It's You

by Jane Porter

  I look at the lined faces of the men seated around me. “Did everyone really think the Japanese would land on the West Coast?”

  “Oh yes.” Graham’s jaw is set. “Folks were told to have evacuation plans. They should be prepared to leave everything and head to the mountains.”

  For a moment there is just silence and I try to imagine what it’d feel like, thinking that enemies were about to attack any moment. Fearing you’d have an invasion on your own soil. I’ve never lived through a world war, but I do remember the terror following September 11, 2001. No one saw that coming and yet everyone was so very afraid.

  Angered, and afraid.

  I was just starting my junior year of high school and was about to turn seventeen. So many of the seniors who’d graduated in June rushed to enlist then, too.

  “Seems like a long time ago,” George says now.

  “The whole thing was bad business, start to finish. The Axis powers were insane.”

  “Power-hungry bastards.”

  While they continue their conversation, I’m remembering the horrific September morning when Mom shouted for me to come. She’d just received a call from another teacher and she’d turned on the TV at home. Standing next to her, I watched the second plane crash into the second tower.

  I watched as the towers fell.

  It was one of the worst days of my life.

  Until Andrew.

  I’m suddenly nauseous and I reach for my ice water, sipping it, trying to shake away all memories. I force myself to focus on the moment, this dining room, and the people gathered here.

  I’ve begun to recognize faces and families. There are the regulars and then the special guests. Across the dining room I spot Edie and Ruth, lunching together, but they’re not alone today. There’s a man sitting with them, a tall man. Not old from the size of his back and the width of his shoulders. He has dark blond hair that could use a cut.

  I look from him to Edie, who is facing me. Edie doesn’t smile but she’s practically beaming today. “Look at Edie,” I murmur to Dad, needing the distraction and the interaction. “She looks happy, doesn’t she?”

  Dad follows my gaze. “That’s her great-nephew. Her sister’s grandson. She dotes on him.”

  “Apparently.”

  “She says he’s popular with the ladies, but I’ve found him to be a nice guy. I’ve played bridge with him a couple times. Not a bad bridge player, either.”

  “And that’s what matters, right?” I tease.

  “You’re trying to get a rise out of me.”

  I laugh. “Maybe.”

  “He’s a winery guy. Craig Hallahan—”

  “From Dark Horse Winery?”

  “Yes.” Dad looks at me. “You know him?”

  “I was at Dark Horse Winery last night for the Concert in the Cellar.”

  “So you met him?”

  “No. It was pretty crowded and the focus was on the fund-raiser, and then later his brother did the talking when they asked for donations for the foundation.”

  “Chad,” Dad says.

  I look at Dad, amazed. “How do you know all this?”

  “Everybody knows. They were on a TV reality show a couple years ago. Or the winery was part of a food show. I forget the details but Craig’s the older brother, and Chad’s the home wrecker.”

  I lift a brow. “The home wrecker?”

  “He had an affair with his marketing gal, who was married, and the husband got wind of it and kicked her out and then punched out Chad on one of the episodes.”

  “And you know this how?”

  “Everybody knows. It was part of the first season.”

  “I had no idea you watched reality TV.”

  “Well, I didn’t. Your mother saw a little bit and I’d watch with her, and then after I moved here, Edie told me some things. She was not a fan of the show. She thought it was pretty disgusting.”

  “The show? Or Chad’s affair?”

  “Both. Edie thought Chad should have married the girl.” Dad reaches for his cane and struggles to stand. “You want to go meet Craig?”

  “No.”

  “He’s not the home wrecker.”

  “Dad, no. Sit down. Please.” I wait for him to take his chair before leaning towards him to whisper, “What are you doing?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Why would you drag me across the dining room to meet some man who’s been on reality TV?”

  “He’s a vintner, and Edie’s great-nephew. I thought you might like him.”

