Rumours

by Alison Tyler

  Still, he was the strong one. I would have kept him next to me all night long, wrapping my long legs around him, waking him in the pink light of dawn with my full lips locked around his cock in a good-morning blowjob to set his nerve endings on fire. But Johnny wasn’t there to make me stay. He was there to say goodbye, and, after he dressed in his rumpled clothes, he gave me a kiss and one of his trademark winks and headed out the door, leaving his belt behind.

  Chapter Four

  I was exhausted the morning after my unexpected sex session, and in dire need of coffee. But I took the time to call Mia before leaving the hotel, demanding that she tell me why she’d set Johnny on my tail.

  ‘He begged me,’ she explained, obviously disheartened that her plan hadn’t worked out as she’d hoped. ‘What was I supposed to do?’

  I didn’t have an answer to that – not a real one. Truthfully, I wasn’t upset with her, but I wanted her to know that I understood what she’d done.

  ‘Do you like it yet?’ she asked next, clearly trying to change the subject.

  ‘I’m not even there,’ I explained. ‘Talk to me in an hour or so.’

  ‘I will,’ Mia promised. ‘I’ll be calling each day for a full report.’

  I drove to my new home nearly percolating with nervous energy. To my great relief, the tiny downtown appeared as charming to me as on my previous visit. I’d been afraid that, on seeing the one-horse town again, I’d immediately turn the car around, skulking back to LA in my shame and Mia’s glory.

  Instead, I parked my Mini Cooper in front of the black-and-white-painted bakery called the Cowpie and wandered in. The aroma of freshly baked treats instantly assailed me, and I breathed in deeply as I looked around. The cow-themed decor spread to the walls, which were painted white with interesting black splotches, like the coats of the many milk cows I’d spotted on the road into town. A sign on the glass case at the front of the bakery was written in the glittery red of Dorothy’s shoes: ‘We have bearclaws, and scones, and croissants, oh my!’

  As I took my place in the long line, I could feel the rest of the customers looking me over. I pretended to be paying careful attention to the sign over the counter that I remembered from my previous visit: ‘We’re an espresso-free establishment! No mochas. No cappuccinos. Just good strong coffee!’ I had the feeling you would become an instant outcast, shunned forever, if you attempted to order a speciality drink. Double-decaf soy lattes were definitely a no-go out here.

  While the line moved slowly forwards, I listened intently to the conversations around me. Two women in their thirties were seated on the one wooden bench in the bakery, drinking coffee from mismatched pottery mugs and gossiping. They were dressed in loose comfortable clothing, as if they’d just returned from working out, or as if they’d come to the bakery in their pyjamas.

  ‘So, Elinor comes home on their sixth anniversary, only to tell Craig she’s leaving him for a bull rider she met while on vacation in Montana.’

  ‘I thought he was from Texas.’

  ‘Who said Texas?’

  ‘Taffy.’

  ‘Well, Taffy’s wrong. He’s from Montana. And not only that, she’s moved him to the trailer behind their house. As if Craig’s going to live with that.’

  ‘Gives new meaning to the words “trailer trash”,’ the other woman snorted, before asking, ‘Have you seen him yet?’

  ‘No, but Alhambra says he’s built like Noah, only a little huskier, and cute as all get out. And that’s from a dyke! And Elinor told Sheila that the man can screw better than he can ride bulls. And he’s a champion in the ring, with awards and everything, so you know what that means.’

  ‘I heard he was kinky, too,’ a man in line added, effortlessly joining their conversation.

  ‘What do you mean, Darwin?’

  ‘That he tied her up, or something,’ the blond man said.

  ‘What’s his name, again?’

  The first woman laughed softly. ‘Ty.’

  I inched forwards, past the cow-hide counter that ran the length of the front window. Matching stools beneath the counter each sported a set of pink wooden udders hanging from the underside. Several male customers sat on the stools, poring over an open newspaper, pointing out different images to each other.

  ‘Do you think that one’s Sukie?’

  ‘No, Sukie’s got a bigger rack.’

