Talk of the Town (2 page)

She giggled at her own joke. Life was looking up. Her suitcase even held all of her stray clothes once she repacked. The wedding dress could stay in the trunk of the car forever.

Kelly absently toyed with Raymond’s black briefcase. It had a combination lock, but knowing his ego, it was probably his own birthday—3-31-67—a good year for Ford Mustangs, but not for men.

She was right. The locks snapped open and Kelly took a big gasp as she raised the lid. Neat little rows of fifty-dollar bills—the funny ones with the big head off center—were lined up in the case. They looked fake. She slipped one out of its band and held it up to the light. There was the authentic watermark, and the paper felt right, so they must be real, or perhaps really good fakes.

A minivan full of high school athletes, no doubt headed for a very early match, pulled up beside her, so she closed the briefcase, shut the trunk, and climbed back in the car. This would take some thinking.

Raymond must have been up to more than she’d figured. Those two extremely rude thugs in the hallway clearly were not Avon calling. Kelly spent the rest of her drive putting the puzzle pieces of Raymond’s behavior together and deciding what to do with the money. Drug money, after all.

So all the time she and Ray were showing beautiful high-end clothes to buyers from all over the West Coast, Ray was doing some high-end drug dealing on his own? No one would be
lieve she wasn’t involved, and that
really
pissed her off. It was like flushing the years she’d spent building a good life and good reputation right down the crapper.

Why marry her? Just for a trip to Jamaica? A cover-up honeymoon? That didn’t seem likely.

A few days ago Ray seemed like the top man in the garment business in their corner of L.A. They’d been together for four years, lived together for two of those. He appeared stable, organized. His life seemed so well ordered. Just what she’d been looking for most of her life.

Because of all that, she’d finally let her stainless-steel-coated guard down and consented to marry him.

What had she missed? It made the hair on her arms chill up to think he’d been deceiving her so well for so long.

She made Seattle in record time. There was nothing like a high-performance car and a nearly empty highway to get you out of town fast.
Really
fast.

Kelly left the car parked under the viaduct by the waterfront. Somewhere on her drive she’d decided to take a Greyhound from Seattle, farther north, and leave the driving to them.

The BMW would eventually make its way
back to Raymond, she was sure of that. But she wouldn’t. She was sure of that, too. And just to be sure, Kelly decided to take his briefcase with her. Then she could say goodbye and get a proper start, somewhere else.

When the city bus to the convention center and Greyhound station stopped, she jumped in and never looked back. Goodbye to Raymond’s car, goodbye to Raymond; sometimes you just had to say goodbye.

In twenty minutes the bus driver announced the Greyhound station stop. Kelly bumped her way down the steps with her suitcase and Raymond’s briefcase in tow.

There was a West Bank two blocks back that looked open. She got all the way into the lobby before a rush of fear came over her.

Three things hit her all at once. One, she was holding a briefcase full of cash. Two, if she took out the remaining three thousand dollars from their account, Raymond would know where she was, instantly. He’d trace the withdrawal much faster than the towed car would show up. Three, she was holding a briefcase full of cash. Kelly pretended to search in her purse as if she’d forgotten something and made a graceful exit out of the thick glass doors of the bank.

She steadied herself outside. There was a
Bartell’s Drugstore on the same block. When panic hits, buy a new lipstick.

Kelly hooked a basket across her suitcase handle and rolled her way through the store. She picked out a veritable tote bag full of Miss Clairol strip it—fix it—put-it-back-in hair products. God knows how long it would be until she found a good hairstylist.

She added a pile of necessities: Bobby’s Orange Buick lipstick, matching nail polish. Man, where do they get these names? She picked up three Nuts Over Chocolate Luna bars and all the other stuff women need. More chocolate.

The Greyhound bus station had a Starbucks coffee stand. Only in Seattle, she thought with a smile. It was the best coffee she’d ever tasted: Kenya, double-shot, no-foam, lighten-me-up and spin-it-on-my-head, or something like that.

She let the wondrous stuff bring her alive. Maybe food would help, too. She added a bagel with cream cheese…to go.

Kelly bought a ticket to Vancouver, Canada, figuring she would find somewhere between here and there to stop and gather her wits, or continue on north into Canada to
wherever
. Good thing she had her passport all packed and ready to run.