  “Like him for what?” I stare at Dad baffled by the changes in him, and his disconnect from my reality. Andrew has only been gone fourteen months. I am still in my own black hole of grief. Why would I want to meet a man now? And why would Dad think this Hallahan guy would be a good one for me?

  “You need friends. You need to move on.”

  “Move on?” My voice rises and I lean closer to him to keep others from hearing. “What about you? Maybe you’d like to move on, too.”

  “I am moving on. I’m making friends here—”

  “What about the house, Dad?”

  “What about it? It’s my house. I own it. Why do I have to do anything with it?”

  “But you live here.”

  “So? It’s my investment property.”

  “You’re paying someone to manage it. You’re paying monthly utilities—”

  “It’s not a lot. I can afford it.” He stares at me from beneath his bushy eyebrows. “Is this about money? Are you hurting for money?”

  I owe thousands of dollars in loans, but this isn’t about money. I’ve never used Mom and Dad’s money. Didn’t want it then and still don’t want it now. “I just think it’s a lot for you to worry about—”

  “I have nothing to worry about,” he interrupts. “I have nothing to do but watch TV and play cards and wonder what’s on the menu for dinner.”

  “Then maybe you should come live with me and—”

  “That’s not going to happen.”

  His sharpness silences me. I look away, hold my breath, hurt.

  I don’t want to be hurt but I don’t understand.

  I don’t understand how he’d rather sit here and stare at a TV screen and take his meals with dozens of strangers than live in my home with me.

  “I’m trying very hard not to take this personally, Dad,” I say, lightly, crisply, to hide the pain. It’s the voice I use every day at work. “But I can’t help thinking that if I were a dog, you’d want to live with me.”

  “But you’re not a dog.”

  I should have been.

  The corner of my mouth lifts even as a curl of hurt curves inside my chest. A hot painful question mark. Why doesn’t he love me?

  Why can’t I be a dog?

  A brown and white Spaniel named Freckles because then he’d touch me all the time.

  And just like that, my eyes burn and I’m fighting so much emotion that I think it could take my legs out, lay me flat. The feeling. The grieving. How does one get from here to there? How does one get through life unscathed?

  You don’t.

  Suddenly I need to get up, move. Murmuring an excuse, something about the bathroom, I rise, walk out, my striped sundress swishing, low kitten heels clicking on the dining room floor.

  Heads lift, faces turn, eyes watching me. Leaving the dining room I use the ladies’ room and wash my hands, studying my face briefly in the mirror. My tan is fading. My freckles are pale on the bridge of my nose. My mouth is too wide. It always has been. I smile at myself. My mouth is huge, all those teeth. But they’re very straight and not that fake white advertised in the back of complimentary airplane magazines.

  Leaving the bathroom I’m not ready to return to the dining room of the old and infirm. Instead I walk down the hall and slip out one of the French doors in the Reading Room to the wide, flat terrace overlooking the rolling hills covered with row after tidy row of grapes. What a view. Oak trees that give way to vineyards. Could Dad hav
e found a better view anywhere?

  Maybe Mom and Dad knew what they were doing choosing this as their final stop.

  “You’re Bill’s daughter, Alison,” a deep male voice says behind me.

  I glance over my shoulder, towards the French doors. It’s the Hallahan guy. The vintner. I recognize the blue shirt and the dark blond hair, shaggy at the back.

  Incidentally, his broad shoulders have nothing on his face.

  He’s tan, which makes his eyes intensely blue. A man in his late thirties, mature, and ruggedly handsome. Like the Robert Redford my mom used to love in All the President’s Men.

  My mom would love him.

  I feel my mom suddenly, with me, a prickle of my skin, little goose bumps covering my arms, a tingle at the back of my neck. Hello, Mom.

  And the tingle is stronger.

  I rub my forearm. “Yes. You’re Edie’s great-nephew.”

  “People have been talking,” he replies. “But then, when you’re my great-aunt Edie’s age, I don’t suppose there is a lot else to do.”