  ‘I’m going to tell Sukie you said so,’ one of the gossiping women called out, and everyone in the bakery laughed. Feeling distinctly like the odd girl out, I focused ever more intently on the decor in the small space. A rack along one wall overflowed with artistic, multicoloured pottery mugs. A sign above the rack read: ‘These cups are for personal use only.’

  ‘What does that mean?’ I asked when I reached the front of the line.

  ‘Regular customers keep their cups here,’ explained the high-school-aged counter girl. ‘Saves on paper.’ I found myself wondering how long it would take before I could bring in my own mug to hang with the other locals’. Maybe years.

  ‘What can I get for you?’ the counter girl asked.

  ‘A large coffee, and a bit of advice,’ I told her. ‘I need to find a realtor.’

  ‘Donny Brown’s place is right around the corner,’ a round-hipped woman rolling dough called out. ‘He’s the one realtor in town. Can’t miss him. He has a big red plastic horse outside his office.’

  ‘Odd time for a vacation,’ the high schooler said.

  ‘I’m taking a break.’

  ‘From where?’

  ‘Los Angeles.’

  An audible groan of disgust went up from several people around me, but the two men at the counter didn’t stir. They remained riveted to some large two-page photo spread in the centre of the newspaper. Although I was curious, I couldn’t see what the picture was of. The pretty high schooler grinned sheepishly at me and said, ‘You know there’s a bit of rivalry between Northern and Southern California.’

  ‘Sure,’ I said, thinking that I felt the rivalry only on this side of the Golden Gate Bridge. Los Angelenos don’t trash people from the Bay Area. Perhaps we think they dress oddly with their hippy styles and passion for Birkenstocks rather than Blahniks, and we find it peculiar that they choose to live in a region so often sacked in with fog, but we don’t groan each time we hear the words ‘Northern California’. Still I thanked her, and paid for my coffee as well as a copy of the local paper called the Levee Road News. I was interested in seeing what had so captivated the male customers at the counter.

  As I headed for the bakery’s exit, a handsome dark-haired man opened the door. He was dressed entirely in navy blue, and a patch on the pocket of his shirt spelled out RFD – Raysville Fire Department. He held the door for me, before heading inside himself. When I looked over my shoulder at him, I saw him gazing back at me. He tilted his head and smiled, and I flushed. As he walked through the door, I heard him say to one of the women on the bench, ‘Who was that?’

  ‘Alden likes the redheads,’ the woman teased.

  ‘The fancy redheads,’ one of the other women added, and I realised that once again I was overdressed. In LA, I’d have fit right in with the early-morning coffee crowd. My slim-fitting purple velvet slacks and black shimmering T-shirt were hip but casual. Yet out here the look was clearly too much. Especially if you could go out in your pjs.

  I peeked back over my shoulder one more time, thinking, Flirt, you stop that. You don’t even have a place to live yet, to say nothing of a place to fuck a handsome firefighter. Besides that, my ass throbbed from Johnny’s punishment. Was that the real reason he’d met me on the road? To make me remember him for days after our last illicit encounter? You never knew with Johnny. On the drive to Raysville, I’d had to slip one of my many cashmere sweaters in my seat to add a bit of extra cushion. Each bump in the road reminded me of that worn belt landing with a sharp crack on my behind. The fact that he’d left the belt for me as a deviant little souvenir made me suddenly wonder if I’d be able to fi
nd a local guy interested in the games I enjoyed. In Raysville, with the population a fraction of what I was accustomed to, it might not be so easy to find a like-minded, trustworthy partner.

  ‘Sure you will,’ I murmured out loud, before I could stop myself. Quieting my inner worries, I hurried to the realty office before I won myself a reputation for being the insane lady from LA who talked to herself.

  ‘Office’ was a misnomer. The place was a tiny silver bullet-shaped Airstream, half the size of the ones I’d seen previously. The giant plastic horse standing guard out front was larger than the actual trailer. I looked at the sign in the window that stated: ‘Open 9.00 or so until dark.’

  Unusual hours.

  I checked my old-fashioned Timex. It was after nine now. I knocked – nobody answered. I tried the handle on the door, but found it locked. After looking around, I located a wooden bench decorated all over with the hand-carved initials of lovers from long ago, and sat down to drink my coffee.

