Seventeen Days

by Linda Griffin

  When she had finished the lawn, she went inside and took a bath—there was plenty of hot water—and dressed for dinner at Rosalie’s. She chose stonewashed jeans and an embroidered blouse, hoping to strike a balance between small-town casual and company formal. She couldn’t remember if Rosalie had been wearing any makeup, but decided pink lipstick was safe anywhere.

  A little after six she climbed the hill, carrying the tin of cookies and a handful of daisies from the front yard. Taking coals to Newcastle, perhaps, but having her hands full made her feel less shy.

  She approached the house from the back, and Rosalie opened the kitchen door before she reached it and called, “Hi, neighbor!” She wore a terrycloth apron and sandals, but was otherwise dressed as she had been in the morning. “Come on in. I’m making the salad.” She took the daisies and put them in a water glass, somehow more appropriate than any vase. “How sweet,” she said, as if daisies didn’t grow all along the road.

  Jenna held out the cracker tin. “I made some cookies. I thought the kids might like them.”

  “Chocolate chip,” Rosalie said approvingly. “My favorite. Nancy will like them, and Larry will eat anything. Growing boys are incredible to cook for; they’ll inhale anything, as long as there’s lots of it.” She turned back to the kitchen table and began rapidly chopping celery. Jenna was dazzled by such skill. The kitchen was warm and bright, with a window above the sink and the walls painted pale yellow. The sink and the square butcher-block table were old-fashioned, but a new refrigerator, a four-slice toaster, and a modern stove brought it up to date. The cabinets looked newly finished and definitely more spacious than hers.

  Rosalie noticed her looking and opened one of the cabinets. The handles were carved wood, and the inside was painted white. “Aren’t they beautiful?” she asked. “Rick made them for me.”

  “Rick Alvarez?” Jenna asked stupidly.

  “Yes. He’s really an artist.” Head bent over the salad bowl again, Rosalie asked slyly, “What did you think of him?”

  Alarm bells rang in Jenna’s head. Rosalie was hoping for gossip; whatever she said would be repeated. “He did a nice job on the roof,” she said indifferently. Rosalie looked up, one eyebrow raised, and she fended off another question with, “It seems strange that he doesn’t have a phone.”

  “Not everybody here does. He’s very good-looking, isn’t he?”

  “Mm,” she said noncommittally. “Danny’s a nice kid. Where’s his mother?”

  “Dead. They say…” She glanced nervously toward the door and, changing her tone, called, “Nancy, come on in.”

  A young girl with dark braids and blue eyes bounced in at once. She was about ten and had the bold stare of the uninhibited.

  “Were you eavesdropping?” Rosalie asked. “Here, make yourself useful.” She tied an apron around the girl’s waist and handed her a knife, and Nancy began cheerfully mangling a tomato. “This is our new neighbor, Miss Scott.”

  “Hi. Did you make that blouse?”

  “No,” she admitted. “Do you like it?”

  “I can sew. My mom says I make very neat stitches.”

  “Yes, you do,” Rosalie agreed. “But it isn’t polite to brag. Where’s your brother?”

  “Watching the news,” Nancy said disapprovingly. “I’m sick of this old war.”

  Jenna was disappointed. The Hayes family had a TV set, and San Ignacio was not proof against the ugly reality of the Gulf War. “Me too,” she said.

  “Danny’s mother was murdered,” Nancy said, returning to the subject she had overheard.

  “Don’t repeat gossip,” her mother said.

  “Everybody at school knows it,” Nancy insisted.

  “Everybody at school should stick to their reading and arithmetic. The only thing anybody knows about Mrs. Alvarez is that she died before they moved here.” Her expression suggested she would love to say more in the absence of little pitchers with big ears.

  Nancy shrugged and changed the subject again. “Are you married?” she asked Jenna.

  “No,” she said, ignoring the technicality of her pending divorce. “But if I had a daughter, I’d like her to have braids and blue eyes and know how to make neat stitches.” Nancy stopped butchering tomatoes to stare at her, openmouthed. She was speechless for a change, and her mother laughed, delighted.

  Rosalie took the knife out of Nancy’s hand. “That’s enough tomato, I think,” she said. “Why don’t you go set the table?”

