“Okay. All right. I’m married. Legally, yes, I am. But that shouldn’t stop me from having dinner with a man who—”
“You’re justifying!”
“A man who is no more than a friend. A business associate.” Olivia opened her mouth to say something else, but I held up my hand to stop her. “Olivia, I want you to stop. I’m a grown woman, and I am, above all else, your mother. I’m not your sister or your best friend. I am your mother. Treat me thusly.” My bravado not being all I’d like to pretend it is, I turned and hurried into my bedroom, closing the door firmly behind me.
I met Van at Apple’s a few minutes after 7:00. He’d already been seated, but as soon as I entered the cozy, candlelit restaurant I saw him rise from his seat in the lower section of the room. He walked toward me with an air of confidence and familiarity, something I couldn’t quite see “Coach” Jack Dippel doing. Unless he was down at the Gold Rush Tavern, of course.
I met Van halfway on the three small steps leading down, my eyes darting around the restaurant—which was divided by a polished wood half wall that separated the upper level from the lower—attempting to take in who was there, who might see me. Lord, if I’m just having dinner with a friend, why should I care who sees me?
An inner voice whispered, You know the answer to that, Goldie.
“I was a few minutes early,” I heard Van say, “so I went ahead and got a table for us.”
I looked to the small, square table draped in white linen and graced with a small candle and floral centerpiece. It appeared Van had already ordered himself a drink as well, something I wasn’t remotely accustomed to. If Jack ever drank—when he did—it wasn’t with me. “Of course,” I answered, just as the overhead music changed from Doris Day’s “Que Sera, Sera” to Dean Martin’s version of “That’s Amore.”
“Shall we?” he asked, extending his arm toward the setting.
I nodded just as the hostess, who hadn’t been at the front when I entered, came up beside me and said, “I’m so sorry I wasn’t up front, Mrs. Dippel. May I take your coat?”
I blushed, grateful for the dim room so Van wouldn’t see the giveaway of my emotions. Mrs. Dippel. Oh, Lord. Maybe I really shouldn’t be here. “Yes, thank you,” I answered her, slipping out of the heavy outerwear. She took my coat with one hand while reaching for my chair with the other, pulling it away from the table so I could take a seat. “Thank you,” I said again. My voice quivered … another giveaway.
Van sat opposite me. “What would you like, Goldie?” he asked. He wrapped his fingers around his drink. His voice was smooth and easy, and I felt myself beginning to relax.
“I’ll, um … I’ll have …” I looked up at the hostess, a pretty young girl whose honey complexion accentuated the brightness of her smile. “Actually, a cup of hot tea would be nice,” I said.
“Hot tea, it is,” she said. “I’ll bring a coat-check ticket to you in a minute.”
I nodded at her and then watched her walk away.
“I hope you don’t mind my indulgence,” Van said, nodding his chin toward the small glass in his hand. He raised it, and I heard the clinking of ice against crystal, mixing beautifully with the hushtoned conversations, the overhead music, even the flickering of candlelight.
“No, of course not. I’m just not a drinker. Never have been.”
He winked at me. “Good for you.” He took a sip of his drink, then eyed me. “You look very nice this evening, Goldie. I have to say I’m quite taken with the simplicity with which the women of the high country dress.”
I looked toward my lap and brushed away an imaginary piece of lint before looking back to him. I hadn’t wanted to dress up, of course. Didn’t want to give the wrong impression, not to Van, or to Olivia—or even to myself—so I’d chosen a pair of black wool slacks and an oversized sweater, under which I wore a complementary turtleneck. I’d kept my jewelry simple too. A strand of pearls and matching pearl stud earrings, both of which I’d purchased for myself. None of the fancy, expensive stuff Jack had given to me over the years for absolution.
The only thing I wore from Jack was the plain gold band on my left ring finger.
“It took some getting used to,” I commented. “When I first moved here, I mean.”
Van’s eyes widened. “Oh? I assumed you were from here.”
