Orchard Grove (5 page)

O
nce I’d made it across the narrow strip of brown sunbaked grass without falling on my face, I entered into her yard by way of a wood fence gate that was identical to my own. It was then that I was able to capture my first up-close and personal glimpse of her. She was even more stunning from only a few feet away. But there was something else that made being in her presence so much more special than staring at her through the bedroom window.

It was the way she smelled.

The scent was distinctly lavender, like the scent I smelled in my dreams, and it was carried in my direction by the light breeze that blew from out of the west against my face. It was as if she’d washed her entire body in lavender before coming outside to sun herself on the deck. She held out her hand and smiled warmly. I was able to catch a quick peek inside her robe then, as it opened and parted when she moved.

As I stood there, propped up on my crutches, I began to imagine her naked body bathing in a tub of hot steaming bathwater and lavender scented bubble bath. I had to watch out or I would give away my enthusiasm for my new neighbor by growing hard in a place that would not only be noticeable considering my rather snug fitting Levis, but also considerably more embarrassing than a face that was once again, blushing bright red.

Looking into her deep blue eyes, I wanted to drown inside them. It felt strange sharing the same air with her, but it also felt marvelous. Sensual even. I took her hand in mine. It was soft, petite, and warm. Together we focused our eyes on our hands as they joined, my hand the larger and her hand the more delicate and frail. Like a child’s. I have to admit, I felt electricity pulsing in my synapses, as though she were in the possession of far more energy than the average woman. It was an energy that she was able to transfer not onto me when we touched, but into me. Deep, into my bones, heart, and soul.

“Would you like to come in while I make the coffee?” she asked politely.

“Sure you don’t want me to wait out here?”

“A man who answers a question with a question,” she said. “How did I know you would be like that?”

“How do we know anything about the people who live only a few feet away from us?”

“You’re doing it again. “ She laughed. “Come. Keep me company while I make coffee.”

Pressing my lips together, I nodded.

Opening the sliders, she stepped inside with her bare feet and me right behind her with my crutches and bad foot. Like I already said, the layout of her house was the same as my own, so that as soon as I stepped on through the door into the television room, I looked to the left for the dining room and beyond it, the kitchen.

I stood there for a second or two, resting my shoulders on my rubber-padded crutches, while I took a quick survey of the pinewood paneled walls. There wasn’t a whole lot to see, but what I did see spoke volumes about her cop husband. Occupying the long far wall so that it was the first thing that drew your eye’s attention, was a series of framed photographs of the Albany Police Detective.

The wall was like a “This Is Your Life” layout of the officer’s career thus far.

Besides at least a half dozen framed diplomas and citations for marksmanship and courage in the line of duty from Los Angeles Police Department, there was also a picture of him as he graduated from the police academy. He was a young, wiry, black-haired new recruit who enthusiastically shook the hand of a much older formal-uniformed cop who was wearing white gloves and handing over a diploma.

Then there was the picture of the young officer book-ended by an American flag and the California state flag, a bright but cautious smile planted on his face. The photo beside that one was of the now maturing detective dressed in plain clothing with thinning hair and a face having become ruddier and puffier as will often happen when you drink a little too much whiskey day in and day out. He was standing in front of an unmarked cop cruiser, his sidearm prominently clipped onto his belt buckle, arms confidently crossed. The plates on the car were New York State and the signage mounted to the glass and brick building behind him read, Poughkeepsie Police Department.

There was a wet bar set up against the wall directly below the pictures. Several bottles of whiskey occupied the bar-top, along with a bottle of vodka, one of gin, another smaller green bottle that contained vermouth, and an empty decanter beside those.

Lana must have noticed me noticing her wall because as she reentered the TV room with a mug of hot coffee in one hand and a tall glass of iced coffee in the other; she also turned to view the wall.

“John’s wall of fame,” she commented, along with a distinct exhale. “He’s worked very hard to get where he’s gotten.”

“I can see that,” I said. “He’s done well for himself in a hard, dangerous business. He’s got the plaques, the house in the burbs, and the beautiful wife to show for it.”

She turned quick, caught my eye.

“You say the sweetest things, Ethan,” she said, “even if you won’t make many feminist friends with that kind of talk.”

“I try,” I said, “even when I’m not trying. If you get my drift.”

“Oh, I get your drift. You must be one hell of a writer.”

“I’m sorry. Sometimes I’m too frank. You’re allowed to kick me in the shins whenever I get out of hand.”

“If I had shoes on, I just might. In the good leg, of course.”

“You’re not wearing much of anything.”

“Does it bother you?”

“Not in the least.”

She bit down on her bottom lip, nodded slowly, thoughtfully.

“What do you say we take our coffees outside,” she said after a beat. “I’m missing the sun. Hope you like black, no sugar because I’m fresh out of dairy and sweetener. Later on I’m heading to the grocery store so I can make some cookies for the neighborhood kids. It’s kind of a pet project of mine. Would like some?”

“Cookies or kids?”

“Cookies, silly,” she said, giggling. Then, “Now, can we head outside before I drop this stuff and make a mess?”

“I’m right behind you,” I said.

“Lucky you,” she said, strutting herself to the already open sliding doors. “Lucky me.”

O
utside we sat as a round stainless steel-topped table that was empty other than her smartphone, sunglasses, and the remnants of a Granny Smith apple that she’d probably munched on for breakfast. We sipped our coffees and looked at one another and smiled self-consciously. At least, I did.

Lana put her sunglasses back on and positioned her face up toward the sun so that she could soak it in while we chatted. We engaged in small talk mostly. I asked her the usual questions you ask anyone who has just picked up, lock, stock, and barrel, to move to a new city where everyone is a stranger. I asked her why her husband decided to come to Albany, and she told me he was offered the job by the APD Chief of Police himself.