  I smile faintly. “No. I don’t suppose there is.” And then I don’t know what else to say to him, aware that he is Craig Hallahan, the nice, older Hallahan, but nonetheless a most eligible bachelor and chased by all the ladies.

  Uncomfortable, I turn back to the rolling hills. He doesn’t take the hint, although I suppose it’s not much of a hint, and joins me outside on the patio.

  I don’t know what to do now. I don’t really want to talk but I don’t know how to just stand here in silence, either. “It’s a beautiful view,” I say at length.

  He glances down at me. “I don’t see a view anymore. Just grapes.” His mouth quirks. “A friend that once surfed professionally says he never sees the ocean, just the waves.”

  “Would you prefer the view?”

  “I’d like to be able to see what others see.” He looks at me, lashes lowered, lips pressed. “I’m no longer detached.”

  “Is that a bad thing?”

  “Good question.” He hesitates a moment. “When you look at people and they smile, do you see the smile, or the teeth?”

  “Touché.” My face grows hot as I admit, “I see the teeth.”

  The corner of his mouth lifts higher. “My aunt said you’re a dentist. I think she worries about you.”

  “Because I’m a dentist?”

  “Because you prefer Phoenix to Napa.”

  “I don’t prefer—” I break off, frown, aware that Dad must have said something to her about me wanting him to move. Or me not wanting to move here. “My dental practice is in Arizona. And I love Arizona. The desert is beautiful. Camelback Mountain is beautiful—” I turn and look at him, brow furrowing. “Your aunt has a lot of opinions.”

  “She does. And she can deliver them in a very cutting tone.”

  “So it’s not just me?”

  He laughs softly, sympathetically. “No, that’s just dear Aunt Edie.”

  “Why is she so rough?”

  “She’s old and she’s lived a challenging life.”

  “Doesn’t everyone?”

  “You should hear her story. It’s interesting.”

  “Hmm.”

  “But she does like your dad. Has quite a soft spot for him. Apparently he’s a very good bridge player.”

  “And that’s all that’s required to earn her affection?”

  “Not affection, but respect. I think his dog stories earned her affection. She’s a big animal lover.”

  “I knew I should have been a dog.”

  He lifts a brow. He’s amused. “Is there a particular breed you fancy?”

  “A beloved lap dog. A Scottie or a spaniel. Or maybe something that could fit in one’s purse and go everywhere.”

  “And you’d be happy in a purse?”

  “Depends on the purse.”

  He studies me a long moment, a glint in his eyes. “I suppose it would.”

  I laugh out loud.

  He cracks the smallest of smiles, and yet his storm blue eyes are full of light.

  I’ve never met this man. I know nothing about him other than what my father has told me and this is the strangest conversation with a stranger. I like it. I feel free somehow. Nothing matters. Everything matters. Andrew would enjoy this moment. He was good with new and novelty. He enjoyed change.

  The warmth inside me recedes.

  I reach up to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. “I was at your winery last night, for the Concert in the Cellar.”

  “Yes, I know.” He’s still smiling but his expression is different, less playful. “You wore red.”

  I just look at him, unable to think of anything to say.

  “You were with Diana Martin, the florist,” he adds. “I asked about you, but no one knew your name.”

  I snap my mouth closed. My cheeks burn. “I should get back to my dad. He must be worrying about me.”

  “Can’t have that,” he agrees.

  SIX

  Edie

  I’m walking Ruth to the ladies’ room when I glance into the Reading Room and see my great-nephew talking with Alison, the dentist, out on the terrace.

  He’s interested in her. I’m not entirely surprised. He likes smart girls, academic girls. He’s always been more serious than Chad, more interested in the arts, too. As a boy I’d take him to the symphony in the city. I don’t know if he liked the music, but he was always polite, and he’d dress up for the concert, even if it was a matinee, putting on a dress shirt, blazer, and tie.

  He’d take my arm as we crossed the street, and would caution me to watch for traffic, as cars don’t always slow down for people, and then when we reached the other side and we’d step up onto the curb, he’d give my elbow a little squeeze as if letting me know I’d done well. We’d made it.