  While I waited, I paged through the local paper and, when I reached the middle section, I understood what had so fascinated the men in the bakery. The centre spread of this tiny sixteen-page paper was taken up by a photo of stark naked women spelling out the word ‘VOTE’ with their bodies. The picture had been taken from a height, so that the women’s facial features were somewhat obscured, and some had even turned their faces away from the camera, offering their ripe rear views. I wondered which one was Sukie, and spent some time studying each of the undressed women, fascinated by the variety of body types. In LA, this type of picture would have featured only perfectly proportioned figures, with silicone-enhanced curves and carefully coiffed hair. Here, young and old women lay side by side, using their bodies to powerfully voice their political views, apparently unconcerned about wrinkles or sags or an extra twenty pounds.

  I moved on from the photograph to a section called ‘Naughty’ Newsbites, which I quickly learned was the equivalent of a local gossip column. Although it purported to relay actual local news, these events weren’t about town hall meetings or fundraisers – they all were decidedly sexual in nature.

  MISS-TAKEN IDENTITY

  Young A. W. misplaced her girlfriend on Friday night, and was found locking lips with another young filly named C. H. Tsk-tsk, A. W. You know your girlfriend’s got brown hair. And a heart of gold for taking you back.

  DON’T GO CHANGING

  At the most recent Clothing Exchange, far more than clothing was being passed around back there in the dressing room. Ladies, be aware, the fellas might not be able to get into your private shindigs, but we do hear about what goes on.

  TRAILER TRASH

  When taking out the garbage next time, C. M. might want to think about knocking on the trailer in his back yard. Our sources say that the sultry Mrs M. is storing up her nuts for the winter –

  That last one was apparently what the women in the Cowpie had been discussing. I found myself intrigued by how revealing the columnist was. Even though the piece was written by an anonymous M –, did that person truly have anonymity out here, or did people simply not care about their privacy? I recalled what the bartender in Dogtown had said about knowing everyone. In a town this size, was it possible to do anything at all without everyone finding out?

  When I had finished the paper and my coffee, I walked around the block, checking out the few local businesses. On the next corner stood a one-room tie-dye store, featuring a window display filled with anti-Bushisms. I stood and read them all. My favourite was a bumper sticker boldly claiming: ‘Somewhere in Texas a village is missing its idiot.’ There were also T-shirts emblazoned with the declarations ‘Well-behaved women rarely make history’ and ‘Question Authority’ as well as the usual anti-authority paraphernalia, Che Guevera flags and summer-of-love nostalgia you find at every store on Haight Street in the city.

  I walked up and down Main Street twice before heading back to the realty trailer. (I couldn’t force myself to call it an ‘office’.) The whole trip took less than fifteen minutes but taught me quite a bit about the town. As far as I could tell, many people in Raysville identified with their creative side. Through the plate-glass windows, I could see collages for sale at the one garage, portraits hanging on the wall in the Mexican Cantina and delicate yellow-and-white tissue-paper flowers decorating the ceiling of a restaurant called the Daisy Diner.

  Free art was also spread generously throughout the town. On my walk, I discovered life-size portraits painted on the outside of different buildings. On the side of the post office was a picture of a woman watering flowers. Real flowers were planted in front of the picture, but the woman and the hose she was holding were made of paint. The Daisy Diner sported a mural of a woman seated on a bench, overlooking the tiny restaurant’s daisy garden. When I stopped to stare, a man sweeping the sidewalk explained that these ‘people murals’ were done by an anonymous painter, and that even the locals never could guess when a new picture would pop up. The person didn’t have permission to paint the pictures, but nobody had ever complained. As I headed back to the realty office, I made a game out of finding all of the different mini-murals I could. I wasn’t altogether surprised when I found a picture on the side of the feedbarn that featured a man I recognised – the cowboy I’d seen at the Turnaround Bar in Dogtown, complete with his Stetson hat and his cool blue eyes.

