by Alison Tyler
‘So the question,’ she said over drinks at the top of her favourite San Francisco hotel, ‘is who?’ We were in a famous bar that rotated, turning in a perfect circle every hour to give the most breathtaking panoramic view of the city. I could tell that the majority of the other patrons were tourists, but that didn’t bother me. Being surrounded by strangers felt oddly comforting after being so rudely confronted in The Saloon the previous evening.
‘Who what?’
‘Who am I supposed to go for? If I’m going to create some new scandal for people to gossip about, then I want to make sure I pick the right guy. Not just any guy, but somebody who will be worth my trouble.’
‘God, there are so many. The soap operas that go on in town are unbelievable. Each day, people are on to something new.’
‘Then why am I even here?’
‘Because those are the fillers. The little newsbites. I’m the story of the week. The banner headline.’
‘And are you going for this guy for real, this firefighter guy?’
I shrugged. I had no idea. I’d wanted a bit of companionship, not a whole full-blown drama. And I had no idea how to deal with what had happened the night before. Alden had stayed in my bed all night long, but he hadn’t talked to me about Sheila, or the gossip, or even what the firecall had been about. If he wanted to be with me for real, he’d have to do better than that. He’d have to let me get inside.
‘Charlie, I’m not trying to be a pain, but I have to ask again: why am I here?’
I sighed. ‘Because I want to stay in Raysville. I don’t want to bow out after a month. And, if I’m going to make it, I need a little more time before everyone judges me.’
‘From what you’ve told me, I think they’ve already judged you.’
‘Then I want them to see that they’ve misjudged me.’
‘Or, rather, you want them to spend their time judging me, right?’
‘Well –’
‘So who do I shower my affections on?’
I thought about the bevy of bar beauties. The girls and their boyfriends who hung out at The Saloon. Was there one couple in particular who would be susceptible to a gorgeous blonde stranger swooping in from out of town? It was Mia’s intention to say she was here from Texas, her original home-state, to avoid any connection to me. She still can put on plenty of accent to sound authentic, and I didn’t think anyone would question her cover story. She’d decided to claim that one of her magazines had sent her to do a profile on B&Bs in the area, and that she was spending a month driving up and down the coast. She’d stay at the Oleander Inn, the nicest B&B in nearby Dogtown, but she’d spend plenty of time in the Raysville hangouts, in order to understand the local colour.
‘Hangout,’ I corrected her. ‘There’s only one nightspot in town.’
‘And the cantina,’ she said. ‘You told me they were all talking about you there.’
‘And the post office, and the grocery store,’ I repeated miserably.
‘I’m going to put in appearances at all these places. So, once again, Charlie, tell me who I should focus my attention on.’
I thought hard, and then smiled.
‘You have someone in mind for me, don’t you?’
‘Noah Sweet,’ I said, feeling pleased.
‘I like the name already.’
‘You’ll like the man even more than the name. He’s got a total Jim Morrison quality –’
‘Before or after the drugs started to take effect?’
‘A young Jim Morrison,’ I responded quickly. ‘Tall and dark-haired, a bit brooding as if he always has something serious on his mind. He’s very handsome and he plays with a local band that does mostly reggae covers. There are three girl singers in the band – the Sweethearts –’
‘The Sweethearts?’ Mia sounded incredulous.
‘I know. It’s too perfect. They wear pink and red tie-dye with assorted heart shapes printed on them.’ Mia made a face that indicated she was about to be sick, but I kept talking. ‘And, according to my sources, he’s slept with them all. In fact, he’s done the rounds in town quite extensively, if you want to believe the rumours. People say he’s worth the effort, even if you know from the start that it won’t last.’
‘Then will anybody even care if I’m on the scene?’
My grin broadened. ‘Oh, yes, they’ll care. Everyone will. All the ladies pay constant attention to who he’s with. As I understand it, the belief is that he’s playing the field only long enough to decide which chicklet to choose as his homesteader. Until he chooses, they’re all still in the running.’
