by Don McQuinn
"You said this afternoon. That's close enough."
She looked dubious. He moved closer, persuading. "I'll reschedule. The lawyer works for me. My schedule's what counts. Call me; I'll pick you up."
"I'd like to, I really would. There's just so much work...'
"That's what the Marine's for."
"No, he's not." She moved away, behind the front counter.
Right behind her, Van said, "Come on, I was kidding. Anyhow, he seems to be enjoying his work. Richards told me the only way Crane stays is if he pays his way by working for you."
"His name's Crow. I'm not sure the Pastor should have said that. "
"Why not? I mean, when you come down to it, this guy's just a drifter. So he didn't actually ask you for a handout; he's still hanging out on your property. It's a really nice thing to do and everybody admires you for it, but you're not his mother. If it bothers you to tell him you're taking time off to go to town with me, I'll tell him. He'll get it."
She didn't want Crow to get it. She wanted him to hate the idea. And she certainly didn't want Van making decisions for her.
Crow called from the doorway. "Lila? Sorry to interrupt, but are you sure you left the drill in there? I can't find it."
Van said, "You're back; good. I'm taking Lila to Seattle. She's got a banker's appointment this afternoon and I'm meeting my lawyer. We're staying for dinner. You'll be all right, won't you? I mean, you don't need help? Someone around?"
"I can handle it. Thanks."
Lila's breath caught when a small muscle twitched in Crow's jaw. Still, when he turned his focus to her he was perfectly composed. Except for his eyes. She couldn't break free of them. He said, "I'll take care of Zasu. Enjoy yourself. You've earned a break."
All his words were ordinary. The way he said them came from an angry world she intuited was like nothing she'd ever experienced.
I'll never know that world. Never know him. Not really.
He won't let me. He's alone in that place.
Only those unflinching eyes kept her from reaching out to him.
Could I help him get away?
What am I doing?
Everything he said was contrary. That zinger about taking care of Zasu. Like she wouldn't have asked him to do that. Him jumping in, like it was some kind of special offer. Or something she was too flighty to think of. He wasn't fair. Just because Van said there were plans didn't mean there were.
Well, there hadn't been. Then. There were now.
"It's a deal, then," she told Van, thinking dumb Crow could wait for her to tell him she just remembered the drill was actually in the bathroom. It served him right. She went on to Van, "Let's do the Kingfish Cafe. It's been almost a year since I was there and I loved it."
"You got it." He licked his lips extravagantly. "Citrus jerk wings. Buttermilk fried chicken."
Lila laughed. "Don't get me started. After I'm sure the bank's giving me the money I'll have a real appetite."
Surprise stiffened Van. He said, "You already applied? The paperwork...?
"All taken care of. The loan officer phoned, left a message. She sounded - you know - friendly." She colored, embarrassed. "At least that's what I heard. "
Van spoke on his way to the door. "Call me as soon as you can."
She waved as he left. The lazy screen door seemed to do the same.
Lila hugged herself, telling herself she had to get a grip. The loan officer had sounded nice, though. Shaking her head, half-smiling, she repeated her admonition to not get her hopes too high. In spite of that, she turned to look at the view, secure in the knowledge that it would lift her - as it always did. Wisps of mist ghosted the higher draws, the sun turning each into silver filigree. Fall was harsh, she thought, but it had its own beauty. It stripped away the color of flowers. For a while it tolerated the brilliance of turning foliage. In the end, though, it pared the land down to basics with a vigor that was barely short of lust. The firs still stood firmly majestic, hoarding life. The mountains endured. In spring, the whole world seemed to exult.
That's the way it was going to be with her dream. In the stark grays of fall and hard white of winter she would wait out the time of existence, preparing herself for spring and her new life.
