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“Why not? Lots of people like things that are soft and mushy.”
“People in old age homes, maybe.”
“Be nice.”
“I’m always nice.”
“Then pour me another drink. I’m celebrating tonight, too,” she reminded him.
He refilled her champagne flute. “Ah, yes. We’re celebrating the fact that you’ve done the firm out of a Holmstrom original.”
“Don’t be bitter. We’re getting a mint condition Tiffany service, right down to the sugar tongs. The other things, as well.”
“I’d rather have it all. What was the old lady thinking, that hanging on to the necklace is going to bring her mother back from a Nazi death camp?”
“Gee, how about I ask her exactly that?” Tess drank more champagne.
“Okay, sorry. I’m sure you tried your best.”
“She’s a nice lady. Kind, filled with stories. I wish I had more time to spend with her. Do me a favor, and get a ton of money for her Tiffany.”
“Of course. I’ll send over our best appraiser. By the way, Nathan’s brother is checking you out.” He glanced over her shoulder.
“And?”
“And, are you available?”
“If you mean, am I seeing someone at the moment, the answer is no.”
“What happened to Motorcycle Dude?”
“Rode off into the sunset without me,” she confessed.
“And Popeye the Sailor Man?”
She laughed. “The navy guy, you mean. Eldon sailed off into the sunset. What is it with guys and sunsets?”
“You seem heartbroken.”
“Not.” In order to have her heart broken, she had to give it into someone’s care, and she simply wasn’t willing to do that. Too dangerous, and men were too careless. Both her mother and her grandmother were proof of that. Tess was determined not to become a third-generation loser. Tess knew what she was good at—primarily, her work. In that arena, she was in control; she had been raised to keep a firm grip on things. Matters of the heart, however, were impossible to control. She found intimacy unsettling, especially in light of her friends’ defection to marriage and even starting families.
“I’m going to stop trying to keep track of the men you date,” said Jude. “None of them stick around long enough for me to remember their names, anyway.”
“Ouch,” she said. “Touché.”
“Do you secretly hate men?” he inquired. “Could that be the problem?”
“God, no. I love men,” she said. She broke eye contact and turned to stare out the window. Night lay over the city in a blanket of gold stars. “I’m just not very good at keeping them around.”
“You want to get a room, make wild monkey love for a while?” Jude suggested, lightly running his finger from her shoulder down to her elbow.
She gave his arm a smack. “Don’t be a creep.”
“Just being practical. We’re the only ones here who aren’t coupled up, so I thought—”
“What, us? We would destroy each other.”
“You’re no fun, Sister Mary Theresa. When are you going to give in to my charms?”
“How about never?” She tossed back the last of her champagne. “Does never work for you?”
“You’re killing me. Fine, I’m going on safari to soothe my poor, rejected ego.” Bending down, he gave her a peck on the cheek, then smiled at her with fond familiarity. “Later, Gorgeous. I’ve got a one-night stand to organize.”
“Okay, that’s depressing.”
“No. Going home alone is depressing.” He moved toward the moodily lit bar, where young women were lined up like ducks in a shooting gallery.
Tess had no doubt he’d make a conquest. Jude always made an outstanding first impression. Not only did he look as though he’d stepped out of an Armani ad; he had a way of gazing at a woman that made her feel as though she’d instantly become the center of his world.
Tess saw straight through him, though. In his own way, he was as lonely and damaged as she was.
She set down her champagne flute and went to look out the window. San Francisco on a clear night was pure magic, the city lights like a necklace of diamonds around the bay, the sky as soft as black velvet. The bridges were swagged by golden chains formed by their cables. Boats of every size glided back and forth in the water. The skyscrapers lined up like gold bars of varying heights. Even the traffic in the streets below moved along in ruby-studded chains of gold. Tess had visited dozens of the world’s cities—Paris, Johannesburg, Mumbai, Shanghai—but San Francisco was her favorite. It was the kind of city where being independent was valued, not pitied or regarded as a problem to be rectified by well-meaning friends.
She approached the newly engaged couple to say her goodbyes. Watching her friends together, flushed and smiling, joy shining from their eyes, Tess felt a twinge of bittersweetness. Lydia was one of those people who made love look easy. She wasn’t naive enough to regard Nathan as perfect. Instead, she simply trusted him with her heart. Tess wondered if that was a learned skill, or if you had to be born with it.
“I’m taking off,” she said, giving Lydia a hug. “Call me.”
“Of course. Be careful going home.”
Tess left the bar and stepped into the elevator. The angled mirrors of the car were oddly placed, so that her image grew smaller and smaller, into infinity. She studied that image—pale skin and freckles, wavy red hair, a Burberry trench coat she’d bought in Hong Kong for a fraction of its price in the U.S.
She stared at her image for so long that she began to look like a stranger to herself. How was that possible?