‘Is it all about the guys choosing the girls still? Are we on Outback Jack?’
‘He’s as cute as Outback Jack,’ I told her with a grin. I was starting to feel really good about our plan.
‘I’m serious, Charlie. Don’t the women have a say out where you are?’
‘I know it’s a bit old-fashioned sounding. That just seems to be how things are out here. I can’t really tell how, but I think the girls simply manage to let the guys know when they’re available.’
‘They put a neon sign outside their double-wide?’
‘Not everyone lives in a trailer.’
‘But enough do, according to you,’ Mia said. ‘Enough to give definition to the expression “trailer trash” if I’m to trust you.’
‘That was just the one story I heard –’
‘What else do I need to know?’ Mia asked, toying with the thin red straw in her drink. ‘Does he bathe? Does he drive a pick-up truck? Does he like to party?’
‘Yes, to all those counts. I mean, I assume he bathes. He definitely scrubs up nice enough. I think he’ll take your breath away when you see him for the first time.’ I thought about her other questions. ‘When I stood near him at the bar, he smelled divine. And he drives a vintage green Ford with a bumper sticker on the back window that says “If it’s tourist season, why can’t we shoot ’em?’”
Mia giggled.
‘Tourists are a big deal in Raysville. Nothing like in LA, where they really would rather stay in their own quarters: Disneyland, Universal Studios, the Hollywood sign. Here, when it’s tourist time, the whole town fills up with people. You can’t get a parking space at the market. You can’t find a seat on the sidewalk outside of the Cowpie. You’re just lost in a sea of pastel-clad strangers.’
‘And I’m going to be the newest stranger in town,’ Mia said, smiling. ‘So how should I approach this Mr Sweet?’
‘He plays every Saturday night at The Saloon.’
‘You didn’t just say The Saloon, did you?’
‘That’s the one place in town that tourists seem to know not to go to. Years ago, someone was shot in the place, and that memory lingers. It’s as if The Saloon were a cowboy who enjoys the bad-boy reputation. The murder went unsolved, although I’ve heard that everyone in town knows exactly who did it and why.’
‘You’ve got your own set of laws out there?’ Mia said teasingly.
‘If you show up and play a little pool and drink a little whiskey, I’m sure that Noah will find you without a problem.’
‘So that’s the plan?’
I nodded.
‘And how will you and I communicate? Cell phones?’
‘No. The reception out there is unspeakable. Or rocky, anyway. You have your laptop. We’ll have to email, and then meet out of town. You can start by getting a place at the B&B and sending me an email when you’re situated.’
‘This really is an undercover project.’
‘Like you wouldn’t believe. The locals are extremely suspicious. Stick to your story like glue. Don’t make a change for anyone. They’ll compare notes. It’s what they do. God, it’s what they live for.’
Mia motioned to the waitress that we were ready for another round, and the restaurant slowly spun a little further. It was a rare fogless day, and San Francisco looked like a fantasy city, the strange skyscape with the pyramid-shaped Transamerica Building, the cigarette-silho
uette Coit Tower and the dramatic dome of the Palace of Fine Arts. We stared together for a moment, while I visualised the skyline of Raysville. No buildings. No treacherously windy streets. No cable cars. Just mountains and cow country. And, somewhere in a distant firestation, Alden.
Was he worth all this?
I’d have to take a chance to see.
Chapter Ten
Mia and I spent a few days shopping in the city, working on our story as we made our way through the hippest stores in San Francisco. Although I wasn’t ready to move out of Raysville, I also wasn’t in a big hurry to get back home and throw myself into the fire. We started with a shopping trip in Union Square. After several weeks wearing little or no make-up and toning down my standard LA look, I was ready to spend hours – and money – in the make-up departments of the highest-end stores. This meant negotiating our way through the perfume sections, ducking as the model-girls with atomisers swarmed around us.
‘What did she spray you with?’ Mia asked as we skated through a cloud of perfume.
‘FCUK for Her,’ I said, after glancing down at the card the woman had thrust in my hand.