  Here was one local I had a desire to meet – in person, not in paint – and he stayed on my mind as I returned to the realty office, only to discover the door to the office was still locked. With a sigh, I sat on the bench to wait some more. The wood-shingled firestation stood directly across the street, and I watched as two good-looking firefighters in navy-blue jumpsuits started to wash one of the engines. They used long-handled brooms to spread the suds along the glistening body, and they joked with each other as they hosed down the truck. I enjoyed their horseplay from a distance, accustomed to the more flamboyant firefighters you see dragging Melrose, a sign reading ‘Got Fire?’ on the front.

  Nearly 45 minutes later, Donny showed up, looking nothing at all like my vision of a realtor. Beverly Hills realtors dress to perfection, drive luxury vehicles and exude the aura of celebrities. Donny pulled up on a sputtering turquoise moped. He had a ponytail dyed blue at the tips and several homemade-looking tattoos crawling up his bare arms. When he came close to me, I had the distinct feeling that he’d smoked his breakfast. I practically won a contact high from his opening statement.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said as he shook my hand. ‘Elsa called and told me that I had a client. I apologise for the wait, but you know how it is with West Marin time.’

  I didn’t have the slightest idea what he was talking about, but I nodded and followed him inside the trailer. The tiny space was decorated with Grateful Dead memorabilia. A series of jolly colourful bears danced over every surface including the ceiling. As I looked around the room, I explained that I could commit to three months. That was my plan. If I loved the place, then I’d find a longer-term rental. In moments, Donny whipped open a photo book to show me the cottage of my dreams. It was a wood-shingled one-bedroom with a wisteria-covered trellis and an old-fashioned Adirondack rocking chair on the porch. ‘Built in nineteen-oh-five,’ he said, ‘and lasted through the big quake of ’oh-six, so you know it’s sturdy. Want to go see?’

  We drove in my car, as he only had the scooter. The place was several miles out of town, up a hill and around a small bend, and it actually had a view of the Bay from the rear porch, which Donny assured me made it one of the most sought-after vacation rentals during the summer. The fact that I was looking for a fall rental put me in a special class.

  Inside, I took in the dark-wood walls, the kitchen filled with light, the bedroom with the sturdy brass bed and blue-and-white comforter like something out of a Laura Ingalls Wilder book. A bouquet of dried purple hydrangeas sat in an antique cream-coloured vase on a lace-covered night table.

  ‘Where are you visiting from?’ the realtor said, as I was looking around.
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  ‘Los Angeles,’ I told him without thinking, and, when I glanced in his direction, I saw that he’d made a face just like the people had at the Cowpie. Then he grinned and shook his head in a to-each-his-own manner.

  ‘The place is a cabin, really. Not big,’ he said, ‘but it’s all about the views and the hot tub on the back deck. That’s not from nineteen-oh-five, I can assure you. One of the owners in the seventies had the thing installed. Of course, it’s been updated since then. This one has all the special features. Bubbles. Whirlpool. Everything.’

  I nodded appreciatively. ‘I’ll take it.’

  ‘I should let you know that there is a chance the owner’s going to put the place on the market. But he’s decided to wait until Christmas, so you can have the lease until then, with the possibility of an extension.

  ‘I’ll take it,’ I said again, running my fingers over an old wicker chair.

  ‘And I probably ought to tell you about the ghost –’

  ‘I’ll take –’. I started. ‘A ghost?’

  ‘So they say. I’ve never seen it, or heard it, but many of the people who have rented the place have. Not a mean ghost, or anything, but a ghost just the same.’

  I stared at him, wondering if he really had smoked his breakfast, and whether the pot had scrambled his brains. ‘I’ll take my chances,’ I said with a smile.

  ‘Then let’s go back to the office, and we’ll get you all set.’

  After I proudly added the new house key to my silver chain, Donny said, ‘There’s no mail service to the residents out here, so you’ll need a box. Just go ask Milly at the post office. She’ll set you up.’

  I shook his hand and headed around the corner, enjoying the fact that I didn’t need directions to locate the building. With only one real street in town, everything was easy to find. When I joined the short line at the post office, I heard several people discussing the recent spread in the Levee Road News.