A Summer in Sonoma (3 page)

“He climbed
over
the console?” Julie asked.

“Yeah. That threw me, but I realized later, there was an awful lot of room in that front seat. He had both bucket seats back as far as they'd go. And where he parked—real far away from most of the cars—he must have done that deliberately before we met for the evening.” She shook her head with a short, unamused laugh. “I remember thinking he was worried about dents and scratches. But no—he planned it. He was prepared to take matters into his own hands if I insisted on going to the concert.”

“God! You must have been terrified! How did that biker guy know you were in trouble?”

“He said he heard me, that the car was rocking. I was fighting so hard, it made the car wobble.” She showed Julie her knuckles. “I don't know if I got this from banging on the window or punching him in the face.”

“Holy shit, Cassie. You think about calling the police?”

“I thought about it, yeah. Thing is, I've run rape kits on victims for detectives, and even when they're banged up, torn apart and hysterical, the police can hardly make a case. What am I going to say? A guy I accepted a date with—who I let kiss me in the parking lot and again in the car—held me down while he kissed me? He never
hit me, never got to my clothes, never unbuttoned his pants…. The fact that we both knew what he was going to do will be completely irrelevant.”

“But you've got that guy—”

“Yeah, Walt. He called it assault. It
was
an assault, but it only got as far as an attempt.” She shrugged. “Although it still scared me half to death.”

They heard the sound of the garage door opening and Julie threw an unmistakable look of disgust over her shoulder toward the door. Billy came in, wearing his jeans and T-shirt covered with sawdust, putting his tool belt on the washer in the laundry room, which connected the garage to the kitchen. He looked pretty wiped.

“You're early,” Julie said.

“I finished up. I could've found a little more to do, but I thought maybe you could use some help.”

She laughed. “And what the hell kind of help were you going to give me after the kids are already in bed?”

“Jesus, I don't know, Jules—want me to paint the house or sand the floors?”

Cassie put her fingers against her temples and rubbed. “God. Do you two have to do this right now?”

“You're a witness, Cass. You can see all I did was walk in the goddamn door!”

“After nine at night, to
help!
” Julie said.

“Okay, I'm going home to Steve,” Cassie said, starting to get up.

“No,” Julie said, grabbing her hand. “No, you're absolutely right. We'll stop. Besides, you need to tell Billy what happened.”

“Why?” she said wearily, sinking into her place on the couch.

“Because the guy said he was a paramedic, Cassie,” Julie said.

“Who said he was a paramedic?” Billy asked. He pulled a beer out of the refrigerator and brought it into the family room. He sat down on the coffee table and faced Cassie. “Something wrong?”

Cassie went through the story again. Billy leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, holding his beer with both hands, and several times he just looked at the floor. He ignored his beer till the end of the story. Then he took a long drink out of the can.

“The only thing I'd really like to know,” Cassie added, “and there's no way to find out, not even by going to the police, is if he's attacked other women. I don't know if I drew the wild card or if he's a chronically dangerous guy.”

“Maybe you can't find that out, but we can check if he's a paramedic,” Billy said, getting to his feet. “If he's even with the fire department. I'll tell you what, if he's a firefighter and he's doing this to women, he's going to be sorry.”

“I have a feeling if you make him sorry, I could pay the price.”

“But, Cass, I gotta know. We have some bad apples sometimes, but I never heard anything like that before.”

“It's not like you introduced us,” she said. “It has nothing to do with you.”

“I feel like it has everything to do with me. I don't
love everyone in the department, but it kills me to think one of our boys would do something like that to a woman. Kills me. I'm going to find out right away.”

 

Billy insisted on following Cassie home—the whole two miles—and coming inside with her to be sure everything was secure. While Billy busied himself doing the man thing of checking windows, locks, et cetera, Cassie was on her knees loving on Steve, kissing and being kissed. It's not as though she'd been gone long; she'd had the day off and had only left him a few hours ago for a date that should have worked out, should've been late and fun. It was just after ten-thirty and Steve had been fine, curled up on the couch on his special blanket with several of his babies—small stuffed toys that he carried around with him like a cat carries kittens.

