Silver Serenade

by Gerry O'Hara

  “I’ll clear the dishes before I go, Señor Cash.” Maria emerged from the shadows and Christie quickly stepped away from Cash. Maria placed the dishes on a tray and padded away. Cash touched Christie’s shoulder and she jumped. He laughed.

  “Come on, it isn’t that serious. Maria was oblivious to what she interrupted. Let’s continue where we left off.”

  “I’m tired and I’m going to say good night.” The mood had fled, replaced by sensibility.

  “Don’t let an inopportune incident ruin the evening. You wanted that kiss as much as I did.”

  “What makes you think that?”

  “You can’t deny the chemistry.”

  “No, I can’t,” she said.

  “Then what’s holding you back?”

  “I don’t want to be rushed. I’m going to say good night; it’s been a long day.”

  His eyes darkened momentarily. “I understand. I hope you sleep well, Christie.”

  Later, the hacienda was blanketed with a quiet that was foreign to Christie. She was accustomed to the nocturnal cacophony of a never-sleeping city. At home, those sounds nudged her into slumber. Here, the silence was unsettling; she was wide awake and morning seemed a lifetime away. If she didn’t get some rest, she would be miserable and useless when daybreak came. But how could she relax when Cash was on the other side of the courtyard, only a few steps away?

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Christie was snuggled inside a soft crazy quilt. Bright sunlight danced across her face, urging her awake. For a moment she was disoriented; the room was unfamiliar. She stretched, sat up, and swiveled around until her feet dangled off the edge of the bed. Through the sheer curtains, she could see a saguaro cactus, its chunky arms elbowed skyward. Twenty-four hours ago she was riding a cable car high above San Francisco Bay. Today she was staring out at the flat, dry desert—at Cash’s home. Her sense of time and place became jumbled in her semiawake mind.

  She slipped her feet into soft suede slippers and headed for the bathroom. After showering, she dressed in khakis and a pale-blue short-sleeved pullover. She hurried through the house to the patio, where she found Cash reading the paper. When he saw her, he folded the paper and slipped it under his chair.

  “Good morning.” He looked at his watch. “You have time for breakfast, then we’ll be on our way.”

  The air was pleasantly warm and fragrant. Jasmine clung to the adobe wall that surrounded the patio. The plant’s green tendrils were spotted with dainty white flowers.

  Christie sipped dark, rich coffee and sneaked a look at Cash over her cup. His eyebrows suddenly arched upward.

  “What’s so interesting?” he asked.

  Caught out, she took a deep breath and opened her mouth to reply, but discovered she was tongue-tied. That was what he did to her, she realized with dismay.

  “Christie?” He cocked his head sideways, waiting for her to answer his question.

  “You’re interesting,” she said, regaining composure. “There are so many layers to your personality and character that I am somewhat taken aback.”

  “In what way?”

  “Definitely in more than a professional way.” Why not be honest? she thought.

  Cash reached across the table and grasped her hand. A prickling marched up her arm. As he leaned closer, his dark eyes engulfed her. She was lost, and she knew it. Slowly, she retrieved her hand and put her other hand over it, as if for protection. She looked into her half-empty coffee cup to avert her gaze from him.

  “I think we’d better be going.” His voice was flat.

  They drove through Oak Creek Canyon. Twisted sycamores bordered the road. The jagged rimrock was layered with varying shades of copper. There was an ancient, unspoiled look to the landscape, and Christie could almost visualize long-ago Indians astride pintos, standing lookout over their vast lands.

  The drive was pleasant, and Cash spoke of Hal and Margo warmly, relaying anecdotes of their adolescent mischief. It was obvious that the bond between the three of them was strong.

  A large river rock–edged sign announced an upscale housing complex. Cash turned into the entrance and drove a couple of blocks before pulling into a cul-de-sac. They parked in front of a pinkish-beige stucco house with a red-tile roof. A green lawn fringed the house, creating a desert oasis. The front door opened as they approached. A smiling, obviously pregnant woman waved; her other arm cradled her rounded belly. Cash quickly strode along the walkway to meet her.

