by Cindy Sample
I slid into the chair across from my pal, losing one of my red slides in the process.
"Are you ready to order?” Her bracelet laden wrists jangled as Liz waved her arms wildly at one of the servers.
"Well, hi to you too.” My buddy is always hungry and subsequently always dieting.
"Sorry, luv. I arrived early and I'm starving."
"Give me a second. I think I'll try something on the healthy side for a change.” I scrutinized the menu as I tried to wiggle my shoe back on my foot.
"I'll have the fettuccine Alfredo,” Liz told our server, snapping her menu shut.
I stared at her. Didn't she have a wedding coming up?
"So I'll spend an extra hour on the Stairmaster.” Her dimples appeared as she grinned at me. “Their fettuccine is worth it."
I ordered a chicken Caesar salad, dressing on the side. The waitress promised to bring our iced teas right away.
"Do you have any more dates on your calendar? I was afraid you'd give up after what happened with that Garrett guy.” She patted my hand, her heavy gold bracelets clanking against the varnished wood table.
"You know if I hadn't already selected a couple of guys from the Love Club before I found out about Garrett, I probably would have dropped out. But I had lunch with a doctor yesterday and we're going out again next week."
"Ah. A doctor. Now we're talking.” She lifted her left eyebrow and leered. Liz needed to stop watching soaps. That one eyebrow lift was almost professional.
I shrugged. “I didn't hear any bells ringing, but he was very pleasant."
"Well, don't expect to hear bells right away.” She shook her charm bracelet and it tinkled in response. “It takes time, persistence, and patience to find the right guy. Dating isn't a game—it's a full-time occupation. Remember how many losers I went out with?"
How could I forget? Before she met her fiance Liz had dated and dumped so many men that I'd lost count. She demonstrated classic signs of becoming a serial dumper when Brian popped into her life.
Strangely enough I could have sworn I heard a faint tinkling when Detective Hunter said good-bye the other night. Must have been the brass wind chimes on my porch.
"So tell me what happened with the detectives. Anyone I might know?"
"Some old grump named Bradford and a big burly guy called Hunter."
"Oh...I've heard about that Detective Hunter,” Liz said, her eyes dancing. “The dispatcher at the sheriff's department said as far as eye candy goes, he's a Godiva God."
A vision of the detective's chocolate brown eyes popped through my head.
"I heard he has a cute bum. What did you think?” She winked at me as she reached for a roll.
"I didn't notice."
Liz opened her mouth, aghast at this lack of anatomical perception on my part. Fortunately the server arrived with our entrees and I escaped a lecture. I smiled as she inhaled the creamy fettuccine. “That fettuccine looks and sounds fabulous. Can you find a way to enjoy your pasta and talk about the murder at the same time?"
Patience hasn't made it on my list of virtues.
"Honey, you need to slow down,” she admonished me. “Enjoy lunch with your best friend. Remember, carpe diem—seize the day."
Carpe diem? I was more worried about corpus delicti.
I speared an oversized piece of romaine lettuce. “C'mon. Brian must have shared something about the Lindstrom case. They don't really think I'm a suspect, do they?"
Liz put her fork down and dug through the emerald green Marc Jacobs tote that perfectly matched her silk blouse. I tried not to slobber on the buttery leather as I admired the craftsmanship. The only chance I had of owning a designer purse was to get lucky at a garage sale.
"I was afraid I would forget what he told me so I took some notes.” Liz rummaged through the capacious bag and finally yanked out a sheet of lined pink paper. She grabbed her fork and somehow managed to eat her pasta with her right hand while reading from the page in her left.
"Let's see. The sheriff's department doesn't have any suspects other than you.” She raised her perfectly arched eyebrows at me. “Rumor has it there were fingerprints in some unusual places."
My fork dropped out of my hand, clanging against the delicate china plate. I shuddered, remembering Garrett's attack and our front seat gymnastics.