‘You’re sure it was for her?’
‘Yeah … why?’
‘Because I’d FCUK you.’
‘Stop it.’
‘I would. Really.’
‘Yeah? Well, if you’d been in Raysville with me last month, then you might have been able to save me from all of this embarrassment.’
‘But if I had, then we’d never have been able to hatch our little plan. Aren’t you excited, Charlie?’
When she put it like that, I had to smile. I was more than excited. I was electrified.
I went on a solo camping expedition for the rest of the week, knowing that Mia would have to do a little shuffling of her own schedule back in LA in order to get ready. I hadn’t been camping in years. Not since my family’s annual trips when I was young. But that sort of knowledge never fades. And I’d been to Burning Man twice with Johnny, so I still knew how to put up a tent and cook for myself on a small bunsen burner.
I told nobody of my plans, just headed out with my gear to a luxurious spot two hours north and found myself relaxing in the beauty of the countryside, which seemed to be part of an entirely different planet from Los Angeles’ environment. There was no smog, and no noise, and, since I was camping off season, I only ran into a few other tourists. All were European, and nobody tied me to Raysville or to the gossip about a firefighter named Alden.
On the day of Mia’s arrival in Raysville, I headed home, avoiding downtown. I pictured her driving through Dogtown without realising she’d passed it, and having to swing a U-turn in her convertible Chevy, coming back through from the other direction. I tried to imagine what Mia would make of the place. Even Los Angeles doesn’t have enough city-feel for her, and she considers San Francisco a charming boutique city, a pocket-sized place that she can thoroughly work through in a weekend. What would she think of Raysville?
Once back in my cabin, I took a shower, brewed a pot of coffee and started to worry about that night, when she’d make her first appearance at The Saloon. We weren’t going to talk, or even make eye-contact. But I had to show up, otherwise my absence would be as much to gossip about as her presence. The trading of one outsider for another. I thought about what I might wear, and that started me worrying about what Mia would wear. Mia’s outfits cost money, and they look it. We hadn’t really talked about small-town fashion yet, or the lack thereof. I’d forgotten to explain my theory that in Raysville women fall into one of two categories: those who still care, and those who just don’t give a shit. You can’t tell which style a woman will choose simply from her occupation, either. The lady who owns the artisan cheese company, which is highly prestigious and featured in national and international food magazines, dresses like she doesn’t give a shit. You never see her in anything but a pair of battered old khakis and scruffy beige sweaters with ripped-out elbows. Then there are cowgirls who dress as if they’re on their way to a runway show, in tight designer jeans and spaghetti-strap tank tops in a medley of pastel colours. Some of the older women still favour a look from the 80s: stirrup leggings and long sweaters. The main problem with this look is that the clothes seem to be from the actual 80s, the sweaters and leggings falling apart all over, nearly decaying off the wearer.
Oh, poor Mia. I had the distinct premonition that she was going to strike out with whatever outfit she chose. I’d already learned the hard way that if you wore dark red lipstick into town the locals assumed you were going somewhere, and Mia never went anywhere without a full face of make-up.
I sighed and wandered over to my computer, planning to at least get a little work done. I hadn’t been keeping up with my deadlines lately, and work always calms my mind. But after staring at a blank screen for an hour, I found myself walking from one room in the cabin to the other, which took no time at all.
When I heard the knock on my front door, I jumped as if I’d been pinched. The first pounding knock was followed by a second, louder knock, and then a man’s voice called out my name. I looked down to see what I was wearing, discovering quickly that I’d chosen to dress today in the ‘I don’t give a shit’ style. I had on a pair of extremely ripped Levis that showed my skin at the knee and a swatch of my candy-pink panties in a tear at the rear pocket. To top that, I was wearing a mint-green halter top and a battered fog-grey cardigan with sequins along the collar. Like most in my collection, this sweater happened to be vintage cashmere, but after years of rough wear it simply looked old.
‘Hey, Charlie! You in there?’
It was Alden. I hurried to the door.