“It was a deal he couldn’t possibly refuse,” she said, making quotation marks with the fingers on both her hands when she said the word “deal.”

I asked her how she felt about it, or was that too personal a question. She didn’t mind telling me that she’d originated from Albany and to be truthful, hated like hell to have to come back to its forever-long winters. What she truly wanted was to be back in LA, but John wouldn’t hear of it. They’d first met in LA, in fact, when he was still a young officer for the LAPD. She was waitressing at the Venice Ale House down on the boardwalk when he came in with his buddies. He didn’t stop pursuing her until she agreed to spend her life with him. That kind of attention and love doesn’t come around so often, she pointed out. So she married him, despite the fact that he’s five years her junior, and would always be five years her junior.

“How unusual,” I said, sipping some of the coffee, squinting in the sun’s rays, wishing I hadn’t forgotten my Ray Bans. “Robbing the cradle.” Then I told her that I used to frequent the Venice Ale House. That I lived not far from it in a duplex on the beach road. Back when I was actually selling scripts.

“Maybe we’ve met before,” I said. “But then, I think I’d remember a woman like you.”

“You’re a lucky boy and Susan’s a lucky girl,” she said. Then, after drinking some of her iced coffee, “Why do you say it’s unusual I married a younger man?”

I cocked my head, scrunched my brow.

“I don’t know,” I said. “I’m just more used to the traditional, man marries the younger woman, dies a lot earlier. Then the wife remarries and pisses off the adult kids who are in debt up to their ears and depending sorely upon the dead dad’s inheritance… an inheritance that may now go to the new husband.”

She laughed. “Well back then, John and I were both in our twenties, so my being older than him didn’t really seem to matter. But now that I’m in my forties, it seems to matter.”

“How so?”

She raised up her smooth, bare legs, relaxed her feet on the empty chair beside her, lowered her head just enough to get a look at me through those thick square sunglasses. Just the sight of her made my breathing labored.

“Aren’t you the nosy one,” she said.

“I’m a film artist. It’s my job to be nosy.”

Slowly, thoughtfully, she raised her eyes back up to the heavens. “In that case, I’ll suggest you use your imagination to guess how the flame with John has diminished in its intensity over the past few years.”

I felt yet another electric spark jolt my body. It seemed to originate in my stomach and spread out from there, like the waves from a pebble tossed into a pond. I focused on her. Her bare neck and the suntanned skin on her chest, the sweet spot in between her two pert breasts.

My spell suddenly broke when her phone rang and vibrated at the same time, making the entire table vibrate. She leaned up straight, not like her phone was ringing, but more like an alarm had gone off. She picked up the phone, looked at the number, bit down on her lip.

“John,” she said.

“Aren’t you going to answer it?” I said.

She shook her head. “No.” Then she pressed something on the phone that made it stop ringing. Tapping in her entry code, she checked something else. Her texts, or so I assumed. Still biting her lip, she put the phone down, but her hand knocked into her coffee, nearly spilling it over. Some of the coffee shot up and out of the cup however, and stained the sleeve of her robe.

She stood up fast.

“Crap,” she said, staring down at the wet fabric. “Coffee stains. Excuse me for a second, Ethan.” She quickly disappeared into the house.

I sipped my coffee and stared at her phone. A little voice filled my head. It told me to quickly pick the phone up while I had the chance, check out her texts. Maybe there would be something interesting on there. Something that would shed some light on precisely who Lana Cattivo really was without my having to drag it out of her.

I could hear the water running in the sink in the kitchen. The sink faced the dining room. She would have no way of seeing outside onto the deck while she was scrubbing the stain out of her robe sleeve. In a mere moment, the phone would lock up and my chance would be gone forever.

I reached out, took hold of the phone.

There were too many apps for me to take in all at once, so I went to the most obvious. The WhatsApp text message service. I opened it. There was a long list of photos. Faces from men and women whom I had no way of knowing. That’s not entirely right. I recognized the face of her husband. There was a text beside it. It said, “Working late. Wait up anyway.” Nice guy. The date was from two nights ago.

I scrolled down.

No one single face popped out at me.

Then she turned off the faucet. My heart pounded and adrenalin filled my brain.

I was about to quickly place the phone down on its face, when I saw a name. It said, “Susan.” I glanced at the photo that went with the name. It wasn’t a photo I’d ever seen before and since it was so small it wasn’t easy to make out. But for certain the Susan in question had long, thick brunette hair. If the Susan in question were my wife, I wouldn’t be entirely too surprised since they’d been sharing rides to the gym. I looked at the final message in a series of messages set beside the name. But it wasn’t typed text. It was instead, a voice message created by Lana.

I heard footsteps crossing over the kitchen. In a matter of two seconds, Lana would be back. I hit the voice message anyway. The word, “Baby…” came out of the speaker. But it was all I could make out before I had to press the command that made the screen close and quickly set the phone back down in the same place where she’d set it a moment ago.

I’d barely pulled my arm back when she reemerged out onto the deck.

She stopped in her tracks.

“Everything okay?” she said, her eyes veering from the phone to me and back to the phone again.

“Sure,” I said, swallowing. “All good.”

She nodded, grinned and sat herself back down.

“I’ll bet you’re just dying to know everything there is to know about me, aren’t you, Ethan?”

I was certain then that she’d seen me sneaking a peek at her phone. But then, if she had, she didn’t seem angry about it. She seemed suspicious and that’s all. The name “Susan” flashed into my brain. A Susan with dark hair, just like mine. How many millions of Susans were there in the world with black hair? Countless. A Susan whom Lana called, “Baby…” It could never be my Susan since the two only knew one another as acquaintances. You don’t refer to an acquaintance as “Baby” and you don’t refer to her as “Baby” if you’re another woman. Generally speaking anyway.