Crow needed something new in his life, too. He was handier with tools than she expected. No master builder, but someone who cared about what he did. She wished he could be part of the evening's celebration. Kingfish's soul food would be just right. Maybe she and Crow could have a small celebration of their own tomorrow night. Clean up after work and sit down to something special. She'd fix them a good dinner. Nothing too fancy. That wasn't his style. But candles, maybe. Everything - everybody - looked nicer by candlelight. Like their dinner at Martha's.
She'd pick up a bottle of good wine while she was in the city.
Crow's southern. I bet he knows Southern cooking. I bet he'd like the way I do red beans and rice.
Patricia was probably a great cook.
Damn.
The complaining whine of an electric drill poked into her thoughts. When it stopped, Crow was whistling. It took her a moment to recognize it. Country; she should have known. Willie Nelson - "Nothing I Can Do About It Now." Should have known that, too.
He yelled at her through the ceiling. "Why aren't you getting dressed? Van's not going to want to stall around all morning."
She glared at the blank sheetrock overhead. He was supposed to take care of the building, not her social life. Big help or not, he was still a stiff-necked fool. She pulled her cell from its holster and punched in Van's number.
* * * * *
The loan officer was sweetness and good cheer. "I'm so sorry I couldn't take your call in person this morning. Meetings." She made a face then laughed to share conspiracy with Lila, and went on. "Phone tag. That's my life." Then, business-like, she handed Lila's papers across the desk. Lila let the smooth newness of the manila folder remind her how meticulously she'd prepared for this. The loan officer said, "I've been doing this job for over five years, Mrs. Milam. I've never seen a more carefully thought out application. Have you ever worked in banking?"
Lila thought her heart would explode. She struggled to be sober businessperson, afraid her face would break out in clown colors. "That's nice of you to say, but no. It's just that this loan's so important to me, you know? It's a dream, you know? My aunt and uncle..." Her cheeks warmed. "I'm babbling. I'm sorry. It's just that this is so important. I said that, didn't I? More babbling. I was so worried..."
The loan officer leaned forward, spoke softly. "Mrs. Milam, we..."
Lila cut her off, almost giddy. "Lila. Call me Lila."
"Lila. I'm Hailey. An application like this - it says you pay attention." Her voice dropped even lower. "A year ago there wouldn't be any question about us granting it. We'd welcome the opportunity to be part of your dream."
Pain jerked Lila's head back. Something like hooks seemed to embed in her chest. She couldn't breathe.
The loan officer went on. Wary eyes said more than the carefully modulated words. "The economy's so awful..." She lowered her hands to rest on the manila folder. For the first time, Lila was aware she'd dropped it. It lay on the desk top, the contents spilled out. Lila grabbed at it. She put it together, tidy, keeping her eyes away from the woman across the desk. Her voice trembled when she spoke. "I thought... You said the application was good. The best, you said. Why...?"
"It's the economy, Mrs. Milam. There's nothing we can do." The loan officer glanced around surreptitiously. "Between us, I think you're no risk at all. Can I reach you at this same number? It looks like things will loosen up pretty soon - a few months, give or take. I'll call you." Her smile was different now, tainted by pity.
Lila lived through their goodbyes.
Outside, she realized she clutched her large handbag holding all the paperwork inside to her breast possessively.
That woman. All she understood was paper and numbers. So nice. So useless. Lila muttered, mimicking
, "'I'll call you.' Call me what? Broke? Hopeless? You and your miserable two-plus-two-equals-four job. I wanted to build something. "
An older woman leaning into a walker shot a nervous look at Lila. They made eye contact. The other woman looked away quickly. Lila knew why; the woman predated cell phones and the like by a good deal. To her, Lila was another stress casualty, talking to herself.
She berated herself for telling Van she'd walk the mile or so to his lawyer's off ice in Pioneer Square. The trip was supposed to be a journey full of congratulation and newly polished dreams. She'd pictured herself idling, creating mental images of double-paned windows, quality cabinets, a new freezer for the kitchen. Standing behind the new counter, looking out at restored grounds.
