by Linda Seed
“Don’t tell me you were thinking about bird DNA,” she prompted him. “Because I’ve got to tell you, that would be disappointing.”
He grinned. “I don’t study their DNA. I study how they’re physically adapting to environmental challenges like drought and human encroachment on nesting areas. You see, the length of their bills—”
Rose threw her head to the side, closed her eyes, and made a loud and elaborate snoring noise.
Will laughed. “All right. I get it. I’m boring.”
Rose smiled and nudged him with her elbow. “No, you’re not. I’m just teasing you because it’s all very scholarly. I could never do what you do.”
He gave her a wry half smile. “I’m not so sure I can do it, either.”
She looked at him with interest, squinting her eyes against the bright midmorning sunlight.
“What do you mean?”
He shrugged. “It’s taking me forever to finish my dissertation, and the other day I was thinking about that, about why it’s taking me so long.” He picked up a handful of sand and let it run through his fingers. “And I kept coming back to two things: fear, and how much I’m going to miss all of this when I finish.” He looked out to the ocean, to the foamy, crashing waves. Out in the distance, harbor seals bobbed in the blue water.
“What are you afraid of?” She brought her knees up to her chest and wrapped her arms around them, her voluminous skirt hugging her legs.
“When I get my degree, I’ll be getting a university teaching job, I guess. But what if that doesn’t happen? What if no one hires me? What if I’m no good at it?”
“Those are big questions,” she agreed.
“And this arrangement with Chris was only supposed to get me through my dissertation work,” he continued. “When that’s done …”
“You’ll be leaving,” she finished for him.
“I guess so.”
“And that’s why it’s taking you so long to finish the work,” she concluded. “It’s because you don’t want to go.”
That was it in a nutshell. He had friends here, a community, a home. And hopefully, at some point, he would have Rose.
“That would seem to be the case,” he agreed.
“Well. You don’t have to leave the area just because you start teaching. Cal Poly’s got to have a biology department, right?”
“They do.” He nodded.
“And that’s only forty minutes away.”
“Right.” He sounded hesitant even to his own ears.
He rubbed at his nose and adjusted his glasses.
A guy with his dog walked by along the waterline. The guy periodically threw a stick into the waves, and the dog leaped after it, then emerged, wet and dripping, before shaking off the water in a wild spray and doing it all over again.
“You know, one thing I learned when I ran away from Yale is that sometimes you’ve just got to leap, even if you don’t know where you’re going to land. You’ve just got to do it and hope for the best.” She gave him a tender smile.
The smile made him want to kiss her again, but that idea was fraught with potential peril. Instead, he reached out and took her hand. She looked surprised for a moment, and then she relaxed and let her fingers intertwine with his.
And it was enough, for now. If it turned out that she didn’t want him, fine. He’d hate it, but he’d deal with it. For now, it was enough to simply be with her, listening to the ocean and feeling the warmth of her hand.
Chapter Thirteen
If Pamela had called Rose to warn her she was coming to Cambria more than a month before the wedding, Rose would have prepared. First, she would have pleaded with her mother not to come. If that hadn’t worked, she’d have scheduled herself for long hours at De-Vine, hours so long that she would barely emerge for air, let alone family togetherness. Or she would have asked one of her friends to engineer a personal crisis that required Rose’s intervention. Or, if all else failed, she’d have left town until the crisis passed.
But Pamela, with her many years of experience in dealing with Rose, had not called to warn her, and instead had opted to show up on Rose’s doorstep, unannounced, on a warm morning in May.
“Mom. You’re here. Oh, God,” Rose blurted when she opened the door to find Pamela standing there in a Chanel suit, clutching a Hermes purse the size of a small suitcase.
“Is that any way to greet me?” Pamela demanded. “Let me in, I’m exhausted. My flight came in to San Luis Obispo last night—I had to fly on the most rattletrap little plane, it didn’t even have first class. And I was forced to stay in the most dreadful hotel. The room was designed to look like a cave. Good God, I’ll be having nightmares for months about being buried alive.” She shuddered and pushed her way into the cottage.
