Ana of California (22 page)

Ana turned toward Rye's work. It was an unusually colorful drawing, almost childlike in its simplicity, of a faceless figure in a mini dress that was shaped like multiple upside-down bowls. Each tiered bowl of the dress was covered in a print pattern mimicking the fruit in the bowl, all rendered in their most basic forms.

“I'm better with my laptop, or with a needle and thread,” Rye said.

“It's fun. I could see you wearing that,” Ana said.

“Let's see the work, girls,” Mrs. Darnell said, picking up Rye's drawing. “Very interesting. You broke free from your desire to use sewing accoutrements for the second day in a row, Ms. Moon, congratulations. I'm excited to see you try some different mediums this year. While I like the concept and use of color in this piece, I'd like to see you ruminate for longer and free yourself from what's most comfortable to you.” She handed the drawing back before picking up Ana's, staring at it intensely.

“Can you explain to me what this depicts, Ms. Cortez?”

“It's the fruit bowl but imagined as if it were balanced on the head of a woman carrying it home to her family after a particularly long, hot day. I wanted to pair the realism with a bit of fantasy while also—”

“What in your gut made you want to draw this?”

“Well, it's what popped into my head. It reminded me of someone I used—”

“Why is the woman's face blurred?”

“I ran out of time, I guess,” Ana lied. Even if she had had more time, she knew the real face was no longer as clear.

“Aren't the details incredible?” Rye chimed in.

“I will kindly ask that you refrain from comment,” Mrs. Darnell said, scrutinizing the drawing before handing it back. “The technicality is good, but there's restraint here. Why is that? What is it about this woman that makes you want to blur her face? That's the meat for the bones.”

She shuffled to the next table, leaving Rye and Ana silent.

“Your work is beautiful,” Rye said.

“Thanks,” Ana said, tucking her sketchbook back into her backpack. “Her critiques are a bit—”

“Cryptic? Get used to it.”

They both sat there waiting for the bell.

“What are you doing after school?” Rye asked.

“Meeting Abbie at the café on Main Street. You?”

“Heading to my dad's store, also conveniently located on Main. Here's an idea—want to walk together?”

“Do you really want to walk with me or am I just your muscle now? I can break the nunchakus out of my locker if necessary. Or are we going old school with switchblades and our bare fists?”

“Ha-ha, very funny . . . Sure you're not meeting Cole after school?” Rye said.

“No,” Ana answered, though she wondered if he'd be waiting out by the flagpole again.

“Word travels fast around these hallowed halls, and the word is you two have something
caliente
brewing.”

“Would you stop? I barely know him.”

“But you want to, right?” Rye pressed. “Don't worry, every girl wants to know him better. Kelsey Weaver from our English class wants to know him in the biblical sense. Trouble is, no one has a clue what they're getting into. He's not who they think he is.”

“And who is he to you?”

“He's someone to avoid at all costs. Like herpes of the soul. Trust me.”

The bell rang, igniting a tidal wave of departures.

“I'm sorry for what I said, even though I unintentionally raised your social profile and mine from loser table to badass table,” Rye said.

“You'll need a leather jacket if you want to sit with us.”

A
bbie was surprised the first time Nadine Brannan placed an order with Garber Farm, doubly surprised when she placed a second a couple of weeks later. Nadine had only recently begun hosting parties and charity events, primarily for guests from the Bay Area or the university village up north. Hadley chatter had it that her husband, Nathaniel Brannan, was spending much of his time in Keyserville, after the purchase of two local farms. But Abbie knew otherwise.

Though their properties were close in proximity, just over the hill from each other with acres of shared land in between, there had never been the closeness neighbors in small towns often share. When Emmett Garber Sr. was still alive and struggling to keep the farm afloat, he and Alder Kinman had no choice but to sell their portion of the land to the young Brannan family from Marin County. It was a price they couldn't refuse. They divided the surrounding forest in three, each remaining respectful of the borders of
that land. The Brannans agreed to build on a fraction of it, keeping the rest wild and undeveloped—unlike other plots they'd purchased and expanded into corporate farms.

Abbie thought of Nadine from time to time over the years, not that they'd ever formally met, not that she'd ever be invited to any of Nadine's soirées. But like other townsfolk, she was curious about the inside of the Brannans' enormous house. The only person she knew from the area who had even been invited was Minerva Shaw.

“Opulent,” Minerva told her over tea at Monarch Mansion one afternoon. “Sprawling but tasteful—an ode to the American dream. The food was divine, the conversation quite over my head; but it was an invitation I simply couldn't refuse. I'm sure you'd find it just as enchanting if there wasn't that spot of bother.”

Abbie knew all about the details of Nadine's “bother.” None of the locals gossiped—in front of her at least—beyond the fact that Nathaniel Brannan had possibly run away with another woman. Whether they knew the whole truth or not was none of Abbie's concern; it was inevitable anyway. Nathaniel had left his wife for Josie. Abbie wondered if Nadine's interest in deliveries from the farm had something to do with exacting revenge on her spouse. But she decided not to question it. For the sake of her own brother's bit of bother, she was more than happy to deliver.