Greyhound bus, transportation of the really strange.

And strange indeed was the old woman who sat down next to Kelly on the bus.

“Midnight Madness—L’Oréal Number Twenty-four.” The old woman pointed a bony finger at Kelly’s black hair, then plopped into the seat beside her.

“My God, you’re right,” Kelly replied, truly stunned.

“I’m the best there is, honey. Hi, I’m Myrtle Crabtree. Mind if I keep ya company?” Myrtle Crabtree had on a turquoise sweater with large reflective sequins knitted into it, matching earrings, and silver lamé leggings. Her should-be-white hair was dyed very bright red. “Titian Red. Miss Clairol, with a touch of ash blonde to take out the brassiness,” she told Kelly after about three minutes.

If Myrtle was trying to tone down the brassiness, it wasn’t working.

“I just hopped down for a beautician’s convention in Seattle. Aromatherapy! That’s the new wave,” Myrtle declared with hand gestures worthy of an orchestra conductor. “We knew that back in the sixties, incense and all that,” Myrtle continued. “Now they just fancy it up and charge three times as much.”

Kelly let herself relax against the comfortable bus seat. “Where’re you from, Myrtle?”

Myrtle settled in and took out a knitting project nine miles long with six different shades of wool. Mostly in the garish hues.

“Paradise, the sweetest little place in the world. I have a beauty shop just off the main drag. Had it since 1952. I can tell you everything about every man, woman, and child in that town. They all tell old Myrtle everything. Help me with this yarn, dear.” Myrtle took Kelly’s hands and positioned them, then started winding lime green yarn in a loop from one to the other.

“Tell me all about it, Myrtle.”

The miles drifted away as the old woman spun tales of Paradise better than any Garrison Keillor Lake Woebegone episode. Myrtle did indeed seem to know everything about everybody.

Paradise, a place just like Kelly had imagined ever since she was a child growing up in shabby apartments with her mother and the man of the season.

Paradise, like the town in
Little Women
where the neighbors bring you hot baked rolls when you’re feeling bad.

Paradise, Washington, USA. Yep, land of white farmhouses, and clotheslines with sheets flap
ping in the wind; a town where everyone mows their lawn on Saturday morning.

She’d driven by these towns before, wondering what it was like for the women in those houses. Were they happy living there? Making pot roast on Sunday? Doing the wash?

She’d wanted to be one of them for as long as she could remember.

Kelly’s favorite pastime was imagining the perfect town. Her tiredness blended with her daydreams and Myrtle’s voice, hypnotizing her. She huddled with Myrtle, telling tales and bonding in that way women do. It always amazed Kelly how two women would end up telling each other every intimate detail of their lives in two hours.

Finally Myrtle helped her make the plan to stay and try out Paradise…what a name!

By the time Myrtle started packing up her knitting and said, “This is it, Kelly girl,” Kelly felt like Myrtle and she were bosom buddies. Kelly knew Myrtle’s colorful past, worthy of a redhead, and had told Myrtle almost everything about herself, too. Almost. She didn’t mention the money.

They made a pact to keep each other’s secrets, because for heaven’s sakes, for the first hour of the trip Myrtle thought she was talking to a com
plete stranger, not someone moving into town, and for heaven’s sakes, Kelly didn’t want anyone in Paradise to know she’d accidentally married a drug dealer.

“Here we go, honey, only another highway to go and we’ll be there. You’re going to love it. I’ll take you to the Hen House—that’s my salon. My pad is attached to the shop. You can sleep in my extra room while you get your bearings.” Myrtle hung on to Kelly’s arm as they descended the bus stairs and kept right on chattering.

“I have a round bed I bought when Fred Hansen and I were having a flaming affair—before he married up back in ’62. Fred was the only man in town with manicured nails. For that matter, he still is.” Myrtle snorted, and Kelly nearly collapsed in laughter. “We sort of picked back up again after his wife passed on,” Myrtle explained.

They got off the bus near a sign that read
EAST COUNTY ROAD PARADISE
37
MILES
. The road cut a path east across fields of onions and alfalfa. Kelly stopped and sat down on her suitcase.

