Kiss Me Hello (5 page)

It would be a symbol of her failure in marriage too. She’d lied to herself all this time. Bram married her because she was pregnant, because it was the right thing to do. Maybe he never loved her. She wasn’t his density after all.

The drive-through was exceptionally slow this morning. Same routine as every morning. Everything in her life was routine. Sexless. Lifeless. She was just going through the motions, accepting the unacceptable, one day at a time. One of those days she’d be forty-eight instead of twenty-eight. Would she and Bram still be together? At the moment, it didn’t seem possible.

She thought of Mona’s essay. Was this who society wanted Sara to be? Did she even know who she wanted to be?

At the order window they recognized her and knew her order. Couldn’t they see she was an entirely different person now? She was a woman whose husband had affairs.

She stopped at the trash can at the end of the line. As she bent over to collect the empty paper cups lying on the floor, her phone rang with a call from the 707 area code. Aunt Amelia’s area code.

“Sara Lyndon Blakemore?” the caller said. “This is Marnie Sims, the administrator at Pelican Chase Skilled Nursing. I'm afraid I have bad news.”

No.
Sara’s gut wrenched.

“Last night…”

“Wait.”

With a rush of anxiety, she ripped the BlueAnt off her ear. Why hadn’t she gone up to Pelican Chase right away? Somehow, she pulled over into the parking lot without hitting anybody and got the earpiece back on. Her words came out in a whisper. “Go ahead.”

“Ms. Blakemore, you’re listed in Amelia Lyndon’s admit paperwork as next of kin.”

She recognized the fake-polite voice. It was the one she used in parent-teacher conferences to hide what she was really thinking. “Is she dead?” she blurted out.
Yes, yes. I should have been there sooner. I know. I’m a terrible niece.

After a brief silence came a terse, “No, Ms. Blakemore.”

She was so relieved she ignored the woman’s tone. “What happened?”

“Your aunt developed an infection. Last night she took a turn for the worse. Her immune system isn’t as strong as we’d like.”

As we’d like.
Whose fault was that? “What are you saying?”

“You’re listed as next of kin. I’m sorry to have to tell you that your aunt is very ill.”

“Is she dying?”

“She is very ill, Ms. Blakemore. You should come quickly if…if you’d like to see her.”

“I’m in Placer County, hours away. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

She headed back home, dreading to see Bram, and relieved beyond belief to see he was in the shower. She threw pajamas and a change of clothes into an overnight bag and headed back out to the car. She’d let Bram know later where she was. Maybe.

Once she was on the freeway, she called the district to let them know she wouldn’t be in today. The scheduling supervisor sounded skeptical. “My fourth case of pink slip flu this morning.”

Sara lost it. “My aunt is dying and she’s all alone.” She broke down in tears. “She’s all I have.”

It was only hours later, when Sara was turning onto Highway 1 north of San Francisco, that she realized her Freudian slip. She’d meant to say
I’m all she has.

- 5 -
Bonnie

S
ARA FOLLOWED MS. SIMS
down the hall at Pelican Chase Skilled Nursing, fighting back tears of rage. The place was horrific.

The hall smelled of disinfectant, vitamin B, and urine with a hint of mashed potatoes and gravy. A pitiful moan somewhere in the distance provided the counterpoint to monitor beeps and elevator music. The yellow walls were faded. The potted plants begged for water.

“I’m taking my aunt home immediately,” she said. “I’ll drive her to town every day for physical therapy if I have to.” She started to wish Bram had come with her—then she remembered. He was a no-good cheating son of a bitch.

The administrator looked at Sara as if she’d said
ghosts are taking tea on the roof
. “You don’t understand, Ms. Blakemore—”

“Call me Sara.”

“Sara. Miss Lyndon is too sick to go home.”

“But you said it was an infection. How long can it take for antibiotics to kick in?”

Ms. Sims let out a weary sigh and walked on. Her heels clacked against the tile floor, adding a cruel staccato beat to the convalescent home concerto. Why didn’t she wear those soft, thick-soled shoes like a normal nurse?

“Here we are.”

Up ahead on the right the door was open, and a woman’s urgent voice filtered out to the hall. “Where is it, Amelia? Tell me where you put it.”

The voice sounded familiar, but Sara couldn’t place it.

“Bonnie, she’s here,” Ms. Sims said to a young woman sitting on the other side of the hospital bed. “This is Amelia’s niece.”

Bonnie.
The one who’d left the message on the phone. She was close to Sara’s age, maybe a little older. Their eyes met. A flicker of animosity passed over Bonnie’s face and disappeared.
Judgmental much?
Sara had come as soon as she could. And why was Bonnie being so pushy with Aunt Amelia?

Sara focused on the woman in the bed and gasped. “Aunt Amelia!” The old lady’s bony hand was taped up with an IV line. It was cold from the fluids being pumped into her veins. Her hair had gone white, and she was pale and small. In Sara’s memory, her aunt was on the overweight side, robust and athletic. This fragile-looking woman was wasted away.

Aunt Amelia brightened when she saw Sara, and the wrinkles around her eyes crinkled. “Yes,” she said weakly. “Good.”

She raised her head and worked her lips as if she wanted to say more, but the effort was too much. She fell back and closed her eyes.

“Her sleep medication is kicking in,” Ms. Sims said.

“Sleeping pills?” Sara said. “But you knew I was coming.”

“I’m sorry you couldn’t be here sooner, but right now sleep is the best thing for Amelia. You can come back in the morning.” She looked pointedly at Bonnie Norquist. “Both of you.”

Bonnie rose from her chair, and she kept rising. She was like a blood red dahlia blooming in time-lapsed photography. She stopped at about six-foot-two.

“Hi, there.”