“Need some help?” Ana asked, removing her shoes as she entered the kitchen, then heading over to the sink to wash away the Saturday farmwork.

“Does it look that bad in here?”

“It's impressive, which is a nicer way of saying yes.”

“Last-minute order again for that chef over at the Brannans. Nothing to do but fill it fast and deliver it quick.”

“Don't you need to change?” Ana asked.

“Why?”

“Your dinner at The Bracken . . . you're having dinner with Will tonight, right?”

“Oh, that!” Abbie exclaimed, her heart suddenly racing. “I forgot about it for a moment.”

“You should fance it up.”

“Fance it?”

“Get fancy, gussy up, ‘tip it out,' as Rye always says. Which translates to doing your hair and wearing pointier shoes. I think. Not to blow his cover or anything, but it's pretty much a date.”

“It's just a quick dinner. He said it's a thank-you.”

“It's a meeting,” said Emmett, flinging the back door shut as Dolly whimpered out on the porch. “He likes what we've got so far, so it's more a case of selling our product and not debating what to wear. Don't forget to mention the heirloom pumpkins coming up or—”

“The barley wine, I know,” Abbie said. “I'm the one who makes it every year. Think I've done well enough so far . . .”

“Yep, you're doing something all right,” Emmett said.

“I was planning on washing up and throwing a sweater over these jeans.”

“No—” Ana and Emmett sputtered in unison. “You're representing the farm,” said Emmett.

“And it's a good excuse to wear something from the back of your closet,” Ana added.

“Fine, but you do realize I have to deliver all this and be back before six . . .”

“We can do the delivery, right, Emmett?” Ana asked, but he did not answer.

“I've got it,” Abbie said. “I can go to dinner as is. It's not a big deal.”

“We'll do it,” Emmett said.

“Are you sure?”

“I said we'll do it.”

Emmett and Abbie exchanged one of their looks that Ana still couldn't decipher. It wasn't in their nature to say so, but they'd always wanted each other to be happy. For Emmett, that meant moving on from the night he lost his love, and for Abbie it meant having the courage to find hers.

“You can drop it all off at the back entrance with someone from the event staff,” said Abbie, opening the oven and pulling out two loaves of bread that filled the kitchen with the scent of sweet citrus and cloves.

“Fine.”

“You won't see her; she rarely comes into the kitchen.”

“Despite the business she's giving us, I still think those people are ruining this town, and if he steps one foot out of that house, so help me I will—”

“Emmett,” said Abbie, resting the loaves on top of the stove. “He's not going to be there. She mentioned he's out of the country for a while, so just pull around to the back, knock on the side door, and hand off the boxes. Quick and easy. I'll invoice for everything later.”

“Whatever you say.”

“And take a deep breath. She probably doesn't want to see you either.”

 • • • 

I
t was a quiet ride out of Garber Farm. Emmett accelerated down Crescent Lane, driving faster than usual, whipping the truck around the curve of the hill as they passed fewer
and fewer glowing porches, the farmland giving way to the coast.

“Is that it?” Ana said, clinging to the window and straining her eyes to take in the sea.

“Sure is. Much better in the day—” He paused. “Have you not been out here yet?”

“Nope, cooped up on the farm or inside the hallowed halls of Hadley High, Boss. But holy wow, even just watching it whir by is outstanding.”

Emmett suddenly pulled off the road and turned back around. The truck bounced up and down as he drove along a roughly paved path that soon gave way to sand.

“There it is,” he said.

“It's . . . wow. It's endless.”

“Why are you sitting in here? Get out there and dig your feet in for a minute.”

Ana creaked open the van door and climbed down, landing on the soft sand. The beach stretched out for miles in either direction. It was a treacherous coast, she thought, the waves rolling in with a whoosh and a crash and exploding farther away against the walls of jagged cliffs.

“This is unreal.”

“I know it's brisk tonight,” Emmett said, “but when it's warm, there's nothing better than burying your toes in the sand.”

“Do you come out here often?” she said, stepping back from the incoming waves.

“Used to all the time. I still drive by, but I haven't set foot in the sand in well over a year.”

They stood there watching the waves roll in and out, the water shimmering in the moonlight in the distance.

“What happened to her?” Ana asked.

“Who?”

She hesitated. “Your wife. Josie.”

Emmett put his hands in the pockets of his coat and looked up at the sky. “She left,” he said, clearing his throat. “Nothing more or less—said she never figured out who she was and wanted to set herself free.”

“Free from what?”

“Me, mostly.”

“Had you been together a long time?”

“Yep. She was just out of high school—Abbie's year—I was already working the farm. We've all known one another since we were kids.”

Ana didn't know if she should ask any more questions, but she wanted to know more.

“Man, we used to have fun out here,” he continued. “Used to ride our trucks in the dunes, build big ol' bonfires near the cliffs, and just stay out here all night talking, laughing, being stupid. Thing is, I never thought there was anything wrong with all this. Thought our life was nice, simple. Hell, I thought we'd have kids and all that, but Josie never wanted them. I think she just didn't want me.”