“What … what are you doing here?” Rose stammered. “I … You didn’t call. Did you? Did I miss a call?”
“Why, my dear, I’m here for the wedding.” Pamela looked at her as though that were obvious.
“But the wedding’s next month!”
Pamela waved a hand dismissively. “I thought I’d come early and spend some time with you. Have a little vacation. How have you been, darling? It’s been too long.” She leaned in and gave Rose an air kiss a full two inches away from actual contact. As she did, Rose caught a whiff of a Baccarat perfume that she knew cost more than six thousand dollars per ounce.
“You’re not staying here, are you?” There was that blurting thing again.
“Oh, good God, no.” Pamela scrunched up her nose at the thought. “While your place has a certain … charm, it’s far too small for the two of us.”
Thank God, Rose thought. At least, this once, her mother’s disapproval of her and all of her choices would pay a dividend.
“Well … where will you be staying, then?”
“I’ve rented a house at the beach,” Pamela declared. “Checkin isn’t for”—she glanced at her Cartier watch—“four more hours, so you and I can spend a little girl time together, shall we?”
Four hours of girl time. With her mother. Rose felt the panic a field mouse must feel when it sees a falcon coming at it at two hundred miles per hour. She opened her mouth to make an excuse, and then, stunned by shock, was unable to think of one.
“Good, it’s all settled, then. Is there anyplace in this godforsaken town that sells a decent cup of coffee?”
Rose took Pamela to Jitters, not because they had the best coffee—which they did—but because Lacy would be there, and Rose needed an ally. Even if there was nothing Lacy could actually do to help her, Lacy’s presence would be a soothing balm that might make the difference between Rose surviving for the next few hours and her running, screaming, into oncoming traffic.
It was just Rose’s luck that she didn’t have to work today. Of course, Pamela didn’t know that. After she parked her car on Main Street in front of Jitters, Rose led Pamela down two doors to De-Vine.
“While we’re here, let me just pop in at work. I have to … I’m just going to talk to Patricia.” It had been a couple of years since Pamela had been to visit Cambria, and that last time, she’d said loudly, in front of Patricia, that De-Vine had veered dangerously left at “quaint” and had detoured deep into “tacky.” Rose hoped Patricia wouldn’t remember.
“Rose,” Patricia said from behind the counter. “What are you doing in here on your day off?” Then Patricia spotted Pamela, and her face went from warm and welcoming to a stony mask of neutrality. “Oh. Pamela.”
She remembered.
“What do you mean, Patricia?” Rose asked desperately. “It’s not my day off. Don’t you remember that you and I traded shifts? I’m supposed to start work in …” She looked at the clock mounted above the bar. It had wine bottles for hands. “… in about an hour. Don’t worry, Patricia, I didn’t forget!” Rose laughed the laugh of the desperate.
“No, dear, we didn’t trade shifts,” Pamela said patiently. “It’s Tuesday. You don’t work on Tuesdays.”
“But …” Rose did this winking, head tilting thing that was meant to covertly indicate Pamela, but that looked instead as though she were shooing away bees without benefit of her hands.
“What my daughter is trying to say,” Pamela interjected, “is that she’d like you to invent some sort of work-related emergency to allow her to avoid spending the day with me. Isn’t that right, Rosemary?”
“Uh … well … now that you mention it.”
“Now, about that coffee,” Pamela prompted her.
“Right.” Rose’s shoulders fell as she headed out the door and down the sidewalk toward Jitters.
Once they were outside, Pamela turned to her. “Would you mind telling me what that was all about?”
Rose shrugged miserably. “I just … This is a surprise, that’s all.”
Pamela gathered up her purse and put the handle over her pink-Chanel-clad forearm. “It’s a surprise, darling, because I knew that if you had warning, you’d find some way to escape. Now, let’s see if this coffeehouse of yours can make a decent espresso.”
