by LK Rigel
Bonnie rose from her chair, and she kept rising. She was like a blood red dahlia blooming in time-lapsed photography. She stopped at about six-foot-two.
“Hi, there.”
Her smile was like sunshine. Those teeth had to be capped, they were such dazzling white. Her skin was porcelain perfect, and her makeup was an assault weapon—bright red lipstick, teal and purple and gold eye shadow, brick low-lighted cheekbones. Thick black lashes and brows that contrasted with her pale, almost white hair, blunt-cut in a style that was a mashup of 1920s flapper, 1960s Vidal Sassoon, and Lady Gaga.
When Bonnie came around the bed and offered her hand, Sara was still staring. She’d never seen anyone up close and in person with such movie-star good looks. Not even Bram was this gorgeous.
“You look terrible,” Bonnie said. In the next second her eyes widened. “Oh! I didn’t mean that the way it sounded. I mean you look exhausted. Let me buy you a cup of coffee at The Book Beak. It’s just down the street on Bird Row.”
“All right.” The Book Beak! A thrill of excitement shot through Sara. She turned to Ms. Sims. “You have my cell number. Call me if there’s any change with Aunt Amelia.”
“Of course,” Sims said. “I’ll leave instructions for the NOC shift to do the same.”
“You’d better add Amelia’s land line number to that note,” Bonnie said to Marie. “The cell reception at Turtledove Hill is sketchy.”
Sara made a mental note to call Bram before she went out to the house and make sure he had Aunt Amelia’s number. He was a no-good cheat, but he still deserved to know where she was and how to get hold of her.
THE REHAB CENTER WAS IN Pelican Chase, the nearest town to Turtledove Hill. The village rested on one of the many peninsulas that jutted out into the Pacific Ocean on the California coast south of Fort Bragg. Bird Row was the village’s main street. The sidewalks were built from wood planks, distressed gray by time and mist. They creaked under Sara's feet.
It felt good to get out and walk, to move her body and breathe the ocean air. She always felt better near the coast, whether from the coolness or moisture or the salt in the air, she didn’t know. She just felt more alive. She loved watching the afternoon fog roll in as it did now.
There were no chain stores in Pelican Chase, as far as she could tell. They passed The Oyster Shack, a hole-in-the-wall eatery that catered to the tourist crowd, then a dry cleaner. The medical marijuana dispensary had a sale rack out front loaded with t-shirts that said 420 Friendly, and It’s Normal to be Norml. Another rack displayed shirts and pants made from hemp. Grapes weren’t the major cash crop in northern California.
The Book Beak was as wonderful as she’d imagined it. The cartoon pelican from the store’s wrapping paper was painted on the front window, the bird’s beak stuffed to overflowing with books from Sara’s childhood: Peter Pan, A Wrinkle in Time, The Wind in the Willows, Anne of Avonlea. On the bottom left was painted Peekie Byrne, Proprietor.
Heat Wave, the first Nikki Heat book, lay at the pelican’s feet. Inside the window display, the latest book by Richard Castle was stacked high. A flyer leaned against the books, notice of an upcoming drawing for a copy signed by the author.
Sara rolled her eyes. Bram would love that. He liked to insist that Castle was a real person, just to drive her crazy.
A heavy, heavy sigh escaped her. She didn’t hate Bram. She didn’t like him very much right now, but he was her husband. Couples recovered from infidelity all the time. Maybe they could too.
Bonnie opened the door to the cheerful tinkling of bells overhead. As Sara crossed the threshold, the smell of cool salt air gave way to rosemary and ylang-ylang, instantly overpowered by the strong aroma of fresh ground coffee. Scattered sofas and chairs took up the store’s front section. The bookshop shelves started halfway in and ran to the back.
“Hey, there!” A happy voice bounced off the ceiling. At the top of a ladder on the north wall, a woman with wild copper-red curls shoved a book into a shelf and started down the rungs. Her long hair bounced with each step. Her skirt appeared likely to trip her up at any moment. When her boots hit the wooden floor she swung around in triumph, green eyes twinkling. She looked about ten years older than Sara.
She crossed the shop to an oak bar that housed a beautiful hammered brass espresso machine. “The usual?”
“Make it two.” Bonnie looked at Sara. “You drink lattes, right?”