“No offense, but Josie sounds like an ungrateful jerk.”

Emmett did his half laugh, half snort. “She's complicated.”

“How much time do we have left?” Ana asked.

“Couple minutes, whenever you're ready.”

Ana bent down and began unlacing her boots. She pulled off her socks and sank her feet into the cold sand. “Un-freaking-real,” she said. She wriggled her toes in and out of the sand and walked farther down toward the waves, debating whether or not to stick a toe into the receding water.

“Water's cold,” Emmett said, coming up to stand next to
her in his own bare feet. “But you might as well do it if you're here.”

Ana took a few steps forward while Emmett stayed back. The water crashed away from her before another wave rolled in, and though she wanted to run, she forced herself to hold steady as the chill rolled right over her feet.

 • • • 

D
arkness surrounded them, both from the edge of the forest on one side of the road and the expanse of ocean on the other. The truck rambled on before making a sharp turn down Tidal Road.

“I'll help you carry some of the boxes to the door,” Emmett said with a stitch of concern unraveling the corners of his mouth, “but I'll leave you to do the knocking and conversing with whoever answers.”

“Is there anything else?”

“Like what?”

“I don't want to presume, but it feels like there's something about this place that unhinges you.”

“Unhinges?”

“Ruffles. Unnerves. Tears open. Makes you want to rip things apart. I don't know, you seem angry.”

“It's nothing,” Emmett mumbled. “Just look at this place.”

They drove through heavy iron gates and up a one-lane road dappled with light from the house in the distance. As they got closer, the road brightened and gave way to a circular driveway fanning out like an upside-down smile in front of an enormous house ablaze in lights, its multiple chimneys pumping plumes of smoke into the night sky.

“Holy—I mean, it's . . .”

“A monstrosity,” Emmett said as they passed the driveway
and turned down a smaller road around the back of the house. “No one needs a house this size.”

“It's grotesque, but kind of in a compelling way,” Ana said, staring up at the height, which she imagined must be three stories, wondering which window was Cole's.

There were several cars parked in an adjacent lot, but Emmett bypassed it and pulled in near a side entrance per Abbie's instructions.

“Let's make this quick,” he said, jumping out of the truck.

Emmett stacked the heaviest boxes and crates on a wooden bench near the door while Ana kept the flower bundle and fruit box in hand, not wanting anything to crush them. He instructed her to wait to knock until he was back in the truck, so she did, watching as he pulled up the collar of his coat and switched on the stereo. She didn't expect the door to swing open as quickly as it did, a petite woman in a tight but tasteful dress standing there, her dark hair swept up and away from her face, presumably to show off crimson lips and ears dwarfed by diamonds.

“What are you doing out here?” she asked with a terse smile. “Come in immediately.”

Ana turned to motion to Emmett, but only the back of his head was visible through the truck window, the sounds of Bruce Springsteen drowning out any chance of shouting for his attention. Ana followed the woman into a small room painted a seagull gray, rows of shoes and boots lining the floor, dozens of coats hanging along the wall above them. She couldn't help but notice the pairs of muddy racing boots and motocross gear that had been given its own dedicated corner.

“Right this way,” the woman directed.

They made their way through a small hallway, Ana's
shoes squeaking along the shiny hardwood floors, until they reached the largest kitchen she'd ever seen. Aside from the high ceilings and chandelier—
a chandelier in a kitchen
—there were marble countertops, walls of cabinets, and multiple ovens currently being tended to by a bearded man dressed all in white.

“That's Pascal,” the woman said, pointing to the man in the pristine apron and hat. “He'll set you up and get you out on the floor. We'll be serving soon, so if you can change immediately that would be wonderful.”

“But I have the delivery from Garber Farm . . .”

“Excellent! So glad she finally dropped it off. Just set it down there and one of the kitchen staff can help you bring in the rest. Again, if you can change right there, please,” she said, indicating one of several doors. “There are uniforms and a place for you to hang your clothes. You can start with a tray of canapés passed around to the guests in the study, please.”

Ana watched as the woman breezed out one of the kitchen doors, the clicking of her pointy beige heels fading away along with a cloying perfume neither floral nor powdery, more an exotic blend of black musk. Ana set the box on the counter.

“Excuse me?” she said to the man in the hat, who put up a hand as if to say “Wait,” his other hand pulling fresh rolls from the oven.

“Jonno,” he said to a slender man using tweezers to place microgreens on small squares of a gelatinous substance. The man looked up at Ana, clinking the tweezers down on the marble.

“I'm here with a delivery from Garber Farm,” she said. “But the woman said I'm supposed to get changed? I have no idea what she's talking about.”

He rolled his eyes and leaned in. “Mrs. Brannan thinks everyone here is some sort of help,” he said in an indeterminable accent while inspecting the box on the counter. “Ah, fantastic. Pascal! All is good,” he said, turning to the man at the oven then back to her. “You have other boxes?”