When Billy was getting ready to leave he asked, “How are you feeling, Cass?”

“A little edgy, but mostly disappointed. Very disappointed.”

“Are you scared?”

“I admit, I'm a little shook up, but the whole incident was over in five minutes or less. And I have good locks, a phone with a backup cell phone and we know Steve's a killer. Really, I'm so disappointed with the way things turn out most of the time. You and Jules—I know you've been fighting lately, but you just don't know how rotten it is to be looking, waiting, hoping to find the right person….”

“Lotta people love you, Cassie.”

She smiled. “Thanks,” she said. Not exactly the kind of love she was hoping for, but nice.

He shook his head and looked away. “I don't know what the hell's going on with Jules,” he said. “I can't do anything right. I have no idea what's eating her.”

Cassie had some ideas. Three kids, tight budget, hard work, absent husband. But it wasn't her place to get into their squabbles. They'd work them out, as always. “Maybe you should ask her” was all she said.

“You think I don't ask? I shoulda just gone to the frickin' bar tonight, had my one beer of the day there. Never mind—I don't mean to unload on you tonight. Listen, I'm home if you need me. If you have any problems, call me. I can get here in two minutes.”

“How much sleep have you had?” she asked.

“I got in eight,” he said.

“Eight hours after twenty-four on the job? If I have any trouble, I'll call the police,” she said.

“Fine, do that. Then your next call is to me.” And then he grabbed her shoulders gently and put a brotherly kiss on her forehead. Steve looked up at him, wagged his cropped tail wildly and whined. “I am
not
kissing you!” Billy said to the dog.

“Aw. He needs a kiss,” Cassie said. “He knows his mommy's upset about something and he needs a little reassurance. It wouldn't kill you.”

“No. I don't kiss dogs or boys or boy dogs. You try to trick me into this all the time.”

“Steve doesn't ask for much,” Cassie said. “He has no male role model except you. He adores you, can't
you see that? How can you be so ridiculous about it? Just a little peck on the head—that's all it will take to make him happy. I mean, come on, it's
Steve!
He's like a son to you! Or at least a nephew!”

Billy, hands in his pockets, bent at the waist and kissed the gray top of Steve's bony head. And Steve, contented, sat for him and put up a paw to shake.

“You kiss boy dogs,” Cassie said with a laugh.

“Jerk. Lock me out. Call me if you need anything. Anything at all.”

And he was gone. Cassie looked at Steve and said, “Good job. Humble him every chance you get.”

 

Cassie changed into summer sweats and searched for something on TV. Steve curled up beside her to watch an old movie. He had the bunny, the frog and the octopus curled up with him. The movie wasn't sad—it was a comedy—but within fifteen minutes, tears began to run down her cheeks.

She had a job she loved, great friends who'd been close for many years, two families—Julie's and Frank and three half sibs. She was independent, completely self-supporting…and lonely. So very lonely at times.

At the end of the day, it was always like this—Cassie and Steve on the couch, just the two of them. She'd had very few relationships over the years, all of them excruciatingly short and, in retrospect, none of which held any potential for permanence. Some had ended by mutual consent, but the majority had seen her dumped, her heart shattered, her expectations destroyed. She
didn't like to think of herself as one of those pathetic single women who was always looking for a man, but there was no way around it. Every time she met a new guy, she got hopeful. Her thoughts always went to the same place—please, let him turn out to be
the one,
a good guy who wants to have a wife and children, who loves me and treats me like I'm the best thing that ever happened to him. But she hadn't even come close. She'd never even lived with anyone.

