California Dreaming: Four Contemporary Romances (13 page)

At baggage claim, Carol said good-bye. “I travel light. Good luck with your trip. Please call me if you think I can help you. I’d really like to do that.” Giving Annie a brief hug, she whisked off to the exit.

Budding trees crowded the soft rises between the airport and the Delaware River. Driving her rental car over the bridge from Pennsylvania into New Jersey, Annie looked at the broad stretch of water coursing to the ocean, no other bridges in sight.
It probably looked the same when Washington crossed it.

Her easy trip continued for another half hour, before she got to a construction zone where signs announced the conversion of one of the highway’s rotaries into an overpass. Roads went every which way, concrete dividers leading the jammed traffic through the maze of bright yellow construction trucks, piles of dirt and ditches. Her breath shortened as she tried to concentrate on finding the right path through stop-and-go traffic. Horns blared around her; cars zipped past.

From her right, a silver sports car cut in front of her and stopped. She slammed on her brakes, praying they’d take. Tires squealed. A horn blared behind her.

“Don’t honk at me!” she screamed. “That jerk cut me off.”

The rental skidded to a stop, inches from the sports car bumper, before stalling out. Shaking, she rested her head on the steering wheel. Gathering her breath, she looked up to glare at the driver in front of her.

Blaring horns sounded behind her. She turned the key. Nothing happened. She tried again. The noises behind her got louder. One of the construction workers came to the side of the road, signaling her to move ahead. She turned the key again. Nothing.

A tap on her window made her jump. She looked up to see a short, thin man in a business suit, shirt unbuttoned, tie hanging down. He pointed at her gear shift. “Put it in Park,” he mouthed.

“What?” she asked, trying to roll down the window. It didn’t budge. Damn electric everything. She looked up again, concentrating.

“Put it in Park.”

“Oh.”

She shifted into Park. Turning the key, she was rewarded by the beautiful hum of a starting engine. The construction worker wildly gestured for her to move. She shifted to Drive and moved ahead.

Chills ran through her body. That was too close. True, it would have been minor, but still …
What am I doing driving through this mess in New Jersey?

Clearing the congestion, she obeyed the GPS voice, turning down a two-lane road through rolling countryside. She could see colonial farms with sprawling fieldstone and clapboard houses, mismatched extensions hanging like poor relations on a wealthy landowner. She felt her racing pulse slow with the more peaceful drive. The soothing green of great lawns, sprinkled with sleek-looking horses and miles of white fences, entranced her.
It won’t be too bad.

The easy ride let her mind drift. She wondered what the corporate dinner would be like. She hated functions like that, all the posturing and eagerness of the corporate climbers.

When she’d heard of the event, Elizabeth had hunted through her own closet for the right dress and shoes to send with her.

“I can’t wear that!” Annie told her when her friend had held out the green silk spaghetti-strapped cocktail dress and strappy sandals. “It’s too … too … ”

“Chic?”

“No. Clingy. Besides, it’ll never fit me.”

“Ah, yes. You need this.” Elizabeth pulled a spandex tube from one of her drawers. “Put this underneath. It hides everything.”

“I’m still not wearing this dress. It’s unprofessional — inappropriate. What about a bra?”

“You don’t wear one.”

Annie laughed. “You can get away without wearing a bra, I can’t.”

Elizabeth stared at Annie’s well-rounded chest and shook her head. “Don’t you have a strapless one?”

“I think I have one in the back of a drawer somewhere.”

“Well find it. Or get yourself a new one. You’ll knock ’em dead in this dress. It’s the perfect color.”

“I’m not looking for a date. I’m looking for a job.”

“Believe me, honey, the process is the same.”

Annie had taken the dress to stop her friend from hounding her, but she had no intention of wearing it. One of her business pantsuits would do fine.

She breathed a sigh of relief when saw the church spires vying with the tree line on a small rise ahead. The road took a final dip through trimmed grass athletic fields before crossing a stone bridge over a narrow lake to reach the town. Ivy-covered walls lined the sidewalks where historic signs pointed to the gates of Princeton University, founded in 1746, well over a hundred years older than the oldest California university. Prompted by her GPS, she turned down Nassau Street. Quaint shops with colorful awnings lined the right, while the high Princeton wall continued on the left. A few more turns brought her to her hotel.

