on," he said. "Let's see if they put out any more desserts."

  Everyone gathered in the big meeting room to hear the results of the auction.

  Pamela was one of the first to be called. "Seventy-five dollars for a romantic dinner for two at Feuille d'automne," announced the emcee. "Won by Pamela Gregg. Come on up."

  She claimed her prize, waving the envelope with a flourish before returning to her spot.

  The winners came fast and furious after that, with bay cruises, nights at B&Bs, and various pieces of art all going to the high bidders at a quick pace.

  When Hector's five-hundred dollar bid on the doughnuts was announced, the crowd cheered, and he loped up to hand over some crumpled bills and claim his win. "For my wife," he said. "Love her," he added helpfully, and everyone laughed.

  "Hey!" Logan said at one point.

  "What?" she responded.

  "That's you."

  "Teri Forest? Come get your complete set of Harry Potter books."

  She made her way to the front, feeling self-conscious. But the crowd cheered as loudly for her five-dollar contribution as they had for Hector's five-hundred dollar one.

  She picked up the box set and carried it back to her spot next to Logan.

  The items were almost all gone when Logan whispered, "help me," in her ear.

  "What's the matter?"

  "Pray hard that someone else put in a bid on the demented Chihuahua."

  "You're Rasputin!"

  "Shhh," he said, looking around at the crowd. "Rasputin's my cat." At her incredulous look he said, "well, she was my first grade teacher. And she was heartbroken nobody wanted her atrocious painting."

  "You're a softy," she whispered.

  "Guilty as charged. Now cross your fingers."

  "And the winner of this… um… lovely piece of art is the twenty-dollar bid by Rasputin. Come on up and claim your item."

  With a big smile, Logan bravely went up, handed over his twenty dollars, and took possession of the painting.

  "You were wrong," she said when he got back to her side.

  "About what?"

  "About never facing tragedy in your life." She looked at the painting. "That is truly tragic."

  The whole thing was over. All the money had been collected. All the prizes picked up. The food was being packed up and everyone was going home.

  Pamela came up to Logan and Teresa. "So what do you plan to do with the painting?" she asked.

  He glanced around to make sure no one was within earshot. "Burn it?" he said.

  "Oh, no!" she protested. "I like it."

  "You like it?" Teresa asked, astonished. "Why?"

  "I don't know. It just speaks to me."

  Teresa said dryly, "you might want to seek professional help for that."

  "No, really," she said. "I'll take it off your hands." She held out the dinner tickets. "Let's trade."

  "Those are worth way more than the painting," Logan said.

  "I don't care. I want it." She looked at it adoringly. "In all its demented glory."

  He shrugged. "If you're sure."

  She gave him the tickets, and took the painting from him.

  "What am I going to do with a" —he read the envelope— "romantic dinner for two at Feuille d'automne?"

  The question hung there in the silence.

  Pamela looked from him to Teresa.

  He turned to Teresa expectantly. "So…?"

  "I'd love to," she said.

  "Tomorrow after work?" he asked.

  She nodded.

  "Perfect," said Pamela. "So we all got what we want."

  Chapter Eight

  Back in her little attic apartment she carefully undressed, shaking out the dress she'd been wearing for the past 24 hours and hanging it up in the tiny closet.

  When she'd first put it on, the dress had felt like a costume, but now, after spending her first whole day as Teri Forest, she was beginning to feel like that outfit, and all it represented, was the real her.

  Detective Graham had said just that, back in the safe house. A couple months into her time in protective custody, he'd driven her to the testing site to take her GED exam, and then afterwards picked her up and brought her back to the safe house, where she found he had bought her a cake, with CONGRATULATIONS GRADUATE! written on top.

  "How did you know I'd pass?" she had asked, and he gave her a look.

  "Really? Like there was any doubt?" he said.

  No. There hadn't been any doubt. But when he'd started to talk to her about how she should next go to college, to eventually become a librarian like she'd dreamed of doing, she had stopped him. That wasn't for people like her.

  A GED didn't change what she was. She was what fate had made her. A prostitute and a thief. A schemer and survivor of life on the streets.


  "But you are a survivor," Detective Graham had said. "And if you survived up to now, you can survive anything in the future."

  Could she be the person she was pretending to be?

  Or was this all just an act she was putting on, playing make believe like when she'd donned the tottering high heels and short skirts she'd worn in her old life? She had always convinced herself that the way she'd survived on the street didn't have anything to do with the real her, the core self inside of her that loved her papa and took care of her mama, and devoured books like popcorn, and cried at the happy endings to Hallmark movies. That self, the one she didn't show others, that self survived. Didn't it?

  Detective Graham seemed to think the hidden self was the real her. And the one she had spent years showing to the world, the tough as nails girl who didn't believe in anything or trust anyone or even care whether she lived or died—that was the fake Teresa Soto.

  She looked around the tiny attic room with its cute little mini fridge and countertop just big enough to hold a single dinner plate. At the overstuffed sofa with the pink chenille cover thrown over it, all squishy and waiting for her to kick back and read on it. At her flowered blouse and knit jumper hanging on the back of the door all ready for tomorrow's first day of work. At the big French door at one end of the room, the tiny Juliet balcony beyond it tempting her to go out for another peek at the ocean in the moonlight.

  She looked at the stuff scattered on the sofa: her precious set of books won in the auction, her precious program from the fundraiser that was a memento of the nicest night of her life. Was this really her life? Was she really this person? Was it possible to just be this? To forget the nightmares and the world she'd left behind and just be this person?

  She picked up the program to glance through it again and noticed the tiny tattoo on the back of her hand, in the curve between her thumb and fingers: three dots stared back at her, mocking her. Mi vida loca. The symbol any gang member knew, that anyone from that life recognized. It was tattooed on her hand. Was the mark too deep to erase?