Tonight had been worse than heartache—it had been terrifying. She kept going over it in her mind, wondering if she should've known. He'd been a little on the eager side, but that had been kind of fun when it had seemed innocent. There was no way she could've known he'd turn out to be what he turned out to be. There was a chance that without the rescue he might've backed off when she proved too much trouble, but in her gut she felt there was an equal chance he could've turned into a rapist.

Is this what it's come to? she asked herself. Is it not enough to be let down, disappointed, that I have to be scared to death and real damn close to being a victim? Is that what looking for the right man gets you? It's utter madness—and it has to stop. I have to quit looking for the right guy. I just can't take it anymore. The heartbreak is just too much.

Single women of twenty-nine never admit to anyone, not even their priests, that what they fear most is being alone
forever,
dying alone someday. Since she was about twenty-five, her greatest fear was that she'd
never
find
a partner. Cassie wasn't independent by conscious choice, it was by default—she had no real family. She knew women her age who'd had a couple or even a few false starts before they found the one, the forever guy, but Cassie's longest relationship had lasted maybe four months. Four terrible months. She didn't know anyone like herself—with no living parents, no close relationships with siblings, no one. All she wanted was someone permanent who loved her, wanted children with her, a family man. She even wanted the bickering that went with all the regular adjustments—bickering that ended with making up and great sex. She hated it when someone said, “But you're still so young. There's
plenty
of time!” Plenty? She would be thirty in six months and she had yet to meet someone who lasted six months with her. Or, “He'll show up when you least expect it….” And then they'd tell a story of meeting their own lifetime mate, but they were never more than thirty with a bad track record. If there was anything harder than facing the terrifying truth, it was having that fear not taken seriously. “You're beautiful and smart—you'll find the right guy.” Well, it wasn't happening.

Her mind was jumbled with numbers. If I'm thirty when I meet him, give it a year to see if we're in sync, a year-long engagement, and then if I don't get pregnant easily, am I thirty-five before that first baby's coming? And always: What if he doesn't come along until I'm thirty-five? What if he never shows up? Really—never! I can get together with girlfriends and say, yeah, it would be great to find the right man, but, hey! If I don't, I have
a lot more fun than you girls. After all, I've had sex with a couple dozen men….

“Steve,” she said in a tearful whisper. “I've had sex with a couple dozen men.” She rubbed his floppy ears. “Do you still respect me?”

She had sex the first time at seventeen. She had been soooo in love. She'd had sex the last time five months ago. In thirteen years of sexual activity, it didn't take long to get to a couple dozen, or the vicinity; she couldn't actually count them without writing them down, an act that repelled her. Even so, she didn't feel promiscuous. She felt, frankly, completely lost.

Steve turned his beautiful black eyes up to her and made a sound. Then he licked her arm. He would never leave her.

But he would, she reminded herself, and Steve was her only real family. Big dogs didn't last long. The life span of a Weimaraner was twelve to fourteen years and Steve was five. What would she do without anyone special, without her mom, with a life so solitary? She had her girlfriends—Julie, Marty and Beth—but everyone else had parents, brothers, sisters, spouses.

The tears came harder. She missed her mom so much sometimes; they had been best friends. Even though she hadn't gone to live with her when she'd moved away, they'd still talked all the time—two or three times a week for an hour at a time. And she'd been with her mom for the months preceding her death, caring for her, loving her into the next world.

Since she'd been just a kid, she'd been on her own.
And all she'd ever wanted was to have that kind of connection happily married women had—the loving commitment her mom had had too briefly with Frank, that Jules had with Billy, Marty had with Joe. A good, strong, solid guy to lean on who'd share the responsibility and joy. Was that so much to hope for? Why was that asking so damn much? Didn't everyone have a soul mate
somewhere?

There were times she thought life just wasn't worth living without some kind of deep love and intimacy. The thought of growing into an old woman without ever having that kind of reliable connection was unimaginable. Another ten years of looking for the right partner, being let down again and again, was simply more than she could bear to think about.