For no reason she could discern, her heart sped up, hammering against her breastbone. Good God, how much had she had to drink? Her breathing grew shallow in her upper chest, and her throat felt tight. She gripped the handrail, trying to steady herself against a wave of dizziness.
Maybe she was coming down with something, she thought as the sensations persisted, accompanying her all the way down to the opulent lobby of the hotel. No. She didn’t have time to come down with something. It was out of the question.
There were mirrors in the lobby as well, and a glance told Tess she didn’t look like a woman who was about to collapse. But she felt like one, and the feeling chased her out the door. She dashed outside, into the night, heading toward the Lower Nob Hill neighborhood where she lived. No need for a taxi. The brisk walk might do her good.
Her heels clicked nervously on the pavement. The metallic squeal of a streetcar pierced her eardrums. Her vision blurred in and out of sharpness as though she were peering through binoculars and adjusting the focus. Her heart was still racing, breathing still rapid and shallow. Maybe it was the champagne, she thought.
If she had a doctor, she would ask him. But she didn’t have a doctor. She was twenty-nine years old, for Pete’s sake. Doctors were for sick people. She wasn’t sick. She just had the occasional feeling her head was going to explode.
She took out her phone and dialed her mother without much hope of getting her. Shannon Delaney was traveling somewhere in the Lot Valley in France, an area famed for its history, its wines and scenery—and notorious for its lack of cell phone signals.
“Hey, it’s me, checking in,” she said. “Call me when you get a chance. Let’s see, Lydia and Nathan are getting married, but you don’t care about that because you don’t know Lydia and Nathan. I found a complete set of Tiffany today. And some other stuff. Call me.”
She put the phone away, wondering when the jittery feelings would abate. A cigarette, that was what she needed. Yes, she was a smoker, having fallen thoughtlessly into the habit on her first major business trip to France. She knew the horrific health effects as well as the next person. And naturally, she intended to quit one day. Soon. Just not tonight.
Stepping into the shelter of the darkened doorway, she rummaged in her bag for the red-and-white package. Then the challenge—a match. As always, her bag was a mess, a repository of makeup, receipts, ticket stubs, notes to herself, bits of information about things she was working on, business cards of people whose faces she’d forgotten. She also carried tools of her trade, like a jeweler’s loupe and a penlight. There was even a small bag filled with lavender scones from Miss Winther, who had insisted on sending Tess home with a supply.
Finally, she hit pay dirt—a box of matches from Fuego, a trendy bistro where she’d gone on a date with someone. A guy who, for whatever reason, hadn’t called her again. She couldn’t remember who, but she recalled that the salad made with Bosc pears and Point Reyes blue cheese was amazing. Maybe that was why they hadn’t gone out again; he was not as memorable as the cheese.
Flipping open the box, she discovered she was down to her last cigarette. No matter. Maybe tomorrow she would quit. Putting the filter between her lips, she struck a match, but it flamed out in the breeze. She took out another match.
“Excuse me.” A woman pushing a battered shopping cart uphill stopped on the sidewalk near Tess. The cart was piled high with plastic bags filled with cans, a rolled-up sleeping bag, bundled clothing, a hand-lettered cardboard sign. In the front of the cart was a small, scruffy dog. Its beady eyes caught the yellowish glow of the streetlamp as the woman angled the cart cross on the hill.
Tess was trapped in the doorway. She couldn’t very well keep walking, couldn’t avert her eyes and pretend she hadn’t seen.
“Spare a smoke?” the woman asked in a voice that sounded both polite yet exhausted, slightly breathless from the uphill climb.
“This is my last one.”
“I only want one.”
Resigned, Tess put the cigarette back in its box and handed it over. “Here you go.”
“Thanks,” said the woman. “Gotta light?”
“You bet.” She gave her the box of matches.
The woman’s hands shook with a tremor as she tucked away the cigarette box and matches.
“How about some homemade scones?” asked Tess, holding out the bag from Miss Winther.
“Sure, thanks.” The woman took one out and bit into it. “Did you make them yourself?”
“No, I’m useless in the kitchen. They were made by a—” Friend? “A client.” She tried not to dwell on the fact that she had more clients than friends.
“Well, it’s mighty tasty.” She gave a morsel to the dog, who acted as though it was manna from heaven. “Jeroboam thinks so, too,” the woman said, chuckling with delight as the dog stretched out to lick her chin. “Take care.” She angled her cart down the hill. “And God bless.”
Tess watched her go, pondering the irony of the homeless woman’s words. Take care.
She felt a fresh thrum of discomfort in her chest, rolling back through her with new vigor, and she started walking quickly, nearly running, to...where? And why the hurry?
“Take it easy,” she whispered in time with her breathing. She repeated the phrase like a mantra, but it didn’t seem to help. She fled to the door of her walk-up, fumbling with the key at the top of the stairs. Her hand shook as she unlocked the door and rushed inside, up another flight of steps through the faint smells of cooking and furniture polish.
