Dakota Blues Box Set

by Lynne M Spreen

  “Why? What’s going on?”

  “It’s Grady. He’s more restless lately, and he mumbles in his sleep and has nightmares.” As we waited for the light to change. Rita’s fingers tapped a staccato on the steering wheel. “So when I’m with him, he wakes me up a lot, and when I’m not with him, I worry.”

  “Maybe he’s troubled about something.”

  “He’s pulling away from the business. He loves work, but it’s too stressful for him now. He’s still involved in some projects, but mostly it’s being handled by his staff. That bothers him, but he can’t work forever.”

  The light changed, and she accelerated harder than I thought necessary.

  “How old is he?” I knew age was relative, but I was curious.

  “Eighty-one, but a young eighty-one. You’ll see. He looks great.”

  I’d spent decades working harder than I had to and missing out on the other parts of life. Rita looked as if she was making the same mistake, and that made me sad. She said she loved Grady, but life was short. Nobody lived forever.

  “Do you ever think about hanging up your truck keys?” I asked.

  “I do every night.”

  I waited.

  “Never.” Rita shot me a look. “Not really. I will someday, but that’s years and years from now.”

  Discussion closed.

  At Osprey Point, the entry gates read our car’s coded sensor and swung open. The road sloped upward to a string of lavish homes lit up on the hillside. I knew Grady was accomplished and wealthy, and I knew the area. Rita was lucky. “Pretty nice,” I said.

  She shrugged. “It’s a step up for a chick from the wrong side of the tracks.”

  “Where was that?”

  “San Bernardino. My brother and I grew up there. Mean streets.” She turned onto a winding lane that ascended higher and higher. Down below, the city lights ended where the Pacific began. “I mean, it’s very comfortable inside, and I appreciate the view. . .”

  “But?”

  “It’s not me.”

  She turned into a driveway lined by twin rows of cypress trees. At the end of the drive stood a mansion in the Greek revival style. The driveway circled around a fountain.

  Rita parked at the bottom of the granite steps, braced on both sides by bubbling fountains.

  “There’s a side entrance into the kitchen, but Grady insists I come in through the front. He says he built this house for me and he wants me to enjoy it.”

  “He built it for you?” I thought I was special when Curt built a garage for my Roadtrek.

  “Grady treats me like royalty.”

  “I’m glad,” I said. “Where’d you find him?”

  She turned off the ignition. “He found me. I was delivering lumber to one of his sites. When I climbed out of my truck, he took my hand like I was Cinderella getting out of the carriage. It was funny, but he wasn’t kidding.”

  We opened our doors. The damp air settled on us a heavy blanket. Shivering, I reached for my suitcase.

  “Don’t worry about that,” Rita said. “Let’s go inside and relax for a while.”

  At the top of the steps, one of the heavy twin doors swung open, and Grady appeared, tall and elegant in gray slacks and a long-sleeved dress shirt. Rita disappeared into his embrace, and then they broke apart, and he extended his hand. It felt calloused and strong; the guy had worked construction all his life.

  “Welcome home.” Grady stood about six feet. His dark gray hair was a little sparse and combed over to the side, but he still had the T-shaped frame of a younger man. Inside the door, we were enveloped by the muted notes of soft jazz and the fragrant glow of dozens of candles.

  Rita looked around with a gentle frown. “Are we expecting company?”

  “Just you two. Your drinks are waiting on the patio.”

  “Why don’t you go get comfortable, honey? Karen and I will be there in a second.” When Grady left the room, Rita began blowing out candles.

  “They were pretty.” I fanned the smoke away from my face.

  Rita coughed. “I’m surprised the alarm didn’t go off. He doesn’t always think.”

  “Maybe he was just so happy that you were home, he got distracted.”

  Rita looked away.

  I helped her blow out the rest. Maybe Grady had overdone the ambiance part, but I didn’t fault him for his enthusiasm. After extinguishing the forest of tiny flames, Rita and I followed him out to the patio overlooking the city.