That was the first thing Crow talked about, how pretty the place would be once someone paid attention to the leggy rhododendrons, tended the roses, the apple and dogwood trees. He was actually enthusiastic.
A good moment. Something to remember.
He'd be disappointed. She never should have let him get involved. Or gotten involved herself. Like him.
No more dreams. If I ever have another one, I'll keep it just long enough to kill it.
She'd chosen her clothes for today's occasion with quiet excitement. Bright colors to signal success and ward off Seattle's fall drabness. Red blouse, gauzy cashmere scarf. A lightweight blue sweater picked up the dark blue in the scarf's design and the almost-navy skirt. And the shoes. The really good ones, unaffordable even when things were good. Certainly not suited for a long walk. That wasn't a consideration when she just wanted to look good, wanted people to note the woman in such nice shoes.
Now she felt dowdy and her feet hurt. And she didn't even know what bus to catch.
She'd looked good, though - before. She'd seen the approval in Crow's eyes. It was quick, but it was there.
What about him? She'd have to get a job now. That might be a serious challenge. What would he do?
Probably go fishing.
She hadn't realized how much she'd integrated him into her plans. The grounds were going to be his territory. The way he studied the plants, the firepits, the benches - his heart was outdoors all the time. She'd only seen a little of that, but it was as apparent as a brass band.
He'd have to find something else. She wanted to cry.
One foot in front of the other, she made it to the next intersection. She told herself each block was progress. She deliberately raised her chin.
Why not? She was a person who crossed streets. Lila Milam moved on, no matter what. Like in a dream. No one could kill a dream. Not really.
A young man - a boy, really - looked away from a window where a woman was shaping loaves of bread on a large table. He met Lila's own gaze. True to her determination to be in command, Lila stared back. It seemed to startle the youngster. He looked flustered. Then he smiled. His nod at the storefront window was a sideways pecking motion. He said, "If I had a job like that I'd eat myself to death." That quickly he was on his way again.
Lila barely cleared the windows before the tears blurred her eyes. She reached the next corner by the time she fumbled the handkerchief out of her bag. The light was against her, and this was Seattle; she waited for it to change. It gave her time to steady.
People were surging past her like a wave rounding a rock. The light was green. Lila practically jumped off the curb, hurried to avoid being in anyone's way.
The crowd was reality. A person had nothing to say about when the light changed, and when it did, a person did what was expected and walked. The traffic light didn't dream. And if a person did, she'd best understand that dreaming was more likely to get you trampled than bring happiness.
Chapter 24
Van was alone in a small conference room at the law firm when Lila entered. Concern erased his cheerful greeting. He rose quickly, discarding a magazine. He came to her quickly, his face close to hers. "What's wrong, Lila? Are you hurt?"
"Not where it shows." She tried a smile.
The room smelled heavy - leather and stuffiness, like she'd stuck her nose in an old wallet. Her gaze was drawn past Van to the walnut paneling, the muted watercolor paintings, the lush furniture. She had the mad notion that late at night, when the city was in oblivious silence, one could listen closely in this room and hear clinking coins, rustling bank notes, the soft moan of broken promises - the torch song of avarice. Val was as at home in this world as he was in a stripped landscape, pointing out the oncoming street grid or drawing air pictures of the buildings soon to appear.
She could never be like that. Men like Van and the people who owned this office made their fortunes creating big. First, though, they destroyed, except they called it development. When they were feeling really good about themselves, they spoke of progress. They spoke of its inevitability, which meant simply that they were going to do what they wanted and the small dreamers could either get on the bus or under it.
He took her hands in his and made her sit down. She sank into a huge chair. The confidence emanating from him was so strong it shouldered past her depression. As much as she disliked - sometimes despised - his need to tear down old and build new, the raw strength of the man was comfort and relief. The tears tried to start again. To combat that, she talked. The story tumbled out - the loan officer, the boy at the bakery window, the older woman and her walker, the car that almost hit her crossing Columbia, the troupe of Asian tourists filing into the Underground Seattle headquarters - everything. She jabbered uncontrollably.
