Baja Get Away

by Jinx Schwartz

  Crap! Just when I’d almost convinced myself I deserved someone like Jeff, he turned out to be the very kind of bounder I seem to attract. Almost: he at least paid the bill.

  While I waited for food and more wine I hardly needed, I logged onto my phone and checked on Scruffy. He was curled up on a cushy bed with two other dogs I recognized from his play date at that divine dogtel. All three were snoring.

  Room service arrived, and I resumed my whine and chocolate binge. Five years in exile, and all I had to show for it was a closed circuit doggie pajama party? And another fissure in my heart? Good Lord, Becky!

  Then, a little voice spoke to me.

  “Missie Rebecca,” my grandmother said, her soft drawl as stern as it ever got, “you’ve got no call feelin’ sorry for yourself. Go home and spend time with that family of yours you run off from. They love you, in spite of your missteps. And just remember, you done it to yourself, so quit your bellyaching.”

  Feeling much better, I sat down to reason with myself—a formidable task in the mood I was in—despite the fact that, after all that lost time in Mexico, I didn’t have the law after me anymore, and I didn’t have to flee the country. And, there’s Scruffy!

  I grinned and toasted myself. “You been much worse off, Becky. Here’s to new…everything.”

  I stood tall, looked dramatically to the heavens (okay, it was the ceiling; it was too cold to go outside) and said, my fist to my heart, “Home. I’m going to go home. I’ll think of some way to get him back. After all, tomorrow is another day.” Cue “Tara’s Theme” from, “Gone With the Wind.”

  “CUT! Someone has had wayyy too much wine,” I yelled into a mirror.

  ***

  “Ooohhh, you smell like lavender, Scruffy,” I cooed into my dog’s ear the next morning when I picked him up. “And you look so…elegant. That blow dry looks good on you.” I nuzzled him and he gave me a lick. Even his breath smelled good.

  “Did you clean his teeth, too?” I asked the girl at the Devine Doggie Dig’s front desk.

  “Oh, no. Veterinarians do that. We just brushed them. I’ve included a toothbrush and paste in his swag bag.” She handed me a large designer knock-off sack labeled, Ruff Lauren.

  I inwardly groaned at the idea of tackling the job of brushing the large dog’s teeth.

  As soon as we got to the car, I snapped a photo before removing a blue bow from his head. “Gotta post this on Facebook. Scruffy! I can post on Facebook! Yay!”

  I hadn’t used Facebook in years, fearing somehow I could be traced via my posts. By some miracle I remembered my password, wrote, I’m baaaack, and have a new man in my life, and sent a selfie of me and Scruffy to every friend on my list. As I scrolled down old posts made by friends, they finally petered out, except for those automated birthday greetings each year. Heaven only knew who’d unfriended me.

  “So, Scruffers, you’re officially an American dog now: pampered, well-fed, and leashed. That last part is unfortunate, but it goes with the territory.”

  He shook his big head and whined, probably longing for a good romp on the beach and a roll on a rotting fish carcass.

  “And lookee what Uncle Jeff bought you.” I opened a piece of aluminum foil shaped like a swan. “Chateaubriand!” I gave him several pieces, which he took politely, while I told him, “We’re hitting the road again. You ready to go chase my daddy’s longhorns?”

  “Woof. Woof.”

  “I thought you would…well, what do you know, Scruffy? You’re now bilingual? Who knew the doggy spa was also a language school? Wait until we tell Je….” My eyes stung. “I guess we can’t do that, can we? We have absolutely no idea where to find him. Not that he wants us to; I tried calling the only number we had for him and it has been disconnected.”

  Scruffy whined.

  “I know. And another thing, you’re a Texan and we don’t whine, we do this.” I threw my head back and let loose with my best and loudest howl, and after a couple of head tilts and a furrowed brow, he got with the program and joined me.

  ***

  We howled a lot during the long, verrry long, two-day drive to the Texas Hill Country. I had lots of time to teach Scruffy more English dog commands, and he was a fast learner. Just to make sure he didn’t lose his Mexican roots, I threw in Spanish on occasion.