  We relaxed in comfortable chairs, enjoying crisp martinis alongside fresh shrimp in cocktail sauce. A gas fireplace and wrap-around glass wind screens protected us from the cold breeze coming in off the ocean. Far below, traffic formed red and white streams of light along the Pacific Coast Highway, but the sound was muted. Out at sea, cruise ships, ablaze with lights, headed silently into the darkness.

  Grady didn’t say much, but he laughed easily, usually following Rita’s funny, sarcastic telling of her experiences on the road. When I described Fern and Belle, their wedding, and the bagpiper, Grady reached for Rita’s hand.

  “We went to Scotland once, didn’t we, hon?” he said.

  “My first trip out of the country. Ever.”

  “We’ll go there again.” For a moment, they gazed into each other’s eyes, and then he unfolded his long, lean frame and took our glasses into the kitchen.

  We watched him walk away. Grady may have had rough beginnings, but he carried himself with an easy grace. I wondered about his life, what he’d seen and done.

  Rita turned to me with a cryptic smile. “I told you.”

  “You’re right. He’s a sweetheart.” I dunked a shrimp. “You told us in Key Largo that he wanted to marry you, but you weren’t ready.”

  She nodded. “He’s still waiting.”

  “Do you think you ever will?”

  “It’s the only thing he talks about.”

  “But what about you?” I really hoped she caved. I wanted Rita to settle down with that nice man out in the kitchen freshening our drinks.

  “I’m married to my truck.” Rita reached for a crusty triangle of melted Brie. From the kitchen, we heard the crash-bang of something falling into the sink.

  “Everything okay?” Rita hollered.

  “Just fine,” Grady said.

  She looked at me and shrugged. “He gets in a hurry sometimes.”

  Grady came out the door holding a fresh martini in each hand. As he crossed the patio, half the liquid sloshed out of the glasses. He held out our drinks, seemingly without noticing that his hands were dripping. Rita took her glass and handed him a fistful of napkins. Slowly and deliberately, he mopped up. Neither one of them mentioned the spill.

  I assumed he had some kind of unsteadiness that can come on in older age, and that the two of them were trying to ignore it.

  I didn’t need another whole martini anyway.

  Grady got comfortable on a patio loveseat and patted the cushion next to him. Rita went over and sat down. He reached for her hand and held it close.

  We talked about Monterey and Palm Springs. Grady didn’t say much, having eyes only for Rita, who leaned against his shoulder. After a while, I excused myself and went to get my suitcase, but a middle-aged Latina, wearing an apron, cut me off at the front door. “I took it upstairs,” she said. “Let me show you.”

  She led me upstairs to my room, a suite at the far end of the house, and opened a set of double doors. I caught my breath, and the woman smiled. “Grady likes to take care of people,” she said. “I’m Lidia. Let me know if you need anything.”

  I thanked her and went to investigate. Past the king-sized four-poster, through a set of glass doors, a candlelit bathroom awaited me. On the marble counter, a silver bowl held guest soaps wrapped in gold paper, and cut-glass containers held lotions and creams. I ran a bath and sank into the hot suds, groaning with the sheer pleasure of the heat and solitude. My muscles were sore from the trip, and I leaned my head back against a rolled-up towel and closed my eyes.<
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  As I soaked, I thought about the puzzle that was Rita. She loved Grady, and he could make her life easy. Driving wasn’t that safe anymore, and it wore her out. Why not come in off the road?

  My own marriage was such a refuge. I wanted Rita to have that, too. I admired her determination—in that way we were alike because I would never be happy not working—but maybe she was taking it too far. I cared about her and wanted her safe, and after what happened on the road today, I was worried.

  I soaked in the tub for a long while, but when the water cooled, I climbed out and toweled off. The tall bed felt like a nest as I slipped under the comforter and reached for my phone.

  It was almost one in the morning in North Dakota, so instead of a phone call, I composed a romantic text filled with heart emojis, assuming he would find it tomorrow morning, but I’d barely hit send when my phone rang.

  “Hey, baby. How’s the Left Coast?”

  His voice, low and rough, sent a shiver down my spine.

  “Lonely.” I scooched up against the headboard. “I’m glad you called.”