‘Did anyone see you?’ I asked, looking out over the trees. The road was empty. The coast was clear.
‘You sound like someone in a James Bond movie. Where’s the microfiche?’ He looked left and right. ‘Were you followed?’
‘I know it.’ I laughed in spite of myself. ‘But I’m wary now. Look at the gossip your girlfriend spread all over town already. I can hardly show my face.’
‘Sheila’s not my girlfriend. That’s why I’m here. I wanted to talk to you earlier, but you went missing for a week. The fact that you skipped town was fodder for far more gossip than our night together at the firehouse. You should have heard the things people have been saying.’
‘So everybody knows about that?’
‘I suppose it didn’t help things to have you drive my truck. I wasn’t thinking. Half the town spotted you in it. People out here know how to put things together.’ He looked me over, then brushed a wayward strand of hair out of my eyes. His touch was gentle and comforting, and I suddenly wanted to talk to him about our last night together. Our real first time. I wanted to know if anyone had found out about that, but I didn’t dare bring it up. He’d seemed like a different person that night. In a daze. Now, it was almost as if that night had never happened.
‘So where’d you disappear to? I checked your driveway each day, but your car was gone. I got scared you moved back to LA and that I’d never see you again.’
‘I needed a few days to myself,’ I said, explaining my visit to San Francisco. ‘I’m not used to being front-page news after going on a date. So I took the ferry over from Larkspur Landing, and I just wandered the city.’ He glanced at the corner of my room, where the bags from my shopping trip with Mia were still piled up.
‘And you cleaned out the stores, it looks like.’
I shrugged. ‘A girl from LA could go through serious withdrawal out here. I mean, what am I going to buy at the place that sells horse-riding gear?’
‘A saddle.’ He grinned without missing a beat. ‘A pair of super-slick riding boots. A quirt.’
‘What would I do with a saddle?’
‘It’s not what you would do with one, baby. It’s what I would do.’
‘You’d saddle me up?’ I asked. ‘And ride me?’ I could feel myself playing the flirt, even in my battered outfit. With Alden, I found I didn’t ha
ve to be all dolled up to go into sex-queen mode. If I’d been in LA, I would have felt the need to rush from the room, to fix my hair and add at least the barest touch of make-up: mascara, baby-pink lipgloss, a hint of blush. Here, I was all right as is. I could tell that from the look on his face. In fact, maybe I was a great deal more than ‘all right’.
He came towards me, then led me over to the deep purple sofa. He sat down, cradling me in his embrace as he continued to describe my future fantasy purchases at the horse and tack shop: the chaps with the opening at the crotch, the black leather vests, the braided quirts.
‘I don’t even know what a quirt is for,’ I interrupted.
‘City girl,’ he said with a grin. ‘It’s like a little whip.’
‘Why, Alden. I never would have thought you were kinky.’
‘Not even after the night on the firetruck?’
‘Could have been a fluke. Could have been a one-night sort of thing.’
He shook his head. ‘I’m not like that. You don’t know me really well yet. But you’ll find out. I’m not into one-night stands of any sort.’
‘So you’re into …’ I searched for a phrase that would make sense. ‘What the LA. Weekly would call “alternate escapades”?’ I loved reading the personal advertisements in this entertainment newspaper. People spelled out their fetishes in bold letters, asking for mates who felt the same way, and, based on the sheer amount of ads, finding them. I liked to read the different columns and try to find matches among the advertisers. Here’s a guy who likes full-figured women to dress in naughty lingerie. Oh, and here’s a curvaceous gal who has a drawer full of extra-larges from Victoria’s Secret.
‘I suppose so,’ he said, shifting so that he could pull a set of cuffs from his back pocket.
‘Why, Alden,’ I said in mock surprise, ‘you’re a firefighter, not a cop.’
‘You have a thing for cops? Tell me if you do. I have friends on the force.’
‘No.’ I shook my head. I already had my hands together, wrists offered up. ‘I have a thing for guys who take charge.’ There it was. I’d hinted at my secret fantasy.