  “Margo, you’re looking wonderful.” He embraced the woman, then stepped aside. “I’d like you to meet Christie Hamilton.”

  Margo’s grip was warm and firm. “I can’t tell you how much we appreciate your coming, Christie. Come in; Hal’s on the back patio.”

  They walked through the house. The rooms were generously proportioned and furnished in desert hues. Large oil paintings of flowers and landscapes added color to an otherwise monochromatic scheme.

  On the patio Hal immediately stepped to his wife’s side and put an arm around her. “Glad to meet you, Christie,” he said after introductions. “Cash told us you are one of the best document examiners, so we’re going to rely on your report.”

  Christie was aware that they were not going to appreciate what she planned to tell them.

  They sat at a wrought-iron table. A pitcher of iced tea and a carafe of hot coffee were on a tray with muffins and a platter of melon. “Help yourself,” Hal said. He poured coffee for Cash and himself, while Margo and Christie opted for iced tea. Margo squeezed lemon into her glass and stirred.

  “I know Cash filled you in on our situation. We haven’t heard from my father-in-law in a year. And now our stockbroker receives a directive to sell Elliot’s stock. It doesn’t make sense.”

  “Dad has always held a controlling interest in Parker Electronics. I can’t believe he would relinquish that.”

  “Cash did tell you that I concluded that the letter is genuine?”

  “Yes, but Hal has questions,” Margo said.

  “We brought the report with us. I’ll go over it with you so that you can understand each detail.”

  Margo waved the suggestion away, but Hal did not dismiss the offer.

  “I lost my mother, I can’t bear to lose my father, too.” Tears rolled down Margo’s face. Hal quickly placed his hand on his wife’s shoulder.

  “Margo’s had a rough pregnancy. We almost lost the baby early on and she had to have four weeks of bed rest. This is our third pregnancy. The other two ended in miscarriages, so we’ve been very careful. The situation with her father is causing my wife undue stress.”

  “I just want my father back, and I want my child to have a grandfather. We were a close-knit family before the blowup. Dad wasn’t thinking straight, and he said some cruel, divisive things. But no rift is wide enough to separate us if we set our minds to mending the breach.”

  “But first we have to find Elliot,” Hal said.

  “Where do we come in?” Cash asked. “I get the feeling that there is more to this meeting than going over the handwriting report.”

  “A longtime friend of Elliot’s lives in one of those retirement villages in Northern California. I’m sure they keep in touch. The instructions to send the check for the stock to Marin more or less confirm it.”

  “And you want me to locate him.” It was a statement, not a question.

  “We know it’s an imposition, Cash. I’d fly out there myself and look for Elliot, but I can’t leave Margo.”

  “What’s the man’s name?”

  “Benson. Elliot called him Ben, but I don’t think that’s his given name.”

  “And the name of the retirement village?”

  “That’s the part you’re not going to like, Cash. I don’t have the slightest idea. Ben was big on powerboats and fishing, so it is probably near water. Whatever it takes, we’re willing to pay for the best investigator.”

  “You think he lives near water. Do you realize how many lakes and rivers there are in Northern C
alifornia, not to mention the coast? You can’t expect speedy results, if any at all.”

  “Please, Cash,” Margo said. She dabbed her tear-filled eyes with her knuckles.

  “Have you talked to his attorney? He may know where Elliot is hiding out.”

  “Yes. He sympathizes with us, but he’s not at liberty to even tell us if he knows where Dad is,” Margo said.

  “How frustrating,” Christie said.

  “But ethical,” Cash reminded her.

  “I’m due in six weeks. I’ve got to know that my father is going to be here for me when the baby is born.”

  “I’ll be here for you, sweetheart,” Hal said softly.

  “Oh, Hal, of course. What would I do without you? Maybe it’s because Mom is gone. A daughter needs her mother when her baby is born.” Her voice sounded wistful. “I can’t shake the need for one of my parents to be with me.”