What a sight she must be: black L.A. clothes, short skirt, and pitch-black hair. But then Myrtle was quite a sight, too.

“Don’t fret, the trucks all cut through here on their way to Canada to avoid the lines at the border. One will come along soon.” Myrtle parked
her old “camp” suitcase with stickers from every city imaginable next to Kelly’s bag and plopped herself down.

“Maybe we should walk a ways and make some headway,” Kelly said. She was suddenly impatient to get to her destination.

“I’m way too old for a stroll down the highway in these platforms.” Myrtle stuck her foot out and displayed a pair of strappy turquoise platform mules. “Plus you sure as hell aren’t going to make it far in them laced-up high-heeled bat boots, are you, now? That’s one of my rules of life. Ya gotta have the right shoes for the occasion.”

Kelly stared at her boots. Now, that was something she hadn’t thought of.
So true. You have to have the right shoes for the occasion.
Guess these weren’t her thirty-seven-mile-walk shoes. She let out a laugh, which kind of echoed into country air. It was a nice feeling.

When was the last time she’d laughed with Raymond? In L.A. her life was not a laughing matter, now that she thought of it. Kelly wiggled her toes in her tight boots.

She felt a well of emotion ball up in her throat. It was the first time she’d let herself feel anything but anger since she’d left L.A.

She swallowed hard and stuffed it away. The world was full of men who pretended to be
something else, then showed their true colors, and there you were, stuck. Unless you knocked them out, stole their money, and took their BMW for a long ride.

Actually it was half her money; California was a community property state. But that briefcase full of cash was another matter altogether.

“Don’t beat yourself up for it, honey. Men are tricky devils.” Myrtle nudged her with a bony elbow.

“How’d you know what I was thinking about?” Kelly asked

“I’m a woman. You had that look on your face. Eventually you’ll need to get that outta your craw, ya know. A good long cry is nature’s cure for a broken heart.”

“I’m not sure if it’s a broken heart as much as pure pissed-offness, Myrtle. I feel used.”

“Didja love him?”

“No. I thought he’d give me stability.”

“Good. Then you’ll get over him quick. Gotta clear your dance card for what the future holds.”

“I think my dancing days are over for a while. As a matter of fact, these boots are killing me.” Kelly bent over, unzipped her “bat” boots, and slid them off. She rolled off her thigh-high stockings and curled her cramped toes up and down.

“Wowie, that’s one amazing tattoo, sweetie,” Myrtle whistled.

“Believe it or not, I used to work in a tattoo parlor for about a year. I had artistic skills. I was about seventeen. The owner was a retired army sergeant and watched over me for a while. He did this. ‘Wild rose,’ he called it. I couldn’t get the whole rose-covered cottage on me without compromising large portions of body expanse. So he gave me one climbing rose.”

“I like it. Suits you. Wild rose.”

The hot pavement felt great against her feet. “Ahh, at least my feet are happy now,” Kelly said.

Myrtle stood up and stretched. Surprisingly, she looked as flexible as a cat. A cat in a fish-scale sweater and silver lamé leggings.

“You are cute as a bug, honey.” Myrtle sat back down. “You’ll have the men around here howlin’ at the moon.”

“I’d rather be burned at the stake than get involved with anyone right now, Myrtle.”

“Honey, I know just the man that will have you burnin’ faster than you think,” Myrtle said with a sly smile. “As a matter of fact, it must be fate that brought you here to Paradise. I feel it in my bones. We’ll do the tarot cards when we get home.”

Home. Kelly liked the sound of that.

Half an hour later, a semi truck Myrtle had flagged down let them off right smack in the
middle of Mayberry, USA. Main Street. It really was Main Street! Colorful fall maple trees lined both sides of the road. There was Miller’s Hardware, Van Decker’s Ice-Cream Parlor, Esther’s Fabrics, and Cora’s Café. From where she stood she could even see a movie theater marquis with
DORIS DAY ROCK HUDSON PILLOW TALK
in large black letters.

Kelly stood on the clean sidewalk and gawked like a country hick come to New York City for the first time, only in reverse. There should be a sign that read
WELCOME TO THE TWILIGHT ZONE
.