  I also had plenty of time to ponder our future. I’d been out of the US job market for five years, an eternity in tech time. What was I going to do for money once my stash disappeared? I had a dog the size of a small pony to feed!

  So, first things first; I had to kick the renter out of the ramshackle Colorado River cabin my grandmother left my sister and me.

  Long before the French husband debacle, I bought out my sister’s half of my grandfather’s “fishing shack” and lived there back when I had a good paying job. I was planning to rehab it, but then enter Devereaux, the charming rat who swept me off my feet, then took a powder. As, did I.

  Old timey style—a Texas architectural technical term—it was built of limestone blocks and had a metal roof. To say it needed work would be a serious understatement.

  I’d rented it out while I was hiding in Mexico; the renter paid way below market in return for keeping the place from totally disintegrating. He was on a month-to-month deal, and I had to give him time to vacate.

  My father had gone over periodically to make sure the guy wasn’t cooking meth or something, but I knew major repairs were in order to bring it up to code. Code, hell, to make it habitable.

  The cabin rent had been deposited to my US account every month, and even with some minor repairs, property taxes, and insurance costs, it had added up. I thought maybe I could spruce it up without a total gut job. Silly me.

  ***

  When the job finally started, I realized I might have bitten off more than I could chew.

  I did what work I could on the cabin myself, but only got a few breaks. The best one was that it was built on solid rock, and the foundation was, well, rock-solid.

  Grandmama also left us a wad of cash, so I wasn’t exactly headed out to steal a grocery cart yet, but I was well aware that I was light-years behind the competition in my previous career as a software developer. And one day soon, the goes-outa was going to require some goes-inda! Those are accounting technical terms.

  And I realized that going back to a nine-to-fiver, no matter how lucrative, didn’t exactly ring my bells anymore. Sigh.

  One day, after picking up more frequent flyer miles to Home Depot, I sat in my pickup, and did some hard math.

  Grunting in disgust, I tapped my pencil on the steering wheel.

  “Dang, Mr. Scruff, no matter how many times I add and subtract, it ends up the same. Help me here, okay?”

  He tilted his head.

  “Yes, you’re right. I gotta get a job. But one thing we know for sure, any kind of sales job is out. Barry—may he rest in peace—was right-on; I couldn’t sell icebergs in the Sahara. So, let’s just get ‘er done, then invite all our friends and family over to eat a ton of barbeque. Daddy’s almost finished with the pit.”

  “Ruff.”

  “Yes, I know, but someone has to do it.”

  I was doing my best not to think about Jeff, but every once in a while an unwelcome stab of combined longing and jealousy sneaked in like a bad case of heartburn.

  Was he back with Muffin? Was her father really a bad guy, or just an international entrepreneur? The bill from the Del in Coronado was paid for by a corporation, but when I Googled it, I found nada. Same with Jeff’s name. And why hadn’t I at least gotten more than one phone number for a guy I traveled the entire Baja with?

  “So, Dawg, I guess we can rule out any new career as a private eye, huh? I mean, what do I know about Jeff? If that is even his name. Hell, I never even snapped a photo of him. I am an idiot.”

  “Woof.”

  “You don’t have to agree with me, you know.”

  He jumped into the back seat, curled up, and went to sleep.

  I
think it was his way of saying, “Get over yourself, Chica.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  It took Scruffy and me, along with some wonderfully helpful family members, four months—and a hefty hit to my savings account—to totally finish the cabin my grandfather built just after the end of World War II. It hadn’t been renovated since then, so we had our hands full.

  After hearing the term, cedar chopper, used in Texas for years, I became one and I now hold a healthy respect for those hardy folks who eke out a living clearing cedar.

  I discovered several squatters that needed either run off or shot, then Dad hauled in rocks and dirt, and my mother planted my gardens. We respectfully planted the rattlesnake remains as fertilizer, which, in my and Scruffy’s humble opinions, is all they are good for.

  Scruffy, being a Baja stray, didn’t require any rattler aversion classes; he knew to leave them alone, and only barked an alert when one showed up.