  “We’re going to take care of that, honey. Aren’t we, Cash?”

  “We’re sure going to try.”

  “I’d like to take you to lunch, Christie,” Margo said. “While the guys huddle and figure out strategy, and wolf down the sandwiches I prepared, we can go into town. Consider it a small personal thank-you for going the extra mile for us.”

  Christie was thrown off balance by the invitation, but had no reason to refuse. She was warming up to Margo; why not spend a couple of hours in her company? She looked at Cash to determine if he had conflicting plans. He nodded his approval, and the women excused themselves.

  They drove to a small shopping plaza. As they walked past an art gallery, a tall, nattily dressed older man came to the doorway and greeted Margo.

  “I hope you’ve been working, Margo. We could use a few more paintings. The tourists have just about bought me out.”

  “That’s good news, Ed, but I haven’t been in the studio much lately.” Margo patted her stomach. “But I have a couple of desert scenes that you might like. I’ll have Hal bring them round.”

  “I’ll look forward to seeing them,” he said.

  “You paint?” Christie said as they chose a table on the patio of a nearby Mexican restaurant.

  “Yes. And Ed is one of my best clients. He was my first, too, so I always make sure that I keep him supplied. Without his early encouragement, I might not have believed I could ever go beyond being an amateur. Not that being an amateur is bad, but I did yearn for more, to be able to immerse myself totally in art. He helped me realize that goal.”

  “What type of painting do you do?”

  “Oil and acrylics. Desert scenes, bold depictions of cactus flowers, ground animals, lumbering cactus plants, rimrock.” She waved her arms in an arc. “I try to capture my environment.”

  “How long have you been painting?”

  “Oh, for years. At first I dabbled, then I took lessons and began hanging out with other artists. I joined the art league and entered shows. I made my first sale at an outdoor showing here in this center. I could hardly believe someone paid me for doing what I loved. Of course, afterward, I mourned my absent painting. That didn’t last long, though, because selling a painting is like being given permission to paint more!”

  “I took art classes during my senior year in high school and during the first two years of college,” Christie said. “Once I began studying administration of justice, however, there never seemed to be time for outside pursuits.”

  “You should sign up for a seminar and get reacquainted with techniques, and then go on location for an afternoon of painting.”

  “Someday…”

  “Christie, life is filled with somedays. What is relevant are the todays. Don’t put it off any longer. I’m sure you can find classes through your local recreation department or art gallery. There are an inordinate amount of scenic spots in the Bay Area to set up an easel.”

  “I’ll have to think about it.”

  “Don’t wait too long, or you’ll miss your chance.” Margo picked up her menu. “We’d better order or the waitress will think we’re loitering.” She smiled as though that was a private joke.

  While they ate lunch, sunshine hopscotched around the table. The sunlight felt warm on Christie’s arms. In another month or so, she realized, the desert heat would not be at all comfortable, as the temperature soared into triple digits. Right now, however, it seemed perfect. A welcome contrast to San Francisco’s fog.

  “Tell me more about your artwork,” Christie said.

  “Hal built a studio for me four or five years ago. I had just put on my first one-woman show. It was successful, and we were both walking on air, visualizing an amazing career for me. I would become the next Monet or Georgia O’Keeffe. Of course, when I woke up the next morning, and figured out how many hours I had spent on each painting I’d sold, and how many hours I had spent on the paintings that didn’t sell, it was like someone had thrown cold water in my face. Painting was never going to make us rich, but that wasn’t the point. I had sold enough paintings to consider myself a professional artist. And Hal wasn’t interested in dollars and cents. He was pleased to know that my work met with acceptance; he knew it was important to me. Hence the studio. Now he’s building a cradle so that the baby can sleep in the studio while I work.”

  Margo’s fingertips splayed across her stomach. “This baby means a great deal to us. After two miscarriages we were beginning to think that a baby of our own wasn’t in the cards. There were a couple of months when my pregnancy seemed iffy. If I get through the next few weeks, the baby will have a good weight, and that’s important.”