  “I hate setting the table,” Nancy complained. “It’s boring.”

  “Do it anyway. It’ll be good for your soul.”

  “Things that are good for your soul are always boring,” Nancy said, but she gathered a handful of silverware and clomped loudly into the dining room.

  “I understand you ran into Larry at the store,” Rosalie said. “He went on and on about it.”

  “About me?”

  “He’s at an impressionable age. Glamorous older women.”

  “Glamorous?” Jenna shook her head. “Now I’m afraid I’ll disappoint him. I’d better be brilliant at dinner.”

  “Don’t worry about it. He and Mike will probably talk fishing. What did you do in the city?” Jenna could see where Nancy had gotten her directness. She did her best to explain technical illustration, and the girl returned for plates and stopped to stare at her curiously. She opened her mouth to ask a question, but a gesture from her mother stopped her. Still, it was only a matter of time before everyone in town would know everything about Jenna, including the fact that her husband had left her.

  While Rosalie was describing the intricacies of her family—she was a fourth-generation San Ignacian and had married her second cousin—the back door banged open, and a sunburned blond man entered. He had left his oilskins and boots in the shed but smelled of fish and salt water. He gave Rosalie an absentminded kiss without touching her and stared at Jenna with frank interest.

  “This is my husband, Mike,” Rosalie said unnecessarily. “Mike, our new neighbor, Jenna Scott.”

  “Bill Scott’s granddaughter,” he said. He held out his hand, but thought better of it. “I’d better take a shower,” he said and left the kitchen. He reminded her so much of her grandfather that she couldn’t help smiling.

  Almost immediately, Larry burst through the door. “Mom,” he started and stopped when he saw Jenna.

  “What, honey?” Rosalie asked, tossing the salad.

  He blushed. “Nothing—uh, nothing. When’s dinner?”

  “In a few minutes. See if Nancy has the table all set.”

  “She’s—oh, never mind.” He stalked out.

  “Kids,” said Rosalie, shaking her head. “God bless ’em.”

  As if on cue, Nancy came back and announced, “Mom, Larry pulled my hair.”

  Unperturbed, Rosalie asked, “What did you say to provoke him?”

  Nancy giggled, and her mother handed her the salad bowl. “We’ll eat as soon as Dad’s out of the shower,” she said.

  “What can I do to help?” Jenna asked. She was beginning to feel self-conscious standing in the kitchen with nothing to occupy her hands.

  “Adult conversation,” Rosalie said. “To keep me sane.” She opened the oven door and took out a juicy, browned roast, which smelled wonderful. She was the sort of old-fashioned housewife Jenna could never hope to be, with a talent for cooking and sewing and child rearing. Maybe if she were more like Rosalie, Patrick would have…

  She mentally shook herself. Rosalie wanted adult conversation. “Is fishing still San Ignacio’s main industry?” she asked.

  “Pretty much. It’s not like it used to be, of course, but tourism has picked up, so we get along.”

  “Don’t you hate that, though? Tourists everywhere?”

  “Oh, they don’t bother us much, and they spend a lot of money. It’s bad sometimes in the summer, but not this time of year. Violet has one cabin rented right now—some woman from L.A. I haven’t met her yet. I hope she’s not as pushy as so
me of those folks.” Again Jenna blessed her grandfather’s memory for making her less of an outsider than “those folks.”

  Rosalie began a detailed account of past pushy behavior, but was interrupted by Nancy, who announced, “Dad’s out. I’m hungry. Can I sit next to Miss Scott?”

  “If you mind your manners,” Rosalie said and handed her a basket of rolls.

  The dining room was small but nicely decorated, with burnished oak furniture and figured cream wallpaper. Mike and Rosalie sat at opposite ends of the table, and Nancy claimed the seat next to Jenna, leaving Larry across from her. Fortunately he only seemed interested in talking fishing with his father. She didn’t want to play the role of sophisticated woman of the world, even to a sixteen-year-old’s taste.

  Nancy tried to win Mike’s attention by teasing Larry about Heather Kelly, but her brother gave her a disdainful glare, and the fishing talk continued. Rosalie said, “You did hear about Violet’s barbecue?”