"The coroner said the victim was hit with some kind of blunt object. Brian implied that Garrett's head smacking the window probably wouldn't have created that type of injury.” She peered at me over her plate of pasta. “You didn't whack him with anything other than his cell, did you?"
"Of course not. What do you think I am?"
She pursed her lips. “Correct me if I'm wrong, but you did hit Hank in the forehead with that dinner plate. The night he announced he was leaving you for Nadine."
I gulped. Oh yeah. That night.
"That was an accident. It was supposed to fly over his head, like a Frisbee. It's not like I wanted to break a hundred dollar piece of china over his lame-brained head."
She nodded in sympathy. “Men may come and men may go, but Royal Doulton lasts forever."
We finished our lunches, paid our bill and cruised down Main Street. Placerville is an antique road show mecca for buyers who have the energy, time and knowledge to wade through piles of crap.
I mean old stuff.
We stopped in Placerville Hardware, the oldest operating hardware store west of the Mississippi. The scuffed wooden floors creaked as we squeezed our way down the narrow aisles. The bulging floor to ceiling shelves looked like they were a sneeze away from toppling over. A few gold pans were stuck next to some shovels so I decided to buy one for Ben. One of these days we'd make it over to Coloma, site of Sutter's mill where the first nugget of gold was discovered.
Liz purchased a bone china teapot in a cream and violet pansy pattern in one of the antique stores. As the cashier wrapped the teapot in bubble wrap, Liz turned to me. “He's single, you know.” I must have looked confused because she punched me in the forearm. “Detective Hunter. The Godiva God. He's a widower."
"Oh, what a shame,” I responded, remembering the detective's protective stance at the soccer game. Poor Kristy. Having lost my father at a young age I could empathize with his motherless daughter.
"Well, keep that in mind, in case your date with the doctor doesn't work out."
I rolled my eyes. “Liz, what are the odds that a widowed detective, who's investigating a crazy soccer mom for murder, would want to go out with said soccer mom suspect?"
She grabbed the paper bag that held her teapot and smiled. “Good point. Have fun with the doctor."
After supplying me with enough seaweed and cucumber moisturizer samples to keep my face glowing for the next year, we parted. I sped down the hill towards the Centurion Cameron Park office as fast as my little hybrid could move without drawing the attention of the CHP. I couldn't decide which was worse, getting a ticket, being a suspect in a murder case, or arriving late and risking the wrath of my mother.
I pulled into the parking lot, jumped out of the car, flung open one of the Centurion Realty glass double doors, and found myself chest to stomach with a tall blond-haired guy in a dark suit. He dropped a few manila folders, scattering them across the slate tiled lobby.
"Oh, let me help you.” I bent over to pick up the files.
"No. That's okay. I'll get them.” He knelt down and quickly scooped them up.
"I'm so sorry. I'm in a hurry to pick up my son. My mother is Barbara Bingham and she's been watching Ben all afternoon and I'm late as usual,” I rambled on.
A broad smile creased his face and a lock of hair fell over his forehead as he nodded sympathetically. “Ah, the formidable Barbara Bingham. I can understand why you wouldn't want to be late.” He held out his right hand. “I'm Peter Tyler."
"Laurel McKay,” I said, automatically shaking his hand. His handshake was firm, but not crushing.
"It's nice to meet you. I'm new in this office but Barbara
has mentioned your name several times."
How embarrassing. I tried to imagine what she could have told him. The chatter of voices and footsteps interrupted us.
"Hi, Mom. Grandmother bought me a happy meal and it came with a Spiderman. Isn't that cool?” Ben thrust the tiny blue and red plastic figure in my face. I admired the miniature toy and thought how uncomplicated life is at seven years old. Maybe if I stuck to small plastic figures my life would be simpler too.
"Peter, you've met my daughter?” My mother looked only slightly frazzled from the three hours spent with her hyperactive grandson.
"Yes, we've introduced ourselves. She is every bit as delightful as you said."
Delightful? It was far more likely she would refer to me as difficult.