Pamela was halfway through her espresso and her blueberry scone before she made the first remark about Rose’s hair. Which was probably the best she could do, Rose had to acknowledge.
“So I see it’s blue this time,” Pamela remarked. “You look remarkably like a Smurf.”
“No, I don’t,” Rose answered, staring glumly into her latte. “Smurfs have blue skin, not blue hair. If I dyed my skin blue, then I’d look like a Smurf.”
“I imagine the idea has occurred to you at least once.” Pamela held a bit of scone primly between two fingers and gave Rose a tight-lipped smile.
“Is this what we’re going to do? Is this what the next month is going to be?” Rose demanded. “You making snide remarks about my hair and my piercings, and … and my tattoo?”
Pamela popped the tiny bite of scone into her mouth. “Oh, I imagine we’ll also talk about your choice of career and your love life.”
“Fabulous.”
Lacy, apparently sensing the tension, came over and stood at their table. “Is everyone doing okay?” Her hands were clasped in front of her apron, and she had a nervous look on her face. “Is there anything else I can get you?”
“Cyanide would be good,” Rose said. “If you’ve got any.”
“Is that for you or for me?” her mother inquired, one eyebrow raised.
“I’m still deciding.”
“Okay then,” Lacy said. “I’ll just … um …” She scurried back behind the counter and busied herself washing some demitasse cups.
If that was Lacy’s idea of rescuing her, it had been a pathetic attempt. Unless she actually came back with the cyanide.
At three p.m., after an excruciating morning and early afternoon that included shopping (Pamela had complained that there were no designer stores in Cambria) and lunch (she’d bemoaned the dearth of restaurants with Michelin stars), it was time for Pamela to check in at her rental house. Rose silently thanked God that shortly, her mother would be settled into her place and Rose could excuse herself, retreating into the silent lack of judgment of her own little cottage.
They went to the rental office, picked up the key, and followed the map to the house in the Marine Terrace neighborhood, not far from Kate’s place. When they arrived, Rose thought, This can’t be right. That thought was confirmed when Pamela got out of the car, slammed the car door, and boomed, “What in the world is this?”
Rose came to stand next to her mother in the driveway. “This is it,” she said cheerfully. “Your home away from home.”
Pamela rummaged inside her purse for her cell phone, grumbling something that sounded like, “Over my dead body.”
Suddenly, Rose was feeling much better.
The house in front of them was not the five-bedroom, modern style, oceanfront showplace that Pamela had been expecting. Instead, it was a tiny, 1950s-era structure with white clapboard siding, a garden gnome grinning up from a bed of yellow flowers, and a sign hanging beside the door that said LIFE IS BETTER IN FLIP-FLOPS.
The look of horror on Pamela’s face suggested she would be more amenable to spending the month in prison.
The situation made Rose feel unreasonably happy, though it shouldn’t have; it would certainly mean hours of effort in trying to sort the situation out, and then, if that failed, hearing Pamela moan about the unbearable, ruined state of her vacation.
But right now, Rose might have had Disney bluebirds flying around her head, singing and fixing her hair. “Wow, Mom. This place is adorable. Look at the gnome! And that outdoor shower is going to come in handy.” She took the key that was hanging limply from her mother’s hand and unlocked the front door. “Oh, look!” Rose exclaimed. “They’ve got a Barcalounger!”
Pamela had dialed the rental company and was holding the cell phone to her ear with a look of fury on her face.
“Yes!” she said into the phone. “This is Pamela Watkins. I’ve just arrived at the so-called house you sent me to, and it’s simply unacceptable. I arranged to rent a five-bedroom house at the waterfront, and this … this is … Well. This is not the house I rented. Yes, certainly, I’ll wait.”
After a moment, the conversation resumed. “I see,” Pamela said. “Well, I hardly see how that’s … No. Well, of course I expect a refund, but this is … I see. But you can’t possibly … Yes. Well, your supervisor will be hearing about this, I assure you.”
Pamela ended the call, put her phone back into her purse, and leaned against the car in a defeated posture that almost made Rose feel sorry for her.