  Craig is the thoughtful one, but both boys have good manners. Ellie was very strict with Elizabeth when she was a child, stressing the importance of manners. Manners aren’t just about good breeding, they are an essential courtesy and an expression of respect, values drummed into me and Ellie as the daughters of a man who made his career in the Foreign Service.

  I help Ruth into the bathroom stall and step out to give her privacy. Earlier in the week, the management here forbid me from helping Ruth. They say it’s dangerous, and a liability. I’m to get an aide when Ruth must use the lavatory. But where am I to find an aide, and how is Ruth expected to hold it? Yes, they’ve put her in diapers but if she’s aware she has to go, why piddle in her pants?

  And what is the worst that can happen if Ruth falls, and pulls me down with her?

  I break an arm or a leg?

  I get pneumonia?

  I die?

  It wouldn’t be the end of the world if it happened. I have to go someday. I might as well go doing a good deed.

  I told them that, too. But they thought I was being a smart aleck. I wasn’t.

  I was serious.

  But of course they don’t know that because they don’t know me.

  SEVEN

  Ali

  Over the past week, Dad and I settled into something of a routine. I run in the morning and putter around the house before getting a coffee in town and heading to Napa Estates to meet Dad for lunch.

  I haven’t given up trying to get him to leave the retirement home for lunch and try one of the picturesque restaurants downtown, but so far, he prefers the ease and comfort of meals in the home’s dining room.

  But Tuesday Dad calls me early, and announces he has plans for me, and I’m needed at his retirement home at eleven as the couple Dad and Edie usually play bridge with aren’t well and so they need to find warm bodies for the game. I’m to be one of the warm bodies. Jerry, the widower from Detroit, is the other.

  I’ve just been in the yard, weeding, and am still sweaty, with dirt-encrusted nails—a fact I forget until I clap a hand to my forehead and feel grit fall into my eyes. “Dad. Seriously?”

  “I thought you liked spending time with me.”
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  “I’m not a bridge player.”

  “You are. You’re just not a good one.”

  “Even more reason why I shouldn’t play!”

  “But Edie’s partner isn’t, either. You’ll be fine. It’s Edie and I that will be challenged by our partners’ lack of skill.”

  “I’m really not in the mood. Let’s do something different—”

  “Like what? Watch TV? Listen to a ballgame? What will we do?”

  “We could pick up lunch from one of the cute Napa cafes and come here to the house for a picnic. I’ve been weeding the beds and getting ready to plant some flowers.”

  “Why? Are you staying in Napa?”

  “You said you wanted to keep the house. You said it was your investment property. I’m making sure it’s a good investment.”

  “Well, don’t do too much. You don’t want to get attached. You love the desert, remember?”

  “Why should I come play bridge with you when you never do anything I want to do? Hmm?”

  “Are you being serious, or a smart ass?”

  I hesitate. “Both.”

  He hesitates, too. “Fine. Be here by eleven for the game, and then later this week, or before you leave, we’ll go out to eat. Or go to the house. Or whatever it is you’re dying to do.”

  “Promise?”

  He sighs. “I promise.”

  I roll my eyes at his exasperated sigh—he sounds so put-upon—but at least I know he means it. Dad might not tell you what you want to hear, but he doesn’t break promises.

  • • •

  I arrive at Napa Estates for the card game thinking that maybe, just maybe, Jerry isn’t the fourth but Craig Hallahan will be. I don’t know why I think it’s going to be Craig, but I get to the center and head to the Reading Room where Edie likes to play cards because it’s quiet.

  It’s quiet because it’s a Reading Room. But that means nothing to Edie, not even the posted sign on the wall inside the door asking residents and guests to take their card games and conversations elsewhere. But rules don’t apply to Edie. Others have to follow them, but not her. Apparently when you’re almost one hundred, it’s okay to say outrageous things and make demands and do what you want.