After unpacking, Annie grabbed her coat and purse and headed out to explore the streets of town. She slipped into the Ma Chérie Boutique, which boasted a unique blend of clothing, jewelry, and accessories, and found an inexpensive but classy set of earrings that she knew would please Elizabeth as a thank-you gift.

Around six, she found an attractive-looking restaurant on Hullfish Street. Mediterra’s looked like her kind of place — casual with a good menu and wine list. She grabbed a newspaper from the foyer and followed the waitress to her table.

She was finishing the last of her broiled chicken when she spotted the advertisement. She called for the check and the waitress assured her that Walnut Lane was only a fifteen-minute walk. After she slipped into the restroom to freshen her make-up and run a brush through her hair, she left the restaurant and stepped briskly up the hill to the church.

Craggy-trunked trees laced with snowy white blossoms glowed under street lamps on Wiggins Street, softening the stern lines of solid brick buildings with formal white trim. The buildings marched up the slight slope giving way to colonial clapboard homes determined to protect the privacy of the families within. In an odd way, the place reminded Annie of her younger years in the car-factory towns of Michigan and a slight chill swept through her in spite of the hint of warm spring in the air. No wonder she’d escaped to the pale stucco and flamboyant foliage of California.

As she emerged to the top of the hill, she saw her destination. The A-frame church, gleaming glass windows reflecting the evening sun, looked like it had been plucked from the ski slopes of Vail, a conspicuous act of defiance against the conservative Presbyterian town fathers.

She followed the sidewalk around the building and headed down the flight of steps to the basement, anticipation heating her body. It had been a long time since she’d done this.

She paid her small fee to the attendant, selected a folding chair by an aisle, and settled in. The utilitarian hall was set up like every other church coffeehouse she’d seen: mikes, stands, guitars and assorted electrical equipment scattered across the platform that stood in for a stage. She remembered the restlessness before a performance, her nerves showing up in meaningless pacing and fidgeting fingers followed by the total peace of beginning, connecting with the audience, the give and take of voices reminiscent of a choral antiphon. Maybe someday she’d have the courage to step on a stage again.

The aroma of coffee drew her to a table on the side of the room. Homemade oatmeal cookies with plump raisins compelled her to forget her dietary resolve. Returning to her place, she opened the newspaper she’d carried from dinner and bit into the sweet confection, savoring the melting sugar on her tongue. She’d finished her forbidden treat and was absorbed in the local gossip when her arm was jostled, tossing her empty paper plate to the floor, scattering cookie crumbs across the linoleum.

“Tight in here, isn’t it?” The man sat in the chair in front of her, glancing at the floor. “They’ll get it later. Kick it under the chair.” He turned back to the front and snapped open his newspaper.

She bent down to get the plate, although she couldn’t do much about the crumbs. Putting her paper and coat on the chair to hold her seat, she dumped her garbage in the trash and looked around for somewhere else to sit. The room had filled up fast; the singer must be popular. Short of clambering over dozens of knees to a center seat, she was stuck where she was.
Maybe he won’t be a jerk through the entire concert. Maybe pigs can fly.

When the performer began plucking the guitar strings for the notes of the opening number, she let go of her angst about the incident. The mid-twenties singer spun a story in the air, drawing her into his vision. The song crept into her soul, whispering to a part of herself she had long forgotten. More than anything in her life, singing went right to the heart of who she was.

The vision expanded and she closed her eyes, feeling the ghost of guitar strings beneath her callused fingertips. Her chest vibrated with unsung songs. From thin air, she created the fantasy of a small studio of her own amid Monterey Cyprus trees and acres of wildflowers bordering a rocky coast. She’d create a CD, selling it from the back of the room. Her technical skills would make selling it online easy. With each song, she built her dream, the joy of touching souls around the country, maybe even abroad, in places like this.