Van knelt facing her, never letting go of her hands. His only comments were sounds of sympathy until she was spent.
He told her she should have called for a ride. "If you're hurting, I should be there," he said. "I was against that long walk anyhow."
It almost undid her. She wasn't ready for sympathy or comments about her naivete, even in kindness. He had no right to be playing at "I told you so." Her answer boiled out of her: She wanted that long walk. It was to have been her triumphal march. She'd looked forward to just feeling good, walking alone, enjoying success.
He said, "I should have been with you. Even if everything had gone right, just to cheer or offer advice or something. I wish... We've talked so much about this. The important thing's always been for you to be secure. I want what's best for you." He rose, releasing his grip. "I want you to do something for me."
His seriousness and his request both surprised her. "What?"
"Let me help you put this out of your mind."
Her face went hot. Fingernails dug into her palms. "Didn't you hear anything? I just had the worst day of..."
He put a gentle hand to her face. "I understand. Really. Whenever you want, we'll sit down and talk more. We'll work something out. At base, we both want the same thing. But what happened today, you can't brood over it. Give yourself a chance to heal. We'll start with a great dinner, talk about unimportant stuff. Laugh a lot. Let me help you."
"Damn you, Van." She shook off his hand, dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief. "Don't be so... thoughtful. That's all I need." She knew the smile she aimed up at him was still rough around the edges. He didn't seem to mind.
He said, "I'll try being meaner. First, though, you said your feet hurt. If we hurry, we can get you to a store before they close. Get you some sensible shoes instead of those cripplers you're wearing. You'll feel..."
"One more word and I call Andy Richards to come get me." She waved her cell like shoving garlic at a vampire. "You think I spent all that money to look sensible? Just take me home. I heal better alone and in the dark."
"No. I made reservations. You need a good meal, a drink. Or two. Conversation. Activity. What would it hurt?"
A snarky answer tugged at her tongue. She swallowed it. She was hungry. She was depressed. And so what if her feet hurt a little - those were some world-class shoes and she looked good in them. In fact, she looked good all round. Let the bank choke on its money. For this evening, anyway. "No talk about Bake's or money or any sort of w
ork."
He nodded, breaking into a grin.
She continued. "You say 'shoes' or 'feet' just once, we go straight home.'
He nodded again. She sniffed. "Call me when you're out front with the car. I'm not standing around or walking anywhere I don't have to." Her eyes dared him to comment.
"I'll be ten minutes." Before she could react, he'd bent forward and kissed her. Familiar, no suggestions in it. Then he was gone.
It confused her. It was a friend's kiss, and her heart had long known that wasn't exactly what Van had in mind. The very lack of suggestion stirred her. She half-smiled at the concept of Van's "sensitive" side. He had a thoughtfulness, a sense of what another person needed to hear. Sensitivity wasn't the right word, though. Whatever it was, the friendliness of the kiss couldn't hide the man himself. The maleness was always stronger than she remembered from their last contact. It carried a pleasant sensation of being drawn into something desirable yet potentially overpowering.
The receptionist gave her directions to the restroom. She managed to repair most of the day's damages. She tried a last smile at the mirror and hoped the restaurant light was dim.
So. Life went on.
Van was probably right; there had to be more to life than worry and work. There had to be some pleasure, some time.
Maybe a carefree - or careless - evening was in order.
* * * * *
Crow was poking through the Airstream pantry when his cell rang. He lifted it from the table with a quizzical look: he couldn't remember the last time it went off. The caller ID told him it was Richards, A. He said, "Pastor? How'd you get my number?"
"Pilfered it. You left your phone on the seat on the drive back. I used it on the ferry to get hold of Lila and I memorized your number. Meant to mention it, never got around to it."
"You've got more surprises than Christmas morning. "
"I hope you're not angry. I was only thinking I could call you without bothering Lila."
"I should be angry, but I've been shown the light. I forgive you."