  I pressure-washed the limestone walls, inside and out, after removing some seriously sad patched drywall that was crumbling, and ripped up nasty carpet my renter laid down over the original flagstone floors, and then it was time to bring in the experts for electrical, plumbing, and roofing. My tin roof had seen one too many hail storms.

  Driving back and forth to my parents’ guest house on Lake Buchanan became too time and energy consuming, so as soon as we had water and electricity, we stayed there several nights a week. At one time, the only thing in the cabin was a hastily installed toilet, portable air conditioner and a cot, but hey, progress is progress.

  Making the two-bedroom, thousand-square-foot cabin livable included all new electrical and plumbing, and a much-needed mini-split system like the units in Mexico, for heat and cooling. The old rock fireplace was in amazingly good shape, only requiring a power washing, which dislodged several generations of desiccated squirrel carcasses.

  Once in a while I took a temp job for a few days to give myself, and my bank account, a break. Even though they were low-level jobs, I made sure they were tech industry related, and used my lunch hours to do volunteer grunt work. By making friends with these full-timers, I was able to use them as references, and also drop updated techy terms into my spiffy new resume.

  Learning everything I could glean from these jobs, I inched my way back into my field, and was soon having to turn down assignments in order to finish my cabin.

  Scruffy was relegated to the cabin on those days I worked for actual pay, until he got lucky. Bless my Dad’s heart he tackled the rebuilding of my rickety boat dock and front porch and put my pup on the payroll as chief engineer in charge of water moccasin alerts.

  Dad showed up early and the two of them spent the day together. Score? My team five, water moccasins zero.

  Despite having only a makeshift kitchen, we declared our home “done enuf” and moved in.

  Celebrating with a late afternoon swim in the river, we chowed down on my father’s famous mesquite-smoked brisket I’d latched onto at my parent’s house earlier in the day when I picked up a few furnishings they swore they no longer needed. Evidently not, as I never recalled seeing some of the lamps and rugs before, and suspected their neighbors were discreetly dropping them off for the cause. ‘Cause I was broke?

  On the Fourth of July, the infamous Texas summer heat actually dissipated a bit in the face of some low-lying, late-day clouds sending a welcome breeze across the water. It was still hottern’ the hinges of hell by most standards, but to us, dropping to eighty-nine was a blessing.

  A mosquito zapper dealt with flying pests that sneaked inside my screened-in porch, and I’d installed a ceiling fan, so that by the time dark fell, we could comfortably eat barbeque while viewing fireworks from various venues along the river and Lake Travis.

  Scruffy, unlike many dogs, seemed unaffected by the explosions, probably because every day is a fireworks occasion in Mexico. He actually seemed to look forward to each sky burst as much as I did.

  When my cell phone played “The Eyes of Texas,” I grabbed it, expecting a call from my sister in Austin. She checked with me often to see how I was settling in, but we hadn’t had all that much time together yet because her job as a buyer for Neiman Marcus kept her on the road. We were planning a cemetery trip the next day, a family tradition of placing flowers on family graves scattered all over the hill country.

  “Happy Fourth of July!” I said. “Bring your bathing suit tomorrow and we’ll hit the lake to cool off after we get done at the cemetery.”

  “Happy Fourth to you, too.”

  My heart almost stopped. I finally drew enough breath to croak, “Jeff?”

  “Yes. Who died?”

  I let out a nervous giggle. “No one, at least not recently.”

  “That’s a relief. How are you and Scruffy doing?”

  The shock of hearing his voice was giving way to lingering anger over the way he left me. “Fine,” I snipped, choking back the “no thanks to you,” that I wanted to add.

  “Uh-oh. I gather you’re still pissed at me for my unthinkingly cruel, hurtful and insensitive behavior?”

  “You gather right. Why are you calling?”

  “Because I love you?”

  I ended the call.

  ***

  As we placed fake bluebonnets at ancestors’ gravesites—real flowers are merely deer food in Texas Hill Country—I told my sister about Jeff. It was the first time she, or anyone in Texas, had heard of him.