“Sounds wonderful,” Sara said.
Bonnie threw her briefcase on the sofa by the front window and sat motioned Sara to the chair beside her. “A helpful hint,” she said. “Chasers come to The Book Beak for coffee and go to The Coffee Spot across the street for everything but.”
“Yes, be careful at The Coffee Spot,” the redhead called out from the espresso bar. “Good food and too much of it; horrible coffee and too much of it.”
“Chasers?” Sara said to Bonnie.
“That’s what we locals call ourselves. Silly, I know. Pelican Chase. Chasers.” Bonnie was larger than life, and her take-charge style took some getting used to, but she seemed okay.
“I like it,” Sara said. She sank into the overstuffed chair and closed her eyes. She could fall asleep right here. In The Book Beak. Heaven.
This was where Aunt Amelia bought all the books she’d sent as presents while Sara was growing up. Books her parents would never have spent good money on. Illustrated hardbound editions of classics and stories about witches and fairies. Dad would order them thrown out the minute Sara opened the wrapping.
The books always reappeared later in the secret book shelf in Sara’s closet, never to be spoken of but eagerly read and reread. Then, after Sara’s one visit to Turtledove Hill, the magical packages had stopped coming altogether. She hadn’t realized how much she missed them.
“So what do you do, Sara?” Bonnie said.
“Teacher. High school freshman English.”
“Real estate,” Bonnie said. “You and I have a lot in common.”
“Not likely.” Sara inhaled sharply to shake off her grogginess and opened her eyes. Bonnie’s hard stare morphed into a pleasant smile. Or maybe Sara imagined it. Any similarity between them was certainly imaginary.
They were practically opposites, light years apart. Sara was five-four in a plain brown wrapper. Bonnie was as tall as Bram, platinum blonde, a living, breathing air-brushed beauty. Sara rarely wore more than foundation and lipstick—a touch of blush on special days. Bonnie’s tailored suit was designer quality. Sara wore jeans and a cotton sweater whenever she could.
Bonnie’s briefcase was exquisite soft burgundy leather with polished brass fixtures. Sara sighed, thinking of her cracked old brown thing with its loose clasp and broken handle, stuffed with student papers and energy bars. Even Bonnie’s accessories were a class above. For one thing, she wore jewelry—earrings, bracelets, rings, a string of pearls. Sara wore a wedding ring—and that a plain gold band. She twisted the ring on her finger.
“Oh, I don’t know,” Bonnie said. “Most days I think my clients are in high school with all their demands and inability to face reality. Thanks, Peekie.” The red-haired woman brought over two steaming lattes. “Peekie owns The Book Beak. This is Sara. Sara Lyndon.”
“Sara Lyndon. I know that name.” Peekie nodded with approval. “You’ve come to see Amelia then.” The slight Scottish accent mixed nicely with her kind tone.
“I love your shop,” Sara said. “When I was in school, Aunt Amelia sent me books from here. Seeing the pelican on the wrapping paper always made me feel wonderful.”
“Ms. Lyndon can stay,” Peekie said to Bonnie.
“It’s Blakemore now,” Sara said. “I’m married. But please call me Sara.”
“Sara it is. Amelia Lyndon is the Beak’s patron saint.” Peekie said. “She loaned me the start-up money when no bank would. I’m sorry to hear she’s not doing so well.”
Sara wanted to ask about the odd name, but Peekie went to help someone at the register. From under t
he counter she whipped out precut pelican wrapping paper for the books the customer laid down. She smiled and chatted and wrapped and rang up the books, all coordinated like she was performing a piece of chamber music, playing all the instruments.
Sara imagined Aunt Amelia and Peekie discussing which books to send her over the years and Peekie wrapping them up for the mail. Regret nudged at Sara’s heart. So many years were wasted, years she and Aunt Amelia could have known each other better.
“My mother was Eleanor Norquist.” Bonnie broke into her thoughts. “Her aunt was Olivia Montague.”
“I’m sorry,” Sara said. “I don’t know those names.”
Bonnie seemed insulted. She raised an eyebrow. “You do know the name Joss Montague, surely. Olivia Montague’s husband? He left Turtledove Hill to Amelia.”
J. Montague. The name on the steam trunk in Aunt Amelia’s barn where the bell had been stored. Sara had recorded it in her diary and romanticized it ever since.