Sam Grayson scanned through the “Woman Seeks Man” ads in the
Seattle Weekly,
a yellow highlighter poised for action.

SWF, 27, HWP, Seeks SWM HWP no STD’s for possible commitment. Must be open to interesting combination sex and leather.

Possible commitment to what, the nuthouse? Maybe he was going about this the wrong way. Maybe he should write his own. He set his highlighter down and took up his best black pen and a legal pad:

Regular Guy, 32, 6'2" HWP, seeks regular girl to settle down and have some kids. No drugs, no bugs,
no trouble
!

Well, that was sixty-eight dollars’ worth. He
should have done this in Philly. Maybe then he wouldn’t have ended up engaged to Chelsea.

No, that wasn’t fair. Chelsea had looked and acted perfectly normal when he met her. Okay, a little wild, a little bipolar, but that passed for fun at first, like a roller coaster ride. Trouble is, roller coasters lose their thrill after too many trips and just make you dizzy and sick and boy do you want to get off the ride.

Sam drew geometric cubes on the side of his paper. Chelsea had some great qualities. But her party never ended. Maybe if he hadn’t been so immersed in his law career, he would have seen her heading for a fall.

He sure didn’t blame her for breaking up with him. He wanted to settle down, she didn’t. He was ready to go to work. It was her last year at the University of Pennsylvania, and she was out to party. That was never so clear as when Chelsea got herself arrested for driving under the influence. Then Chelsea’s party came to an abrupt stop.

Sam still couldn’t believe he’d ended up being the public defender assigned to Chelsea’s case when Chelsea’s society parents wrote her off and left her with no funds for legal counsel. He’d thought he could have gotten her off on a first offense with probation and treatment, but up
popped her prior conviction. How he hated surprises like that.

He would never forget the look on her face as she heard the stiff sentence. There wasn’t much he could have done. They were in the hands of a no-nonsense judge, she had caused an accident, and hey, she obviously needed a wake-up call. Even so, there is nothing quite like seeing your former fiancée handcuffed and taken out of the courtroom. The backward glance she had given him—he would have to live with that forever.

It bothered him that he hadn’t seen Chelsea’s growing problem with alcohol. If he’d only known about her past, he would have kept an eye on her or encouraged her to get help. But then again, they had already broken up when he got the call to defend her.

Sam stood and paced the length of his office to the large window. He could see the whole of town from his sixth-floor viewpoint. At seven stories, the building that housed the law firm of Grayson and Grayson was the tallest building in town.

He was happy with the decision he’d made to come back home. Sure, it was partly because of what had happened with Chelsea, but it was also because of his growing distaste for big-city law and big-city life. He wanted to shake off the past
and focus on his future in Paradise. He wanted to contribute to the community in a big way.

Paradise was like swimming a perfect, easy lap. Just smooth water. Even his legal cases were easy: wills and estate planning, with an occasional property dispute that seemed to resolve quickly with his guidance. All that was missing from his life was a wife. That should be easy, too, but it wasn’t turning out that way, and that was driving him nuts.

That empty place in him burned bright. He wanted a marriage like his parents’ marriage. His youngest sister had gotten married last year, and at all the family functions it pained him to watch the happiness marriage was bringing both his sisters and his parents. That wasn’t fair, and he hated the feeling. Plus everyone had that tone—that look in their eyes. Who can we get for Sam? Damn, that was annoying.

Sam was determined to create a life for himself here in Paradise. This community had given him a great deal. He was here to give something back. In Paradise his actions would have a positive impact. He liked that idea. And part of that life should include a wife and family.

Sam thought about his parents, off on another one of their art tours. Every trip they made was like a second honeymoon. He saw the love between them still alive and well even after all these
years. There was a special glimmer when they looked into each other’s eyes. Sometimes his dad would take his mom’s hand in a spontaneous gesture of affection and press it to his lips in a gallant kiss. He’d be so lucky to find a woman to share that kind of enduring love with. Maybe he was asking too much in this day and age.

Of course, there was Lynnette Stivers, his old high school girlfriend. Everyone had expected him to take back up with her. She
seemed
perfect. So perfect it made his teeth hurt. Sam knew she’d had her sights set on him coming back to her.