  “Are you in Newport?”

  I filled him in, but he wasn’t really listening. We were both tired, breathing into each other’s ears, not speaking. “After this,” I said, “let’s never be apart again.”

  “Works for me. I miss you like crazy.”

  “Do you?” I smiled into the darkness.

  “You know I do.” His voice was husky, like whiskey and smoke. “Very much.”

  I grabbed a few more pillows and settled in. “Tell me how much.”

  Chapter 13

  THE NEXT MORNING, THE smell of candle smoke still hung in the air when I padded through the living room in search of coffee. Warm in the thick terry robe and slippers borrowed from the guest room closet, I went into the kitchen and found a pot all ready to go. I hit the power button and wandered around, taking in the place while waiting for it to brew. Nobody was up yet in this sprawling mansion, so I could poke around at my leisure.

  The house was a two-story. It had to be at least ten thousand square feet. I wandered from the kitchen to the dining room to the living room to the library with its adjacent office. Rita told me Grady had designed it himself, similar to one he’d lost years ago after a life-shattering business bankruptcy. Penniless in his sixties, he’d come roaring back. The man must have been a lion in his younger years. No wonder Rita was attracted.

  I wandered out the door and onto the patio. Cold or not, I wanted to see the ocean. It felt good to be back in SoCal again, on a weekday morning, looking out over the mauve tones of the Pacific at daybreak. On so many mornings like this, I had driven to work, sipping a cup of coffee as we crept down PCH, my windows rolled down, the salt air fresh and cool. On weekends, I’d ride my bike or kayak around Newport’s back bay, watching for animal life in the mud flats of low tide.

  Although I was happy living in North Dakota as Mrs. Curt Hoffman, happier than I’d ever been, the fact remained that most of my adult life had been spent in California. As a result, I had years of good memories from here, too.

  The coffee pot burbled as it finished brewing. I poured myself a cup, adding a generous shot of decadent French vanilla creamer found in the refrigerator. Rita would probably want to spend time alone with Grady today. It might be a good day to see Peggy at Global Health.

  A newspaper landed with a thwack on the driveway.

  Taking my coffee with me, I opened the front door and stepped out on the porch. Pausing at the top step, I filled my lungs and stretched, my backbone crackling in the most delicious way. Coyotes yipped from distant cover in the lush chaparral down the slope from the house. I padded down the driveway, stuck the paper under my arm, and started up the stairs when movement caught my eye.

  At the far side of the porch, a teenaged girl emerged from behind a decorative cement vase. She carried a bedroll and a backpack. Dirt mottled her cheeks and forehead, and her dark blond hair hung in dreadlocks. About my height, she looked too thin and pale to represent any threat.

  “Can I help you?” I asked.

  “Yeah, um, is Rita here?” She barely spoke above a whisper.

  I was surprised that she knew my friend’s name. Hesitant, I replied. “She’s here, but she’s asleep.”

  “Oh.” The girl’s eyes locked onto my coffee. She seemed to wobble with longing.

  I gave her the cup. The girl closed her eyes and drank the hot liquid.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Heather.”

  “Okay, Heather. Let me see if Rita’s up, yet.”

  Grady was in the kitchen, reaching around in the refrigerator. When I said good morning, he looked up in alarm.

  “Do you know if Rita’s awake?” I asked.

  He stared at me for a moment. “She is not.”

  I handed him the morning paper, and his features softened.

  “She hurt her back yesterday, maybe getting in and out of the truck,” he said. “Happened a couple times before. I gave her a pill for the pain. It knocked her out.”

  “There’s a homeless kid outside. She says her name is Heather, and she knows Rita. Do you know her?”

  “Not that one, but there’ve been others,” he said. “They find her. She’s got a soft spot for those folks.”

  “Would you mind if I gave the girl some food?”

  “Pantry’s right there.”

  He stood and watched me dig around, filling a shopping bag with crackers and cheese snacks, bottled water, and granola bars.

  When Grady coughed softly, I turned. “Young lady? Forgive me, but what was your name again?”

  I smiled to reassure him. “Karen.”