“I don’t understand,” she said. “Why not leave it to Olivia, to his wife?”
“She died first,” Bonnie said. “Hit by a car on Bird Row, in front of The Oyster Shack—except then it wasn’t The Oyster Shack.”
“That’s so sad,” Sara said. “I’m sorry.”
“Tragic,” Bonnie said. “They had a boy, but he died not long after Olivia. A flu epidemic.”
“That’s awful. Why did he leave Turtledove Hill to Aunt Amelia?”
“Well, now,” Bonnie said. “That’s the sixty-four thousand dollar question, isn’t it?”
As if to suggest something fishy had gone on between Aunt Amelia and J. Montague. Sara started to resent the implication, but there was her visit to Turtledove Hill and the lover in the kitchen. The cause of Aunt Amelia’s rift with Dad.
If she had a lover then, why not before? Why not J. Montague? Good lord. Was Aunt Amelia a…a loose woman? An opportunist? A golddigger? This conversation was becoming as demoralizing as everything else today.
“What were you looking for?”
“Huh?” Bonnie cocked her head and crossed her eyes slightly, blowing the look of stone-cold gorgeous.
“In Aunt Amelia’s room before, you were asking her where something was. What were you looking for?”
“Oh. Um…yeah. She wanted her reading glasses. I was trying to find out where they were, but she didn't understand me. It was a little frustrating, but I think the sleep medication was already doing a number on her.”
“Look, Bonnie,” Sara said. “I hope I don’t sound rude, but I’ve been up since the crack of dawn. I have to get some sleep.”
“Sure thing, hon.” Bonnie pulled a notepad and pen out of her briefcase. “Are you staying at the Chase Me Inn?”
“No. I’ll go out to Aunt Amelia’s.”
Bonnie gave her a dubious look, but how was it any of her business? She’d already moved in on Aunt Amelia quite enough, thank you. Sara didn’t have to explain that she’d been longing to see Turtledove Hill for years, and she wasn’t going to miss the chance now.
“I have a key.” That came out more defensive than she’d intended.
Bonnie wrote something on the notepad. “I usually visit Amelia in the mornings around nine. We could meet at the rehab tomorrow and get a late breakfast after.” She handed the note to Sara. “This is me. Call if you need anything.”
“Could we make it lunch instead?” Sara said. “I want to sleep until I wake up naturally. No alarm.”
They left the bookshop together. Bonnie’s car was parked closest, a red convertible Lexus. Sara watched the Realtor—with a capital R, Bonnie had informed her—drive off with a wave. She was friendly. Helpful. Cared about Aunt Amelia.
Sara didn’t like her.
SHE DROVE SOUTH OUT OF the village onto Highway 1 and stuck in her earpiece to call Bram, but a call came in from him first.
“Thanks for picking up,” he said. “I wasn’t sure you would.”
“I’m in Pelican Chase,” she said. “Aunt Amelia is worse.” It was so easy to ignore the Big Issue, to catch him up on Aunt Amelia’s condition and tell him about the bad cell connection at the house. As if nothing had happened.
Then there was silence on the line, but she wasn’t going to help him out. Finally he said, “I think it’s good you’re away for the weekend. Give you some space to think.”
Oh, so now she was the one who needed space. “What do you want from me, Bram?”
“I don’t know,” he said.
Wrong answer! I want your forgiveness, he was supposed to say. I would crawl over coals to beg you to take me back.
“I guess the real question,” Bram said, “is what do you want from me?”
Better.
“I don’t know either,” she said. “Let’s talk again in a few days.”
“I’m sorry your aunt isn’t doing so well, babe,” Bram said. “Let me know if things get worse. Hey guess what? Hot Heat was the ENT book of the day today. It landed in the top hundred.”
“That’s great, Bram,” Sara said. She didn’t know what ENT was, but landing in the top hundred sounded good. “I’m really glad.”
She turned east onto Turtledove Hill Road and passed the fork that branched off to the vineyards, now paved. She smiled at the memory of a dilapidated old truck. A cute, flirty farmhand. The wind in the eucalyptus, wild snowdrops, a brass bell with no clapper. The man on the stairs. Her spirits lifted. She couldn’t wait to see the house.