“Oh, no. I’m from Georgia. Small hometown. Good people.” People who would never understand why I’m dining out with a man other than my husband, I reminded myself. No matter what I’m calling it.
“I do business in Georgia from time to time,” Van said. “Atlanta, mostly. I don’t guess you can call that a small town, though.”
I shook my head and let out a nervous giggle.
“Sometimes I’m called in on cases over there.” He waved his hand as though to brush away the topic. “But let’s not talk about business.”
“What should we talk about, then?” I asked. I placed my hands in my lap and squeezed them into tight fists.
“Let’s talk about you.”
“Me? Oh, there’s really nothing interesting about me.”
The hostess reappeared with a cup and saucer, a small teapot of hot water, and an ornate mahogany tea chest, which she opened to reveal neat little rows of gourmet teas. I stared at them for a moment as though I’d never seen a selection of teas before, then chose a fragrant chai spice. Before the hostess left, she laid my coat-check ticket on the table and slipped it toward me. I mouthed a thank-you and watched her walk away.
“How many children do you have?” Van asked.
I prepared my tea, keeping my attention on my hands as I answered. “One. Olivia. Married to a fine man—Tony. They have a little boy—my heart—named Brook. He’s such a character.” I could feel my face brighten. Any mention of Brook brought a surreal joy that washed over me like a fountain of springwater. “Olivia and Tony are expecting another baby in about seven months.” I looked over at Van. “I’m living with them.”
“I know.”
“You know?”
“Chris told me … somewhere in the middle of his admonishments.”
“I don’t understand.”
Van chuckled. “He’s not overly happy with me taking you to dinner.” He leaned over the table as though he were about to indulge a confidence. “He doesn’t want me to take advantage of your situation.”
I felt my face flush, and Van chuckled again just as another young woman approached our table. “Good evening, welcome to Apple’s,” she said, setting two small menus at our places. “My name is Summer, and I’ll be your server this evening. I see you have your drinks. I’ll give you a few minutes to look over the menu and be right back to take your order.” She smiled at Van. “Sir, may I get another drink for you from the bar?”
Van shook his head. “No, I’m fine for now, thank you.”
“Alrighty then. I’ll be back in just a bit.” She turned and walked away, her long ponytail swinging from side to side as she bounded up the step.
“Ever notice,” I said, “how a person’s name fits them? She’s tanned, blond, and blue eyed. What better name than Summer?”
“Is that how you got the name Goldie?”
I reached up and with my fingertips touched the underside of my hair at the nape of my neck. “It’s not a given name. But I certainly suppose it fits. Or at least used to more than it does now.” I cocked my head a bit. “What did you mean when you said that Chris doesn’t want you to take advantage of my situation? Didn’t you tell him we’re just friends?”
As I asked the question, I felt a shot of cold air from the opening of the front door hitting me squarely in the back. “Welcome to Apple’s,” I heard the hostess say. I looked over my left shoulder and over the half wall to see who might have entered. My eyes widened.
“Someone you know?” Van asked.
“That’s Evangeline and … Bob Burnett?” My voice was barely above a whisper. “What in the world is she doing here with Bob Burnett?”
V
an smiled broadly. “Maybe they’re two friends having dinner?” He raised his glass to me in a mock salute.
I didn’t answer him. I kept my eyes on Evangeline, wondering if she and Bob would be seated where they could see me … see me and Van having dinner.
Together.
I breathed a sigh of relief when they were shown a table within my view, but with me out of theirs.
“Who are Evangeline and Bob Burnett?” Van asked.
I looked back at him. “Evie—Evangeline Benson—is a friend of mine, and Bob Burnett is … well, he’s a deacon from our church, but … I don’t understand why the two of them are here together. Evie dates Vernon Vesey, for heaven’s sake.”
“Vernon Vesey?”
“Sheriff Vernon Vesey.”