  “Yes, I ran into her at the grocery store.”

  “Isn’t she great?”

  “She’s bossy,” Nancy volunteered.

  “If you can’t say anything nice—” Rosalie warned.

  “Well, she is,” Nancy said, unabashed. “I think Miss Scott is really nice, don’t you? Larry said…” Larry, distracted from fishing talk, glared at her, and she stopped talking, but not for long. “Larry and Heather, sitting in a tree, k-i-s-s-i-n-g.”

  “Nancy!” Rosalie’s tone and expression made it clear she would brook no further nonsense. “These are not her best company manners,” she said to Jenna. “Anyway, Violet throws the best parties ever. The food is always great.”

  “I’m looking forward to it,” she said, although she wasn’t sure she was. “Isn’t it risky, planning a barbecue in February, though? What if it rains?”

  “Oh, it won’t,” Rosalie said, but didn’t explain her confidence.

  “It wouldn’t dare,” Mike put in, apparently more aware of their conversation than she had realized. “Violet wouldn’t allow it. You know, Miss Scott—”

  “Jenna.”

  “Jenna—I went fishing with your grandfather when I was about Larry’s age. He loved the sea, that man.”

  “Yes, he did,” she agreed. She was a little disconcerted by his direct, interested gaze. If he hadn’t been a happily married man, she would have said he was flirting, after he’d ignored her for ten minutes.

  “He was a good man,” Rosalie said. “Everybody here loved him.”

  Her eyelids stung. “Yes,” she said. “I know how he felt about the sea. It is beautiful.”

  “And dangerous,” said Rosalie.

  “Beauty often is,” Mike said, looking directly at Jenna. He was flirting with her, right under the eyes of his family.

  She took a sip of water to cover her confusion and said, “This roast beef is wonderful.”

  “I’ll give you the recipe,” Rosalie said. Was she completely unaware? Or used to her husband’s conversational style? Surely he didn’t mean anything by it.

  “I helped,” Nancy put in, jealous of the visitor’s attention.

  “Nancy is a great help,” her mother agreed.

  “Too bad she’s such a pest,” said Larry. Typical family conversation, which she would now never have with Patrick, or perhaps with anyone.

  Later, after she had helped Rosalie and Nancy with the dishes and followed the path back to her own door, Jenna decided she had been imagining things. Mike was only being friendly to a guest, and she must not let Patrick influence her to distrust all men.

  Chapter Three

  Saturday, February 16: Iraq’s ambassador to U.N., Abdul Amir al-Anbari, says Iraq will use weapons of mass destruction if U.S. bombing continues.

  Saturday dawned clear after two days of dreary rain—and the roof had not leaked. Violet Hopkins could probably control the local weather, Jenna reflected as she swept her porch in the early morning sunlight. She was looking forward to the barbecue with both pleasure and apprehension. It would likely be more fun than bar hopping with Patrick’s co-workers, but she was painfully conscious of her status as the new girl in town, Bill Scott’s granddaughter or not, and the object of much curiosity. At least she wouldn’t be the only stranger; Rosalie had said the woman from L.A. was invited.

  Rosalie had given her directions to Violet’s place, and she set out a little after eleven to follow the road through town and up the hill to where the Hopkins acres spread impressively green and spacious across the landscape. A dozen cars were parked in the driveway and under the oak trees flanking the handsome two-story house.

  She could hear a murmur of voices, punctuated by the shouts and laughter of children, as she got out of the car. She followed the sounds beyond the house and took in at a glance the scope of Violet’s hospitality. Trestle tables and benches were grouped near the house, and four grills sizzled under the supervision of the hostess herself, grandly outfitted in a voluminous chef’s apron and a hat that resembled a pink Viking helmet. As many as twenty children were running and shrieking, apparently involved in a game of tag. Adults and teenagers stood or sat around the patio and lawn, chatting and watching the exuberant youngsters.

  At first Violet, busy with cooking instructions, was the only person she recognized. She was at a loss as to how to approach this group of friendly strangers until she spotted Mike and Larry Hayes and Gabe Burrows standing with a tall blonde woman, and not far beyond them, Rosalie perched on a picnic bench talking with two other women.

