Hard Fall

by Pascal Scott

  ****

  Exactly one year later, on October 13, 1990, Mr. Swan retrieved the Louis Vuitton suitcase that had never been claimed. It was not locked, and it opened easily. Inside he found an assortment of name-brand women’s clothes and toiletries, along with various personal items. The only thing of real interest to him was a picture postcard hidden inside a pocket of the lining. The picture was of the Golden Gate Bridge, and the postcard was addressed to a Dr. Colin Bryson in Indiana. There was no message written on the postcard, and it had not been stamped. Mr. Swan tucked it into the pocket of his vest. He would mail it to Dr. Bryson later with a note of explanation. Perhaps he had been the young lady’s husband.

  In any event, if Dr. Bryson didn’t want the suitcase and its contents, there was always charity. Mr. Swan would give it to one of the women’s charities in the city, to help less fortunate women who would never see the inside of a place like the Wingfield. Mr. Swan was sure they would be grateful.

  Chapter Fifty-nine

  “Mom, Dad, Noona, this is Kathleen Mary McStone.”

  Mrs. Martinelli was the first to come forward, her arms wide in greeting. “We’ve heard so much about you.” She engulfed Stone in a warm embrace. “You poor dear,” she said quietly, privately, into Stone’s ear. “You’ve been through so much.”

  She pulled back and shook her head, biting her bottom lip as if she might cry.

  Mr. Martinelli was next, giving Stone a more restrained, masculine hug that ended with a pat on the back. “Welcome to the family, Kathleen,” he said.

  After him came Noona, a small-boned woman in a black dress and white shawl. Noona reached up and stretched her arms around Stone’s broad shoulders. Stone held her carefully, like something fragile she might break. As she did, she heard Noona whisper in her ear.

  “You’re so much better than the last one she brought home,” she said before standing back and giving Stone a conspiratorial wink.

  Stone had to laugh. “Her name wasn’t Dory by any chance?” she asked Noona.

  Noona put one finger over her lips as if to say, “I’ll never tell.”

  “I hear you want to learn to shoot,” Mr. Martinelli said conversationally.

  “I do,” Stone confirmed.

  “That can be arranged. Do you fish?”

  “No, sir. I’ve never fished.”

  “We have a lake on the estate. Plenty of sunfish. Zoe can show you how. My wife cleans them, and I fry them.”

  Mrs. Martinelli exchanged a quick look with Stone that communicated a good-natured acceptance of her role as wife and mother.

  “I’m sure they’re delicious,” Stone said.

  “I hope you like wine,” Mr. Martinelli added.

  “Wine is good,” Stone replied.

  Mr. Martinelli picked up Zoe’s suitcase and bent toward Stone’s duffel bag.

  “I’ve got it,” Stone said before thinking to add, “but thank you, Mr. Martinelli.”

  “All right then,” he replied

  He turned to his wife. “Shall we?”

  “We shall,” she said.

  With his free arm, he took his wife’s hand. Noona looped her arm through Stone’s. Zoe moved around to Noona’s other side, walking close to make sure she didn’t stumble. A black Lab named Lira bounded ahead.

  They walked leisurely, easily, the five of them in step, toward the big house on the hill. At the front door, Stone stopped and looked across the estate in appreciation. It was an incredible vista of Sonoma Valley with its neat rows of vineyards and its green hills rolling toward the Pacific Ocean.

  “You have a beautiful view here,” she said.

  “We do,” Mrs. Martinelli agreed. “On a clear day, you can see all the way to the Golden Gate Bridge. It’s only forty miles, the way the crow flies.”

  “Wow,” Stone said. “I didn’t realize it was so close.”

  And then Noona spoke up, as if she had just remembered something important she needed to add.

  “If you look hard enough, sometimes you can even see someone fall,” she said.

  “Noona!” Zoe scolded.

  “What?” Noona responded.

  “The things you say!” Zoe put her arm around the old woman and gave her an affectionate squeeze.

  Mr. Martinelli looked embarrassed. Mrs. Martinelli laughed uncomfortably. But Stone just nodded in silent agreement and said nothing at all.

  About the Author

  Pascal Scott is the pseudonym of Priscilla Scott Rhoades, a lifelong writer whose poetry, fiction, and feature articles have appeared in numerous publications. For many years she wrote for the gay and alternative press while working as a clerk for the San Francisco Chronicle. Those publications included Plexus, the San Francisco Sentinel, and the San Francisco Bay Guardian. Her lesbian fiction has appeared in Harrington Lesbian Literary Quarterly; Thunder of War, Lightning of Desire: Lesbian Historical Military Erotica; Through the Hourglass: Lesbian Historical Romance; Order Up: A Menu of Lesbian Romance and Erotica; Unspeakably Erotic: Lesbian Kink; and Best Lesbian Erotica, Volumes 2 and 3. She has a B.A. in English from San Francisco State University and an M.A. in Liberal Studies from the University of North Carolina at Greensboro. She studied creative writing with U.S. Poet Laureate Philip Levine, poets Glover Davis, Susan Griffin, and Mark Smith-Soto, and journalism with Rolling Stone editor John Burks.

  Happily retired from a career in academia, she lives these days in Decatur, GA.

  Amazon’s Author Page - https://www.amazon.com/Pascal-Scott

  Twitter - @PascalScottwrit

  Facebook - Priscilla Scott Rhoades

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