- 6 -
Dreaming
TURTLEDOVE HILL WAS EVEN better than Sara remembered. On that first visit, twisting bare brambles had covered it as if guarding Sleeping Beauty’s castle. Now late spring’s green leaves, blue wisteria, and white lilacs climbed, covered, and hung from the walls and eaves, lovely and inviting.
She drove around to the courtyard and parked at the back porch. The house was built in the early 1900s, old but wonderful, if a bit dingy. The exterior wood siding needed paint, and the porch stairs creaked. She dug the house key out of her purse.
Dad gave her the key when she lived in Sacramento her second year of grad school. She loved her tiny bungalow off G Street, but it was a hovel compared to Aunt Amelia’s Arts & Crafts mansion. He stopped by on a Saturday morning with Cindy in the front passenger seat of the car, Mom’s seat, and Becca in the back. They were leaving for Texas.
The car idled in the driveway. Cindy didn’t have the nerve to get out. Becca rolled down the back window and rested her chin on her arm, watching. Sara would miss her little sister.
“It was your mother’s.” Dad handed her a Bible. “She wanted you to have it.”
Wrong. It wasn’t Mom’s real Bible, the one that first belonged to her great grandmother. That Bible was stored safely in Sara’s bedroom closet, given to her by Mom before she died.
“Give it to Cindy,” Sara said. “Something to remember her best friend by.”
“One other thing.” Dad ignored the dig and tucked the Bible under his arm. He fished for something in his pocket. “Whatever Amelia’s done, she’s our flesh and blood.” He handed her a house key. “She’s getting old. If anything should happen, you might need this.”
“You don’t care about Aunt Amelia.” Sara accepted the key. It belonged to Turtledove Hill, and she wanted it even if it came from him. “And giving me this won’t make me like Cindy.”
“Sara…life is complicated.”
“Seems pretty simple to me. You were an asshole to Mom all her life, and now you’re going off to Texas to be all sweetness and light with your new wife.”
His head jerked back at the word asshole, as if she’d assaulted him. A tiny victory.
“Always so rigid. So judgmental, and to Aunt Amelia too.” It felt good to stab him with the truth. She twisted the knife. “You married Cindy a month after Mom was in the ground. Was it love at first sight, Dad? Oh, wait. No. You’d known her ten years.”
The hypocrite.
The key fit the back door. “Good lord.” Sara dropped
her overnight bag on the floor and looked around the huge kitchen. The appliances and work space were on the left and the eating area was on the right. Straight ahead, the archway opened on the hall.
There was a built-in teakwood breakfast nook in the corner. It popped out like a turret with leaded-glass windows all around. Shelves above held knickknacks and plants. Above the shelves, stained glass windows pictured grape leaves and turtledoves with the tell-tale hash marks on their necks.
The kitchen proper had a double sink and a horrible avocado-green dishwasher and refrigerator. The teakwood cabinets with brass hardware were beautiful.
Sara didn’t remember the kitchen wallpaper being so ghastly, flocked red-orange replete with roosters, pigs, and geese. A crime against the architect. An avocado-green landline phone hung on the wall beside the door to a butler’s pantry, the handset cord so long it rolled over on itself on the black and white, fake-tile sheet vinyl floor.
This was a decorator’s extreme makeover wet dream.
She dropped her purse and keys on the counter and opened the curtains to let in the late afternoon light. Despite the funky 1970s vibe, she felt like she had come home, flooded with well-being. As if Turtledove Hill had been waiting for her for fourteen years. She’d love to explore, but all she could think of was sleep.
The hallway led straight through to the front door with the stairway to the second floor on the left at about the midpoint of the house. The first tread creaked and tilted. This was where Aunt Amelia must have fallen. Good thing it wasn’t a higher tread.
The master bedroom took up the northeast corner of the second floor, a suite with its own bathroom and adjoining sitting room. Another row of stained-glass grape leaves and turtledoves ran above the clear windows that filled the room with light. French doors opened onto a deck that looked out over rolling vineyards and a blue sky.
She checked the dresser and bedside tables for Aunt Amelia’s glasses. Something was off about that. At the rehab center, Bonnie had asked where is it—not where are they, as in reading glasses. Sara distinctly remembered those words filtering out into the hall. What was it that Bonnie wanted? And why had she lied?