  “That’s right. Karen. Sorry.” He shook his head. “Can’t keep anything in the old noggin lately.”

  “Coffee’ll fix that.”

  I set the bag at the foot of the stairs and went up to my room for my wallet. Was it ageist of me to assume that Grady deserved a pass? I didn’t want his forgetfulness to mean anything more frightening.

  I tucked a twenty-dollar bill in the pocket of my robe and slipped out the front door. Heather sat at the top of the steps, the coffee cup empty beside her. When she saw the money and groceries, she looked up at me with bloodshot eyes.

  “Oh, wow, thanks.” She set the bag on the ground between her feet. Her mismatched sneakers were filthy and too big for her.

  “How did you get in the gate?”

  “I climbed up the hill. There’s no fence on that side.”

  “You’ve done this before?”

  The girl shrugged.

  I stuck my hands in my pockets. “Rita probably won’t be up for a while, but you can wait if you want.”

  Heather stood and picked up the bag. She looked off into the distance as if wishing me away. “I hafta go.”

  “Okay.”

  “Thanks.” She shambled down the driveway, vanishing behind a tall cypress tree.

  What kind of a life was that? What would cause a kid to fall into such a state? I wondered how her family would feel if they knew.

  Inside, Grady was drinking a cup of coffee and reading the paper. “I just checked on Rita,” he said. “She’s sawin’ logs. You want some breakfast? I got eggs and bacon with orange juice.”

  “It’s nice of you to offer.” At the table, we exchanged pleasantries and remarked on the news of the day. He was as gracious as last night but avoided eye contact.

  After breakfast, I showered and dressed, and set up my computer and mobile Wi-Fi at the Chesterfield desk in front of the window. I checked my email, where I sent updates and responses to clients, and answered a “what are you up to” text from Jessie.

  After a while, the house seemed too quiet, so I pulled on a sweater and went for a walk. At the end of the driveway, the grocery bag was half hidden in a clump of foliage at the base of the cypress tree. It was full.

  I looked up and down the street. There was no sign of Heather. Did she intend to come back for it? I hoped so.


  The walk was sterile. There were no sidewalks to make a visitor feel welcome. Each mansion was fronted by a privacy wall, and the undeveloped lots between houses were covered with dried chaparral. The only other human I spotted was a gardener, on his knees fixing a sprinkler. The expensive homes were silent, and a light drizzle dampened my face. The harbor and ocean were hidden in a blanket of fog. It was depressing, so I turned around and went back to the house.

  Inside, I heard Rita in the kitchen. She wore a tee-shirt and sweatpants that looked as if she’d slept in them, and her hair was pulled back in a short ponytail. When she looked up from her coffee, her eyes were bloodshot. I asked how she was feeling.

  “Better. Not great. I hate that pain medicine. It makes me so groggy.”

  “How did you hurt your back?”

  “Who knows? It comes and goes.”

  Outside the window, the sky was leaden gray with onshore cloudiness. “You had a visitor this morning,” I said.

  “Here, at the house?”

  “A kid named Heather. I tried to get her to wait, but she left. She stuck her bedroll under a tree, so she’ll probably be back,” I said.

  “I hope so. I’d like to talk to her. See how she’s doing. She’s a sad case.”

  “I thought so, too, so I gave her a little money.”

  Rita set down her coffee cup. “You didn’t.”

  “Not that much. Twenty dollars.”

  “Oh, no!” Rita stood up, wincing at the pain in her back.

  “She looked so hungry.” I didn’t understand what I’d done wrong.

  “She won’t use it for food.” Rita hobbled to the coat closet for a sweatshirt. She picked up her keys and purse. “We have to find her.”

  “Why? What are you afraid of?”

  Rita glared at me. “Couldn’t you tell? She’s an addict.”

  Chapter 14

  STUNG, I GRABBED MY purse. We hopped in the car and cruised around the neighborhood but didn’t see any sign of Heather. Not like we expected to. Why would she hike the deserted streets of Osprey Point?

  Rita headed for the exit gates. “There’s a park in Laguna where she stays sometimes. Let’s go there.”