  Everyone thought I was still hiding out in Cabo when I learned I was clear to come home, and I let them believe it. I didn’t want my parents to worry that I was once again linked up with another “unsuitable,” which is Texan for “low down dirty pole cat.”

  “So, let me get this straight, Beck. Your boyfriend in Cabo got murdered and you took off with a complete stranger, then spent the next several days with him, like sleeping in the same room or van, until he dumped you in San Diego?”

  “Put that way it does sound a little weird.”

  “Weird?” she scoffed. “That’s a Lone-Star-sized understatement if I ever heard one. Your story sounds like a bad romance novel. In books and movies the star-crossed lovers at least overcome all odds to end up living together happily ever after. Your Prince Charming turned out to be a first-class A-hole.”

  “Not really, Sister. He’s actually a nice guy.”

  “Humph. So it seemed with that slick French slime-ball you married. Charmed the pants off of you, that’s for sure.”

  “Jeff is nothing at all like Devereaux. He’s…”

  “Becky, while you make up your feeble mind what this Jeff is, let’s go get a beer and an enchilada. I prefer to be totally confused on a full stomach.”

  After we settled in at Rosie’s Tamale House in Bee Cave, a family favorite for as long as I can remember, I told Sister the whole story, day by day, of our run for the border.

  Sister dipped a tortilla chip into a bowl of hot queso, popped it into her mouth, washed it down with Shiner Bock, and smiled. “So, this Jeff professed to be all in love with you after only a few days of knowing you—which, by the way, proves he’s nuts—but you didn’t feel the same way.” She shrugged. “So, what’s the big deal? No harm, no foul.’

  “But that’s just it. I sorta do have similar feelings, just not at the time. Oh, hell, who am I kidding? When we finally got to San Diego, I was thinking we’d, well, be together, but with my track record I wasn’t totally convinced it was a good idea. Which is, obviously, what Jeff realized.”

  “For that, he just earned a gold star.”

  “Smart ass. Anyhow, I tried my best to forget him, but then he called and said he loves me, and I hung up on him. Now…oh hell, I don’t know. I can’t stop thinking about him.”

  “Gosh, thanks for clearing the matter up. Clear as mud.”

  “Easy for you to say. You met Mr. Perfect in college, got married and live an ideal life. I chose the road less traveled.”

  “Ha. You know, Becky, there’s a reason why that road
is free of traffic—too danged many bumps. And quite frankly my dear, you are being highly unreasonable.”

  We broke into giggles, drawing looks from other tables, which of course, made us laugh even harder.

  ***

  As soon as I gave Scruffy his tamale from Rosie’s, I stashed the rest I’d ordered to go in my fridge, and we took all took a swim. The afternoon was waning when Sister took her leave, leaving me to contemplate our earlier conversation. Her endearing parting shot was, “Don’t worry so much, Becky, whatever you decide about Jeff will probably be stupid.”

  Gee, thanks for that vote of confidence.

  I decided to confer with a less judgmental source. “Scruffers, do you think I’m being unreasonable.”

  “Woof.”

  “Aha. So you think I should call back so you can talk to him, is that it?”

  “Woof.”

  “Okay, if you insist. I mean, he did call. Took him months to do so, but he reached out to us, and the polite thing would be to call back and tell him I’m sorry I hung up on him before he could talk to you. Right?”

  “Ruff.”

  “Yes, I was. Okay, here goes. Just remember, this was your idea, so don’t be disappointed if it goes south.”

  I scrolled to the number Jeff called from the night before and hit call back.

  I got an immediate robotic request to leave a message. I stuck the phone in front of Scruffy and whispered, “Tell Jeff you love him and miss him.”

  “Woof. Woof.”

  I hung up.

  The phone rang immediately and I said, “I’m sorry.”

  “What did you go and do now?” Sister asked.

  “Crap. I was expecting someone else.”

  “Someone named Jeff, by any chance?”

  “Yes. Scruffy insisted I call him.”

  She laughed. “And you did?”

  I sighed. “Yep, but it went to voice mail.”

  Sister was quiet for a few beats. “How fast?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “How many times did it ring before it asked you to leave a voicemail?”