Van peered over his shoulder in amusement, then looked back to me. “Evangeline, the deacon, and the sheriff of Summit View. Sounds like a book title.”
“Yeah, and it would begin with ‘It was a dark and stormy night.’”
“You want to go over there? Say something to her?” he asked. I noted the twinkle in his eye.
“Goodness, no. If she saw me here with—”
“Me?”
I stopped short, then reached for my menu. “We’d better decide what we’re going to order.”
Van reached for his menu as well. “Good save,” he said.
I sighed deeply as I smiled at him. “You know, I’m fairly nervous being here. I don’t suppose that’s any big surprise.”
“No. Not really.”
“I mean, I am married—legally. Chris isn’t happy with you. Well, my daughter is not overly happy with me right now, either. One of my best friends is across the room, and I’m a nervous wreck she’s going to see me. I’m sure half of the people in this room are watching us, wondering who you are and why I’m sitting at the table with you. Maybe even wondering where Jack is, though they surely know the answer to that. My leaving Jack, I’m quite certain, has made all the local gossips happy.” I rolled my eyes. “All that to say, in spite of the fact that I’m a little nervous …”
Van arched a brow.
“Okay, a lot nervous … I’m finding you to be an easy man to be with. You make me want to laugh, and laughing is not something I’ve done in a long while.”
“And how have I managed to do that, Goldie?”
“You seem to find humor in this whole episode. Well, thank you. I need a little humor in my life.”
“Glad to oblige you.” He looked to the menu he held between his hands, then closed it and set it on the edge of the table. “The lasagna here is good.”
I closed my menu as well. “Make it two.” I swallowed. “May I ask you a question or two now?”
He spread his arms to the width of the table. “I have no secrets. Ask away.”
“Married?”
“I was. About a hundred years ago. My wife was killed in a car accident on the night of our fifth anniversary.”
“Oh, Van.”
He shook his head before I could give him my condolence. “That was a lot of years ago. And, no, I never married again. Never wanted to. I dedicated myself to my work and Dillon. Mercedes—my wife—and I had a son. Dillon was two and a half when Mercedes died. He’s in law school now. Not married, so no grandchildren as of yet.” The merriment had left his eyes and returned all within the same reply.
“I had no idea.”
“Why should you?”
“Every life has a story, doesn’t it?”
“It does at that.”
Summer returned to our table. “Are we ready?” she asked. I turned my head to look at her, to give my order, but something caught my eye before I could do so.
Something … someone … standing at the doorway of the restaurant. Watching me.
I swallowed hard, pursed my lips, and then smiled ruefully.
Clay Whitefield.
Uh-oh.
19
Woodward and Bernstein and Shredding Machines
Clay gripped the Styrofoam take-out box in his left hand as he attempted to get the keys to his apartment out of his coat pocket with his right. Apple’s being only a few blocks from his apartment, he’d chosen to walk there for his dinner. After all, he could use the exercise, right?
Seeing Goldie Dippel with … who was that man? … shot his “David’s biological mother theory” to blue blazes and back.
When he was finally able to retrieve his keys, he took the inside stairs leading to his second-story flat two at a time. He shoved the key in the lock, turned it, and then pushed his way through the door.
He tossed the chicken marinara onto his desk, where a stack of papers—lined pages filled with research on migrant workers—lay nearby. He picked them up and ripped them into several sections, then—realizing what he’d done—attempted to put them back together again as though they were pieces to a puzzle. “I can still use this,” he admonished himself out loud. Bernstein and Woodward watched him from their cage, apparently just as shocked by his actions as he.
For the second time that night he reached for his phone, this time dialing Donna’s cell phone number. The call immediately went to voice mail.
He didn’t bother to leave a message.
What would he say to her anyway? Before he could whistle “Dixie,” Goldie Dippel would probably be making the exact same phone call, letting Donna know that she’d been busted and that he knew she was alone out there in L.A. with Harris.
He picked up the take-out box, said, “I’ll feed you guys in a minute,” to his gerbils, walked over to the recliner he kept parked in front of the television, and plopped down into it.