She brought herself back to reality. Dreams were for the innocent, women who hadn’t had their spirits wrung out of them by circumstances and bad husbands; people who didn’t need to make a living. She’d chosen the right path — the only one open to her. No matter what anyone said, no matter what her heart whispered, she would continue to do what she’d done since she left Fred. It was the best way she knew to make sure she was secure.

When the concert ended, the sense of the dream remained, like the aura before a migraine, creating a well of sadness within her. She sat in her chair absorbing the beauty of what she’d heard, reluctant to return to the loneliness of her hotel room, no matter how comfortable it was.

Gathering his things, the man in front of her stood up. “What drivel,” he said.

“Oh. You perform?” She stood.

“No, but I know good music when I hear it. That wasn’t it.”

“It’s easy to be a critic. Not so easy to get up there and sing.”

“What makes you an authority, lady?”

“Been there. Done that. Got the damn tee-shirt,” she announced, stunning herself with her reaction.
Where the hell had that come from?

She spun around when she heard a slow clapping start behind her.

“Bravo,” said a good-looking man in a navy blue tailored jacket. “I’ve been waiting for someone to take Walter down for a long time.”

“Yeah, right, Mark,” the offender said. “Why don’t you go back to academia where you belong?” Walter shoved his way down the aisle.

“Hi,” said the man behind her, extending his hand. “My name is Mark Hopkinson. Did you enjoy the concert?” He wore rimless glasses perched on a patrician nose and his broad smile displayed whitened teeth. A starched Oxford shirt and pressed khaki pants showed off a trim body.

“Yes, I enjoyed the concert very much,” Annie replied, shaking his hand before picking up her coat. “My name is Annie, Annie Gerhard.”

“We’ve spent the evening in a coffeehouse, but I’d love some decaf. Would you like to come with me?” he asked.

She should go back to her hotel room and prepare for her grand entrance in the morning. On the other hand, maybe this was an opportunity to meet someone who might be as nice as his appearance. “Sure,” she said, stifling a momentary whisper of caution.

“Good. I know a place not far from here.”

The two walked out into the chilly air to the tiny coffee shop a few blocks from the church. A couple was leaving when they arrived, providing a place to sit in the crowded café. Mark slipped the coat off her shoulders, hanging it on the hook at the end of the booth. Declining the offer of a sweet from the waitress, he ordered coffee for the two of them. “Have to watch our waistlines, y’know,” he said, glancing at her.

She started to object, but thought of the cookies she’d had at the concert.
Maybe he’s right. I could stand to lose a little weight.

After the waitress left, Mark began a running commentary on his exploits. Once he found out she was from California, he focused the monologue on his time in the state. He knew many of her favorite places, including Yosemite and Big Sur. “I’ve even climbed the back of Half Dome,” he announced halfway through his coffee.

“Wow. That must have been amazing. I’ve never felt strong enough to handle that trek.”

“It’s a matter of training. I’m sure you could do it if you got in shape. It’s best to get up really early to beat the crowds, but the view is spectacular. Climbing the cables to the top can be a little scary the first time — not a problem the second or third time. I make a point to do it every few years.”

“You must be in really good shape.”

“I have a really good trainer. I’ll give you his name. When you move out here, you can get started right away. As we age, it’s best to maintain our fitness level.”

Why is everyone always trying to change me?

As the time wore on, she relaxed into her role as a good listener. He was an entertaining storyteller, but it felt like something was missing. He certainly was different from John. She felt a small pang of yearning for the quiet Montanan, but quickly pushed it away. That relationship wasn’t possible.

When she finished her cup of coffee, she glanced at her watch, startled to see how late it was. “I need to get back to my hotel.”

He picked up the check, glanced at it and left some bills on the tray before standing to get her coat. “Where are you staying?”

She told him.

“I’ll walk you there,” he said.

“You don’t have to bother. I’m used to walking alone.”

“Yes, but I can’t retain my chivalrous reputation if I let you.”

She really wanted to walk by herself, to clear her head before going to sleep, but acquiesced. It would be rude to turn down the gentlemanly gesture. She rethought her decision when he followed her into the lobby of her hotel. Did he expect to be asked up?