During his first days back in town she’d shown up at the office with a picnic lunch and helped him unpack his legal books. That was quite the picnic. Perfect fried chicken, red potato salad, cold hand-squeezed lemonade, red-checked tablecloth.

He didn’t notice till too late that
he
was dessert. He smiled to himself. She’d sure made a lunge at him. It’s damn hard to pull a woman off you if she’s got her mind set on it.

He’d done a pretty good job of it, though. Gave her the old let’s-be-friends speech and helped her back into her perfectly pressed oxford button-up blouse. Amazing the way that thing didn’t wrinkle when she’d practically ripped it off.

Lynnette, with her ponytail pulled so tight it
squeaked. Sam actually wished he could fall for her. Even in high school during their senior year and at the prom he remembered wishing he felt something more for her.

He’d changed since high school, since law school and doing time as a public defender in Philadelphia. Now he knew that whatever Lynnette appeared to be, it left him empty on his end. And that wasn’t what he wanted in a marriage.

Thank God he’d never slept with her in high school. At least he’d had the sense that if he really didn’t love her, he shouldn’t have sex with her, a rare moment of clarity for an eighteen-year-old.

He reached for the binoculars on his file cabinet and focused on Paradise High School. It still gave him a great feeling. He’d spent the best years of his life so far in that building.

There was a big banner across the front of the building that read:
HOMECOMING OCTOBER
4, 2003.

Lynnette should get a clue. Tom Blackwell would marry her in a heartbeat. He’d been in love with her since their junior year. As it was, if Sam so much as raised an eyebrow in her direction, she’d be cooking him dinner every night and darning his socks. Scary.

So he would keep his eyebrows very still around her.

Seemed like everyone in Paradise knew he wanted to get married, and they’d made it their business to get involved. It was a hobby for the whole damn town.

He moved his view to Main Street. There was Mrs. Williamson headed into Esther’s Fabrics. She had her own key just in case she needed quilting supplies on a Sunday. That was trust for you. You’d never see that in a big city.

She’d set him up with her niece, Ada. One-eyebrow Ada. Not that her appearance would bother him if they’d had any sort of spark of commonality.

But Ada was focused on becoming a country music star and told him up front she was headed for Nashville, if he’d like to come along.

There was Mr. Miller sweeping up in front of his hardware store, even on a Sunday afternoon when he was closed. Red Miller was going to wear out the sidewalk someday, Sam swore. Red had submitted his wife’s cousin Charlene for blind date number ten. Charlene was four years Sam’s senior. Charlene wanted a rancher and was quite dismayed to learn Sam had no plans to take up cattle.

Paradise seemed to be short on age-appropriate women—at least any that he felt drawn to. Most of the girls he’d gone to high school with had either left or gotten married. Ex
cept for Lynnette, and he’d nipped that one in the bud.

Sam adjusted his binoculars and caught sight of Myrtle Crabtree as she jumped out of the cab of a semi. What the heck was that crazy old broad up to now? Her suitcase was handed out. She must have gone to one of her conventions.

He had to look twice to believe his eyes as a pair of incredibly shapely legs stuck themselves out of the truck door with no shoes on them, followed by an extremely short black skirt.

Sam leaned against the window and refocused. What was that? Some sort of vine or snake design started at the ankle and went up…up.

The rest of the emerging woman was just as well proportioned, in a tight black sweater and cropped black leather jacket. The whole package was topped off with a shock of spiked black hair and…a nose ring. Damn.

Sam took a long, hard look. Heat rushed around his body. He felt beads of sweat on his forehead.

The semi drove off with a honk. Myrtle waved. Nose Ring parked herself on the sidewalk and slipped into a pair of long black boots that zipped up the side and laced up the front. It took her quite a while. His binoculars steamed up. Damn!

He moved away from the window, set down
the binoculars, and sat with a thud at his desk. Sam put both hands on the sides of his head and encouraged the blood to seek his brain again instead of his other parts.

Why did he go for the ones with trouble written all over them? It must be the same thing as being a lifeguard. He must be compelled to save people.

Not this time. When Myrtle called, as she undoubtedly would, he’d just tell her thanks, but no thanks, and to let the rest of the good folks of Paradise know all blind dates were off. Sam was going to do this wife-hunt on his own.