Her smile was like sunshine. Those teeth had to be capped, they were such dazzling white. Her skin was porcelain perfect, and her makeup was an assault weapon—bright red lipstick, teal and purple and gold eye shadow, brick low-lighted cheekbones. Thick black lashes and brows that contrasted with her pale, almost white hair, blunt-cut in a style that was a mashup of 1920s flapper, 1960s Vidal Sassoon, and Lady Gaga.

When Bonnie came around the bed and offered her hand, Sara was still staring. She’d never seen anyone up close and in person with such movie-star good looks. Not even Bram was this gorgeous.

“You look terrible,” Bonnie said. In the next second her eyes widened. “Oh! I didn’t mean that the way it sounded. I mean you look exhausted. Let me buy you a cup of coffee at The Book Beak. It’s just down the street on Bird Row.”

“All right.”
The Book Beak!
A thrill of excitement shot through Sara. She turned to Ms. Sims. “You have my cell number. Call me if there’s any change with Aunt Amelia.”

“Of course,” Sims said. “I’ll leave instructions for the NOC shift to do the same.”

“You’d better add Amelia’s land line number to that note,” Bonnie said to Marie. “The cell reception at Turtledove Hill is sketchy.”

Sara made a mental note to call Bram before she went out to the house and make sure he had Aunt Amelia’s number. He was a no-good cheat, but he still deserved to know where she was and how to get hold of her.

THE REHAB CENTER WAS IN
Pelican Chase, the nearest town to Turtledove Hill. The village rested on one of the many peninsulas that jutted out into the Pacific Ocean on the California coast south of Fort Bragg. Bird Row was the village’s main street. The sidewalks were built from wood planks, distressed gray by time and mist. They creaked under Sara's feet.

It felt good to get out and walk, to move her body and breathe the ocean air. She always felt better near the coast, whether from the coolness or moisture or the salt in the air, she didn’t know. She just felt more alive. She loved watching the afternoon fog roll in as it did now.

There were no chain stores in Pelican Chase, as far as she could tell. They passed The Oyster Shack, a hole-in-the-wall eatery that catered to the tourist crowd, then a dry cleaner. The medical marijuana dispensary had a sale rack out front loaded with t-shirts that said
420 Friendly
, and
It’s
Normal to be Norml
. Another rack displayed shirts and pants made from hemp. Grapes weren’t the major cash crop in northern California.

The Book Beak was as wonderful as she’d imagined it. The cartoon pelican from the store’s wrapping paper was painted on the front window, the bird’s beak stuffed to overflowing with books from Sara’s childhood:
Peter Pan, A Wrinkle in Time, The Wind in the Willows, Anne of Avonlea.
On the bottom left was painted
Peekie Byrne, Proprietor.

Heat Wave,
the first Nikki Heat book, lay at the pelican’s feet. Inside the window display, the latest book by Richard Castle was stacked high. A flyer leaned against the books, notice of an upcoming drawing for a copy signed by the author.

Sara rolled her eyes. Bram would love that. He liked to insist that Castle was a real person, just to drive her crazy.

A heavy, heavy sigh escaped her. She didn’t hate Bram. She didn’t like him very much right now, but he was her husband. Couples recovered from infidelity all the time. Maybe they could too.

Bonnie opened the door to the cheerful tinkling of bells overhead. As Sara crossed the threshold, the smell of cool salt air gave way to rosemary and ylang-ylang, instantly overpowered by the strong aroma of fresh ground coffee. Scattered sofas and chairs took up the store’s front section. The bookshop shelves started halfway in and ran to the back.

“Hey, there!” A happy voice bounced off the ceiling. At the top of a ladder on the north wall, a woman with wild copper-red curls shoved a book into a shelf and started down the rungs. Her long hair bounced with each step. Her skirt appeared likely to trip her up at any moment. When her boots hit the wooden floor she swung around in triumph, green eyes twinkling. She looked about ten years older than Sara.

She crossed the shop to an oak bar that housed a beautiful hammered brass espresso machine. “The usual?”

“Make it two.” Bonnie looked at Sara. “You drink lattes, right?”

“Sounds wonderful,” Sara said.

Bonnie threw her briefcase on the sofa by the front window and sat motioned Sara to the chair beside her. “A helpful hint,” she said. “Chasers come to The Book Beak for coffee and go to The Coffee Spot across the street for everything but.”

“Yes, be careful at The Coffee Spot,” the redhead called out from the espresso bar. “Good food and too much of it; horrible coffee and too much of it.”

“Chasers?” Sara said to Bonnie.

“That’s what we locals call ourselves. Silly, I know. Pelican Chase. Chasers.” Bonnie was larger than life, and her take-charge style took some getting used to, but she seemed okay.

“I like it,” Sara said. She sank into the overstuffed chair and closed her eyes. She could fall asleep right here. In The Book Beak.
Heaven
.

This was where Aunt Amelia bought all the books she’d sent as presents while Sara was growing up. Books her parents would never have spent good money on. Illustrated hardbound editions of classics and stories about witches and fairies. Dad would order them thrown out the minute Sara opened the wrapping.

The books always reappeared later in the secret book shelf in Sara’s closet, never to be spoken of but eagerly read and reread. Then, after Sara’s one visit to Turtledove Hill, the magical packages had stopped coming altogether. She hadn’t realized how much she missed them.

“So what do you do, Sara?” Bonnie said.

“Teacher. High school freshman English.”

“Real estate,” Bonnie said. “You and I have a lot in common.”

“Not likely.” Sara inhaled sharply to shake off her grogginess and opened her eyes. Bonnie’s hard stare morphed into a pleasant smile. Or maybe Sara imagined it. Any similarity between them was certainly imaginary.