Oh, well, he thought. I may as well enjoy my dinner.
20
Stirring Good-Bye
Heavens. All those sleepless nights must have caught up with me, because the next thing I knew a blonde stewardess tapped me on the arm. “Ma’am, please put your seat in an upright position in preparation for landing.”
That’s when I realized my head had sunk deeply onto Donna’s shoulder. I turned and looked at her, surprised. “Oh, my. I must have fallen asleep.”
Donna patted my hand. “You’re probably exhausted.”
I pulled my seat forward, and the stewardess smiled at us. “It was a pleasure to serve you and your daughter today.”
Donna and I exchanged glances. It wasn’t the first time someone had mistaken us for mother and daughter. Not only were we both petite blondes, though my hair had grayed and my dress size expanded, Donna was, after all, the closest thing I had ever had to a child. At least that’s what I’d thought, before my birth son, David Harris, had arrived in Summit View looking for me.
Donna handed me a Ziploc plastic bag. “Thanks for the prayer bars,” she said. “It was the perfect finish to the Reuben.”
I tucked the bag into my oversized purse to recycle later. “One of Fred’s all-time favorites.”
I keenly felt his absence. He hadn’t wanted me to make this trip. But it was something I had to do. Something he’d have to understand.
The jet’s landing gear suddenly dropped, and I grabbed Donna’s hand.
“It’s okay, Vonnie. We’re almost there. Look out the window.”
And there it was, the Los Angeles I’d left over thirty-five years ago, shining like a jewel in the late afternoon sun. As the plane soared in over the runway, I knew I was finally closing this unfinished chapter in my life. A chapter that made my heart pound with uncertainty. I was facing either a homecoming or the reckoning I justly deserved.
Half an hour later, Donna and I were standing by the luggage carousel in LAX when I sucked in my breath as the image of my dead husband, Joe, bounded toward me.
“Ladies, you made it,” David Harris called.
Somehow, I couldn’t resist allowing him to pull me into his strong arms. He even smelled like Joe. At least, he had the same taste in aftershave cologne, definitely Old Spice. His black hair was parted on the side, just like his dad’s, and he fla
shed that famous Jewel smile with those beautiful pearly teeth.
Donna stood back. “You’re late,” she told him.
“Traffic,” he said as he reached to hug her too. Despite herself, Donna seemed caught in his embrace before she pushed away. “I’m not your sister.”
His brown eyes twinkled. “I know.”
Donna frowned, ignoring the comment. “There’s one of our bags now,” she said, pointing.
“I’ll get that for you,” David said then, moving toward the rolling conveyer belt covered in suitcases.
We squeezed into David’s black Mazda 3 and headed for the freeway. David asked, “I can’t take the suspense much longer. What’s the big mystery?”
Donna’s voice practically squeaked from surprise. “You don’t know?”
I turned around and looked into her round blue eyes. I reached back and patted her leg. “It’s not his fault, dear,” I interjected. “I didn’t know how to tell him.”
He glanced at me, amused. “Well?”
I flopped my head on the headrest and shut my eyes. “Take us to the hotel, and I’ll explain everything.”
“I wish you’d let me take you to the house.”
“No, no. I don’t want to impose. Besides, that was your mother’s house.”
David was quiet for a moment. “I’d love to share those memories with you.”
I shook my head then looked at my grown child who was almost a stranger to me. “It’s hard enough to imagine my only child was alive and raised by another woman, but to see her house, I suppose that would do me in.”
David raised his eyebrows but kept his eyes on the road, shifting into higher gear. “But why?”
“She was a movie star. Me? I’m just a nurse and a mechanic’s wife.”
David chuckled. “You don’t know just how good that sounds to me. But promise me that you and Donna won’t leave until I serve you dinner there at least.”
“You cook?” Donna asked from the backseat.
“I have a few specialties, and I’m a whiz at the grill.”
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