He shook himself like a dog to snap out of whatever had possessed him.

Sam took up his black fountain pen again. He’d come downstairs from his apartment to his office for a reason on this Sunday afternoon. He wrote,
no tattoos, no pierced anything,
on his ad draft.

The afternoon sun was making Kelly sweat in her black leather jacket and warm sweater. They’d walked quite a few blocks to get here. She peeled off her coat as they stood on the steps waiting for Myrtle to unlock the Hen House door. The shades of the shop were drawn and a
CLOSED
sign hung inside the door.

“We’re always closed Sunday and Monday,”
Myrtle said as she whipped out her many keys and opened the glass-paneled door. Inside, it was dark and stuffy. She flipped on a few lights and a ceiling fan. The air started clearing right away. They dragged their suitcases in the door.

The Hen House had an extraordinary amount of Halloween decorations up, Kelly thought. She jumped, startled at a witch dummy with its black and gray hair in curlers, sitting under a dryer.

A stuffed black cat with glowing orange glass eyes perched menacingly on the counter. Kelly touched it and let out a gasp. It was real. Well, formerly.

“Mavis Peterson’s cat. She had it stuffed. She lets me borrow it every year. Name’s Fluffy. Scariest damn cat I’d ever seen in real life. I figure it’s his destiny to be a Halloween icon.”

“You take this Halloween thing pretty seriously, Myrtle. It’s only the first week in October,” Kelly said. “Are you a witch?”

“Depends on who you talk to. Some people said I put a spell on Fred Hansen to make him fall in love with me. But on a general day-to-day basis I’m just a wise-ass old woman.” Myrtle ripped open a plastic bag and refilled a bowl of Halloween candy corn and little candy pumpkins. She offered one to Kelly, who waved a no-thanks, then popped one in her own mouth.

“Okay, sweet cakes, your new digs are right through that door over there.” Myrtle talked with a candy pumpkin in her mouth, then gave up and pointed. She led the way through the door into her adjoining house. Her multiple keys tinkled as she walked. Kelly noticed a Power Puff Girl swinging from the key ring.

Myrtle’s kitchen was pink and black. The tile work checkerboarded around the countertops and complemented the yard flamingos standing among the potted ferns in the corner. She had a black and white vinyl and chrome luncheonette diner ensemble straight from the
Happy Days
set.

“Park it there at the table, Kelly. I’ll make us some lunch. I had one of my girls pick up some eats. I’m always hungry when I get back from conventions.”

“Wow, this is great stuff.”

“Had it since 1955. I was about your age, as I recall. My first husband, Eddie Crabtree, and I bought it together.”

“You kept his name?”

“He was my favorite husband. After the third one died, I went back to Eddie’s name.”

“You outlived three husbands?”

“Men are fragile creatures. Also they smoked cigarettes and ate bacon back in those days.”
Myrtle opened the door of the rounded white Frigidaire and rummaged, then reappeared with her arms full.

“You said on the bus you had no children, right?”

“Female problems. In my day there weren’t no cure for those things. Thought about adopting with Eddie, but he died pretty early on.” Myrtle plopped some containers on the counter.

“Oh, Myrtle, I’m sorry.”

“I’ll see him again. He’ll pick me up in his red and white ’57 Chevy at the Pearly Gates. He loved that car.”

Kelly saw that Myrtle got a far-off look in her eyes, then turned back to fix lunch.

Suddenly Kelly’s current problems felt insignificant in the face of a woman widowed three times.

“Here, let me help with that.” Kelly got up and went over to Myrtle’s side.

After ice-cold Nesbitt’s orange soda and macaroni salad Myrtle said came from Cora’s, a local restaurant, Myrtle gave Kelly the tour of Chez Crabtree. The rest of the house was equally eclectic and fifties-driven.

Kelly grabbed her bags and headed upstairs, led by Myrtle, to the guest room. It was done up Hawaiian style. Myrtle flipped on the hula-girl bedside lamp so Kelly could see the tropical palm
wallpaper in shades of turquoise and blue. The round bed, as Kelly could have predicted, was covered with a wild floral-patterned bedspread.