“You’re home,” she said, ducking into her apartment and looking around her messy, familiar domain. There were suitcases and bags in various stages of unpacking, laundry in transition, piles of reading material, crossword puzzles and work documents. Busy with travel and work, she was seldom home long enough to neaten things up.
Still, she loved her home. She loved old things. The brown-brick place was a survivor of the 1907 earthquake and fire, and proudly bore a plaque from the historical society. The building had a haunted history—it was the site of a crime of passion—but Tess didn’t mind. She’d never been superstitious.
The apartment was filled with items she’d collected through the years, simply because she liked them or was intrigued by them. There was a balance between heirloom and kitsch. The common thread seemed to be that each object had a story, like a pottery jug with a bas-relief love story told in pictures, in which she’d found a note reading, “Long may we run. —Gilbert.” Or the antique clock on the living room wall, each of its carved figures modeled after one of the clockmaker’s twelve children. She favored the unusual, so long as it appeared to have been treasured by someone, once upon a time. Her mail spilled from an antique box containing a pigeon-racing counter with a brass plate engraved from a father to a son. She hung her huge handbag on a wrought iron finial from a town library that had burned and been rebuilt in a matter of weeks by an entire community.
Other people’s treasures captivated her. They always had, steeped in hidden history, bearing the nicks and gouges and fingerprints of previous owners. She’d probably developed the affinity from spending so much of her childhood in her grandmother’s antiques shop. Having so little in the way of family herself, she used to imagine what it might be like to have siblings, aunts and uncles...a father.
Tonight, she found no comfort in her collected treasures. She paced back and forth, wishing she hadn’t had that extra glass of champagne, wishing she hadn’t given away her last cigarette, wishing she could call Neelie or Lydia, her best friends. But Lydia was busy being engaged and Neelie had a new boyfriend; Tess couldn’t interrupt their happy evening with a ridiculous cry for help.
“Yes, ridiculous, that’s what you’re being,” she said to her image in the mirror. “You don’t have a single thing to worry about. What if you were really in trouble? What if you were like the Winthers in Nazi-occupied Denmark? Now, there’s something to fret about.”
Then Tess thought about the panhandler, who probably had her worries as well, yet she seemed to face the world with weary acceptance. She seemed content with her scones and her dog. Maybe I should get a dog, thought Tess. But, no. She traveled too much to take responsibility for even an air fern, let alone a dog.
Yet no matter how much she tried to ignore the hammering in her chest, she couldn’t escape it. That was the one thing she’d never figured out how to run from—herself.
Part Three
My dear, have some lavender, or you’d best have a thimble full of wine, your spirits are quite down, my sweeting.
—John O’Keeffe, A Beggar on Horseback, 1798
LAVENDER SCONES
2 cups flour
½ cup rolled oats
1 tablespoon baking powder
½ teaspoon baking soda
½ teaspoon sea salt
1/4 cup butter
1 ½ tablespoons lavender flowers, fresh or dried
1 egg, beaten
1/3 cup honey
½ cup buttermilk
1 teaspoon vanilla
Preheat oven to 400 degrees. Combine flour, oats, baking powder, baking soda and salt. Cut in butter and add lavender. Make a well in the center of the flour mixture. Pour in the egg, honey, buttermilk and vanilla. Stir just until combined. With floured hands, pat the dough into a round about 1 inch thick and cut into eight wedges. Bake scones for 12 to 15 minutes, or until lightly browned. Serve with butter and honey.
(Source: Adapted from Herb Companion Magazine)
Three
Archangel, California
“I found him wandering down the highway,” said Bob Krokower, indicating the gangly shepherd-mix dog struggling at the end of the leash. “Fay and I thought Charlie would be a nice companion for us in our retirement, but...uh...turns out it’s not exactly a match made in heaven.”
Dominic Rossi eyed the huge paws and mischievous eyes of the overgrown pup. Then he turned to Bob, a friend and client at the bank, who had yanked the dog across the field and over Angel Creek, which ran between their homes. “I’ve already got two dogs,” he said. “Iggy and the Dude.” Both were also rescues, a crazy little Italian greyhound who’d survived a puppy mill, and another dog of such mixed heritage, sometimes Dominic wasn’t even sure he was a dog.
“We can’t keep him. Leaving this morning for a weekend with the grandkids. He’s real social,” said Bob, adjusting his baseball cap. “Here’s a big bag of dog food. He’ll get along fine with your other dogs. With your kids, too. He loves kids. Just...not retired folks.”
Dominic had a list a mile long of things he had to do today, including picking up the kids from his ex-wife’s, but there was nothing on the list about rescuing a stray dog. He’d risen early as usual, starting the day with a walk through his vineyards. Growing grapes and making wine was a passion, but at this point, it was far from a living. He had to fit it in between his day job and his duties as a single father, rushing around between roles.