“What did she say?” Rose ventured.
“It seems I was given this house by mistake. The one I reserved was double-booked. Someone else is already in it.”
“Oh. But there are other—”
“Everything else is booked, except for a studio over a garage. With a sofa bed.”
“Ah. Well, at least come inside and check it out,” Rose said. “I hear those Barcaloungers are really comfortable.”
After an hour of hearing Pamela on the phone trying, and failing, to find accommodations that were up to her standards, Rose thought that she might beat her mother to death with the garden gnome.
She decided it was best to make her excuses and get the hell out of there, before she found herself having to pay for a broken gnome.
“Look, Mom. I’m just going to go home and let you … you know. Get settled in.”
Pamela was so dejected at this point that she didn’t even try to argue. “That’s fine.”
“For what it’s worth, I like the place,” Rose said. “It’s cute and cozy. I even like the gnome.”
“Coming from you, darling, that doesn’t surprise me.” The words were right, but the delivery lacked the usual sting. Rose almost felt sorry for her.
“You could always go home and come back in time for the wedding,” Rose said hopefully.
“We’ll see.”
Rose gathered up her things and scurried out of there before Pamela could change her mind and insist on dissecting the state of Rose’s love life. At least that, at the moment, would be a short conversation.
Chapter Fourteen
The discussion of Rose’s love life came the next day at De-Vine while Pamela was sitting primly at the bar drinking a glass of port. Gen had popped in during a break at the gallery to get Rose’s opinion on a selection of hairstyles for the big day.
“See,” Gen said, showing Rose a couple of magazine clippings, “this one has that tumbling-curls thing going on, kind of natural but sumptuous, but this one is more elegant and classic. What do you think?”
“Genevieve,” Pamela said dryly. “You’re asking Rose’s opinion on hair ?”
“I love Rose’s hair,” Gen said, always the loyal friend. “And she knows me, knows my taste. So what do you think?” She turned back toward Rose. “I can’t decide.”
Rose looked over the two pictures and scrunched up her nose in thought. “I think this one.” She pointed
to the more loose, natural style. “With a more casual, outdoor ceremony, and the reception at the ranch, you don’t want to look too formal.”
Pamela peered over at the magazine clippings. “You know, I believe she’s right,” she said, surprise in her voice.
“I am?” Rose said.
Pamela nodded thoughtfully, then pointed one impeccably manicured finger at the picture. “The other one is more appropriate for an evening church wedding. This one looks … more in harmony with nature.”
“I’m right?” Rose said again.
“Well, darling, you know what they say about the blind squirrel and the acorn.” Pamela sipped some port.
Once Gen had scurried off with her magazine clippings, Pamela turned to Rose and raised one eyebrow. “It must concern you that all of your friends are getting married, and here you are, alone.”
Rose faced her mother, one hand in a fist on her hip. “It doesn’t concern me, and it’s not all of my friends. It’s one of my friends, Mother.”
Pamela cocked her head in a gesture of reluctant assent. “Still, it makes one think.”
Rose propped her elbows on the bar, leaning in toward her mother. “And what does it make one think?”
“It makes one think that people aren’t meant to be alone,” Pamela said. “Look at me. It’s five years since your father’s death, and what’s left for me? What do I have?”
“A four-thousand-square-foot house in Connecticut and a Jaguar?” Rose said.
“Be serious.”
“I am! You act like Dad left you nothing. You have everything!”
“I don’t have companionship,” Pamela said. “I don’t have someone to spend my life with. And I don’t have grandchildren.”
Rose rolled her eyes extravagantly. “Ah. Grandchildren. What do you even want with them? I can’t exactly see you getting down on the rug and making the Millennium Falcon out of Legos.”
“Well, dear, you’re a lost cause, and I thought if I had grandchildren, I could bend them to my will.”
“Mother!”
“I’m joking, darling.” Pamela scowled. “I want someone to carry on the family, of course. And since you show no interest in any of the wealth your father left me, I want someone who can inherit when I’m gone.”