  She started in their direction but was intercepted by a small body hurtling into her, closely followed by a running tag player. She disentangled herself from the first child, a little blond boy. His pursuer, flushed and giggling, was Nancy Hayes.

  “Hullo, Miss Scott,” she caroled, grabbed the hand of the little boy, and raced back into the game.

  “Are you all right?” asked a masculine voice behind her. “Little monsters never look where they’re going.” She turned and found, not the vigorous young man the voice had suggested, but a thin, white-haired gentleman with a cane. “Miss Scott, I believe,” he said, holding out his hand. “I’m David Hopkins.” His handshake was firm and warm. Jenna, who would never have guessed the loud, bossy Violet had a husband, much less such a courtly one, was momentarily speechless.

  “I’m pleased to meet you,” she managed finally.

  “Did the boy knock the wind out of you?” he inquired. “Would you like to sit down?”

  “No, I’m fine,” she assured him.

  “Let me take you around and introduce you to everyone,” he offered, holding out his arm. “You can’t have met many of us yet.”

  “Thank you,” she murmured. She felt a little bemused but greatly comforted. She did not have to ride into battle without a champion.

  Everyone she had already met—the Hayes family, Gabe Burrows, Jim and Heather Kelly, Rick and Danny Alvarez, and Violet Hopkins—greeted her with casual friendliness. She was introduced to so many people the names and faces blurred together. Jim Kelly’s wife, Monica, was an older version of Heather, plump, blonde, and very sweet. Jenna liked her at once and hoped they would be friends.

  The tall blonde woman who had been chatting with Gabe Burrows and the Hayes men had drifted on to another group and was introduced as Barbara Raymond, the renter from Los Angeles. She had short, blunt-cut hair, wide gray eyes, and a plunging neckline. She seemed nice enough, shaking hands warmly and giving Jenna a direct, interested gaze, but she was intimidatingly beautiful.

  Everyone was so kind Jenna’s nervousness vanished, and within a few minutes of her arrival she was seated at a picnic table with Rosalie, Monica, and two other women whose names she had immediately forgotten, laughing and chatting. Much of the conversation was about children, but she didn’t feel excluded. Enticing aromas drifted toward them from the grills, and people began to line up to fill their plates. Before she could think about joining the line, Larry Hayes approached the table with a plate in each hand, set o
ne in front of his mother, and offered the other to Jenna.

  “Oh, thank you, Larry,” she said, genuinely pleased by such generous behavior from a teenage boy she barely knew. The plate was piled with barbecued ribs, baked beans, corn on the cob, pineapple chunks, and buttermilk biscuits. She didn’t think anybody except a teenage boy could eat so much food at one sitting, but she didn’t want to hurt his feelings by suggesting she might be better off with a more modest portion. Such a neighborly impulse should be encouraged. He headed back to fill another plate for himself, and she claimed a fork from the center of the table and sampled the beans.

  “Violet sure knows how to feed a hungry crowd, doesn’t she?” Rosalie said. “I could fast for a week after one of her shindigs.”

  “This is great!” Jenna exclaimed. The beans were hot and sweet and surprisingly flavorful. She tried a chunk of pineapple. Was it actually fresh pineapple, or did the fresh air and camaraderie make even canned fruit taste better? Maybe she could eat all this food.

  She had a mouthful of buttered biscuit when Danny Alvarez, running and laughing with the other children, tripped and fell. His father was standing with two other men, a little apart but apparently interested in their conversation—not that she was watching. She knew he had seen Danny fall, but he didn’t react immediately. He watched while Danny picked himself up and then walked slowly toward him. Danny wasn’t crying, but he had skinned his knee a little. Alvarez bent down to put an arm around his shoulder and spoke to him briefly. Danny nodded and almost immediately broke away, eager to get back in the game. Alvarez called a final word of caution after him and turned away. He was nearer the tables than he had been before and instead of returning to the men’s conversation he drifted over and sat down on a corner of the bench across from Jenna, where he could watch Danny play.

  “Danny’s a pistol,” Rosalie said, and he gave her a grateful smile.

  “He’s a good kid,” he agreed.