Since I didn't have time for her to admonish me on my tardiness I grabbed Ben's hand and turned to Peter. “It was nice meeting you."
"My pleasure,” he said, opening the door for us.
"Mother, thanks for taking care of Ben.” She frowned at our hasty departure. I anticipated a lengthy lecture in my future.
By the time Ben and I arrived home, Jenna was already there, having survived the ride to and from the mall. She assured me that everything she bought had been reduced by at least eighty percent and showed me the marked down price tags to prove it.
The three of us spent the evening nestled under an afghan on the sofa, munching on a bowl of buttered popcorn and watching a classic Julia Roberts film, Runaway Bride. The movie was fascinating because it depicted the way Julia's character redefined her personality every time a new man entered into her life. If the right man came along, would I turn into a totally different person?
I thought about the men who had recently appeared in my life.
The doctor. The real estate agent. The detective. My ex.
The dead guy.
The metamorphosis was beginning. Whether I liked it or not.
[Back to Table of Contents]
EIGHT
An artic frost icing my cheeks woke me early the next morning. The temperature had dropped more than thirty degrees. With the heat turned off, it was only fifty-five degrees in the house. Dark gray clouds glared balefully at me. I glared back.
After a long dry summer, most Californians welcome the first rain of the season. But rain and soccer are not a great combination from a mother's perspective. The kids revel in it since it gives them an excuse to slip and slide in the mud without getting into trouble. The lucky moms stand on the sidelines getting drenched then we get to launder the muddy clothes afterward.
The game was as awful as I anticipated. Blue and gold merged with muck brown as arms and legs tangled on the sloppy field. If Liz were here she'd say it was peeing rain. I peered through the showers pouring off the rim of my turquoise umbrella trying to determine which muddy player was my son.
I was so engrossed in the action on the field that I didn't notice the man standing next to me. It wasn't until his size twelve Nike bumped against the toe of my running shoe that I looked up and saw Detective Hunter gazing down, his oversized black umbrella almost a foot above mine.
"You take soccer quite seriously, Ms. McKay. I've been standing here for over five minutes and you haven't blinked once."
Blink? How could I blink? The rain had welded my waterproof mascara to my eyelids. I opened my mouth to respond when I heard a roar from the parents. I glanced at the field just in time to see my son kick a ball right through the legs of the other team's goalie, a perfect shot.
"That a boy, Ben.” I jumped up and raised my fist triumphantly in the air, totally forgetting the man standing next to me.
"That was a well placed kick, Ms. McKay. Your son is a smart player. He must take after his mother."
My eyes narrowed as I looked up at him. Are detectives allowed to give compliments to murder suspects? “I'll take credit for Ben's intellect, but I'm afraid the only time I received an A in P.E. was in square dancing. I was the do-si-do diva."
"I have no doubt you're quite a hit on the dance floor.” He smoothly segued into another question. “So do you have any more Love Club dates on the horizon?"
Odd. Was the detective investigating me or flirting with me?
I shrugged my shoulders nonchalantly. “Well, you know the life of a single woman, one pressing social engagement after another."
His eyes twinkled and a brief smile hovered over his lips. Didn't he believe me?
"For your information, I have a date next weekend with someone else from the Love Club. A doctor.” I enunciated the word doctor. Who was he to smirk at my social calendar? “We're having dinner at the River Inn."
"Good to know. I might have dinner over there myself.” The look he shot at me penetrated through my windbreaker. “Just to make sure nothing happens. To your date."
He checked the gold watch on his left wrist. “I need to get over to Kristy's game. She'll be wondering what's keeping me. My daughter thinks she's going to kick up a storm, so to speak. Congratulations again on your son's goal."
With that remark, he strode down the sidelines toward one of the other playing fields. Remembering Kristy's tenacity in her last game, she undoubtedly would be kicking major butt, so to speak.
I gazed down the field and contemplated her father's broad shoulders and fine posterior as he walked away. Liz would be so proud of me.