  “Do you know the baby’s sex?”

  “I’ve been tempted to find out, but we decided to go the old-fashioned route, and be surprised.”

  “Do you have names picked out?”

  “Matthew Elliot after my dad, or Emily Anne, after both of our mothers.”

  Christie nodded. Matthew Elliot. She only hoped that they could find Elliot so that he could be present when his or his wife’s namesake arrived. Oh, what he would miss if he continued to be estranged from his family.

  The waitress brought their check and a couple of hard mints. Margo paid the bill and they began walking toward the car.

  “Oh, look.” Margo pointed. “A class is setting up.”

  A group carrying easels and wooden paint boxes was scattered around a lush garden. The focal point was a fountain framed by an arched entryway ablaze with crimson bougainvillea. Folding chairs and stools snapped open and easel legs were latched into place. Paint palettes were dabbed with assorted globs of color. The artists hunkered down, studying their surroundings, contemplating the scene they would attempt to reproduce.

  As they approached, Margo said, “I know the instructor. He’s been with the Art League for years, and his seminars are popular. As you can see.” Her arm scribed a circle to include the dozen or so people positioned in front of easels and canvas. Margo waved, and the instructor returned the gesture.

  Margo grasped Christie’s arm. “No time like now to meet one of our Art League members.”

  “But he’s busy,” Christie protested.

  “Not too busy.”

  Margo linked her arm through Christie’s and they walked to where the instructor was setting up.

  “Casey, I’d like you to meet Christie Hamilton. I’m trying to talk her into taking an art class, but she’s balking.”

  “What’s holding you back, Christie? The time involved? Or are you afraid you’ll be a failure?”

  Caught off guard by the frank question, Christie became defensive. “My job doesn’t leave any spare time for extras. And besides, I wouldn’t know where to start.”

  “Ah, if you set your mind to it, I’ll bet you can knock down those barriers. Surely there are classes at a recreation center or community college near you. Or private lessons. Check around.

  “Here is a schedule of my classes.” He pulled a brochure from his backpack. “If you visit Margo again, drop by and I’ll give you some pointers. Now, I’d better get back t
o my budding Van Goghs. It was nice meeting you, Christie.”

  Walking to the car, Margo told Christie that she hoped she would seriously consider Casey’s invitation. Christie felt as though she was being steamrolled, but she wouldn’t toss the idea away.

  When they were on the road, Margo turned the subject back to Elliot. “You must think my father is a terrible man to run off like he did.”

  “No, not at all,” Christie replied, but she did have reservations about Elliot Parker. How could he leave such a loving daughter and caring son-in-law? She could not comprehend Elliot’s turning his back on his family.

  “Dad’s a good man. We had a wonderful relationship; Hal was like a son to him. Mom’s death turned his world upside down, and although we tried, we couldn’t set it right. He’s hurting, and in his pain he lashed out at the nearest and dearest to him. He’s too stubborn to consider that he might have been wrong. Poor Daddy.” Margo dabbed beneath her eyes with her fingertips.

  When they returned to Hal and Margo’s house, the men were still on the patio, having a heated discussion about baseball. Hal was loyal to the home team, while Cash was a San Francisco Giants fan.

  Margo laughed. “It always comes down to this, Christie: sports rivalry.”

  “Hal won’t admit that San Francisco has a better team than Phoenix,” Cash groused.

  Margo shook her head. “Come on, Hal, tell Cash his team is great.”

  Hal’s reaction was one of pretended shock. “How can you say that?”

  “Because I want to keep peace. And we know better, don’t we, hon?”

  Christie smiled at the interplay.

  “That settles it,” Cash said. “We’re out of here.” He shook hands with Hal and hugged Margo. “It was good seeing you two. I’ll keep you updated on what we find out about Elliot, if anything.”

  Margo gave Christie a hug. “Remember what I said about not waiting for someday to come around.”

  “What was that all about?” Cash asked as they got into the SUV.