But what did his parting comment mean? Did he think Dr. Slater could be at risk going out with me? Was that a warning? As I watched his burly form disappear down the side of the field, I felt the nudge of an umbrella. Swamp eyes.
"How's the game going?” Hank asked, wisps of dark blond hair escaping from beneath his ball cap and brushing the collar of his beige windbreaker. For a second, it looked like he was going to kiss me, but I checked his advance with my own umbrella.
"Ben made a goal."
"He did? You're kidding?"
I drilled him with a look. How about supporting your son instead of knocking him? Ben would never be the athlete his father was. Thank goodness. The last thing the world needed was another high school quarterback who couldn't stop reliving his victories from two decades ago.
A few seconds passed before Hank broke the silence. “Do you have any more dates coming up?"
I lifted my head from under the umbrella, a major strategic error that resulted in a deluge of rain down my face and chest. Fortunately I didn't need to make a good impression on Hank. This man had seen me at my worst, during my twenty plus hour labors with each child.
"Why?"
"I'm worried about you, honey. What if something happens when you're out with one of these bozos? Are you checking these guys out? Googling them. I don't want anyone to hurt you. You need to think about our kids.” The gaze he fixed on me surprised me with its intensity. “And us."
Wow. Hank was displaying more passion this afternoon than in our twenty years together. What brought this on? Maybe he finally realized what he'd given up when he broke up our marriage and our family. The impact his leaving had on his young children, not to mention his wife. I was about to question Hank further when I noticed our son slipping and sliding towards us with the apparent intent of giving me a hug.
"Did you see my goal, Mom? Wasn't it awesome?” His grin reached literally from one side of his mud speckled face to the other. Then he noticed his other water-soaked parent.
"Dad. You made it. Did you see my goal?” he squealed.
"I'm real proud of you, big guy. You're a chip off the old block."
I snorted. Chip off the old blockhead was more like it. Hank performed some kind of complicated male bonding fist thing with Ben then attempted another kiss on my cheek. I outmaneuvered him but he grabbed my hand and held it tight.
"Be careful, Laurel. Don't take any chances.” He hugged Ben then walked away leaving me in an unusual state. Stunned silence.
The rest of Sunday passed uneventfully. Ben called all of his buddies to swap stories about their soccer games and make sure they heard about his
goal as well. I did four loads of laundry and pondered my future.
My eagerness for my pending dinner with the health conscious Jeremy Slater had waned. Since the kids would be with their dad the following weekend maybe I should use Liz's shotgun approach to getting a guy. My friend used to schedule four to five dates a week. But then Liz's goal was to find a husband and the father of her future children before her estrogen clock stopped ticking.
My goal was...what exactly was my goal? Did I want a friend, an escort, a lover or a husband? Was my decision to join the Love Club just a response to my loneliness and the desire for intimacy with someone? Or was I trying to replicate the happy home Hank and I had for most of our marriage? Was I truly ready to spend the rest of my life with that special someone, the man who would keep not only my feet warm but also my heart?
Very heavy thoughts, which should be contemplated when I wasn't so tired. After soccer and a full day of laundry all I really wanted was to hit my four hundred thread count sheets. The phone rang as I brushed and flossed. One of the kids picked it up and a few minutes later, Jenna called out, “Hey, Mom, Grandmother Bingham for you."
My mother refused to go by Grandma or Granny.
"Hello, Mother, how are you?” I grabbed the phone and plunked into my overstuffed blue and green plaid wing chair.
"You never told me what happened with that murder investigation. Your name popped up on my ‘to do’ list."
I could visualize it now. Number twenty on her list—check on status of daughter to determine if necessary to raise bail on Monday. “No need for the bail bondsman yet,” I said.
"Good.” A few seconds elapsed. I think she really did check me off her list.
"I wondered if you would accompany me to a dinner they're having next Saturday at the country club, to honor the top producers in our company. Remember we went together last year."