are.
Laura climbed out of the car and shut the door, sending a fine layer of dust sheeting down the windshield. She stretched, glanced around—and then was suddenly aware of the blowtorch heat, the hot sun beating down on her arms and legs.
She thought about getting back in the car, but noticed a pencil-thin line of shade offered by the cactus. She moved to the shade, positioning herself so she was completely protected from the sun’s rays.
Laura looked out over the valley and was overcome by its stark beauty. An abstract canvas done in taupes and browns, prostrated beneath a flawless brushstroke of azure pigment. And so utterly silent, you could almost hear the heat.
Right on the back of that thought, a wave of self-doubt washed over her. What was she doing out here? What was she thinking?
This was a mistake.
This was never going to work.
It was hard enough reconnecting with friends after a couple of years. The person she’d come to see—her father—she hadn’t talked to in a lifetime. Or at least her lifetime.
It was hopeless. It was going to be awkward and horrible and embarrassing. Might as well just turn around and hug the cactus .
Chapter 25
Back at Nguyen’s Place, everyone had gathered at the grill to celebrate the resurrection of the old Stearman biplane and congratulate Karl on a job well done.
Carla and Nguyen had gone all out, telling everyone, “Coffee and apple pie is on the house.”
“ Daisy , that’s what I’m gonna call her,” Karl said. He had finally settled on a pet name for the plane.
“What happened to Chronic Bitcher? ” Sam asked, stirring his coffee. “Much more colorful.”
Karl forked in a chunk of apple pie and washed it down with a gulp of coffee. “Too cynical. I don’t feel that way towards her anymore. Nope, it’s going to be Daisy . Besides, it has sentimental attachment.”
“Let me guess,” said Rufus. “Name of the girl that stood you up for your high school prom.”
“ No . God, no!” laughed Karl. “Daisy was the name of the best dammed Labrador retriever I ever owned.” He pushed his plate away and leaned back from the table. “And unlike you, Rufus, you old hermit—I actually went to my high school prom.”
Rufus chewed on that for a moment, then shot back with, “Didn’t know they allowed dogs to them things.”
* * *
Outside, a VW camper bus pulled up and parked in front of the store. The engine stopped, but the music continued. Pounding speed metal—loud industrial stuff—Metallica, or maybe Nine Inch Nails, echoed out from the van and filled the town.
Dust and dirt had turned the white camper a dirty beige. The rear window and back hatch were papered with bumper stickers: Free Tibet, Coachella 2011, Question Authority, Nirvana, Dog is My Co-Pilot, Mystery Spot, Peace, I Survived Burning Man, The Cure, Ministry, Bad Religion.
The doors were flung open, and a collection of San Francisco street kids—a Goth, two rivetheads, and a couple of wannabe hippies—poured out onto the hardpan. Odd bedfellows indeed!
The group was made up of two girls and three guys, all in their twenties. Lander and Maya, dressed in sandals, shorts, and tutti-frutti T-shirts, were the two 60’s throwback hippie impersonators. The remaining three—Kristin, Donnie, and Spider—were clad in a mix of camo pants, leather jackets, and Doc Martin boots. In true rivethead style, Donnie and Spider’s jackets were heavily studded front and back.
Kristin was working the Goth thing big time. Dead girl makeup. Jet black hair moused into liberty spikes. And a pyramid-shaped stud protruding from her lower lip that completed the stay-the-fuck-away-from-me look.
Donnie and Spider bounced into the middle of the street and began playing air guitar, writhing to the music.
Maya began brushing Lander’s hair, trying to coax it into a ponytail, and Kristin, looking totally bored, lit a cigarette and wandered over to Nguyen’s porch.
* * *
Inside, Tommy was
Laura climbed out of the car and shut the door, sending a fine layer of dust sheeting down the windshield. She stretched, glanced around—and then was suddenly aware of the blowtorch heat, the hot sun beating down on her arms and legs.
She thought about getting back in the car, but noticed a pencil-thin line of shade offered by the cactus. She moved to the shade, positioning herself so she was completely protected from the sun’s rays.
Laura looked out over the valley and was overcome by its stark beauty. An abstract canvas done in taupes and browns, prostrated beneath a flawless brushstroke of azure pigment. And so utterly silent, you could almost hear the heat.
Right on the back of that thought, a wave of self-doubt washed over her. What was she doing out here? What was she thinking?
This was a mistake.
This was never going to work.
It was hard enough reconnecting with friends after a couple of years. The person she’d come to see—her father—she hadn’t talked to in a lifetime. Or at least her lifetime.
It was hopeless. It was going to be awkward and horrible and embarrassing. Might as well just turn around and hug the cactus .
Chapter 25
Back at Nguyen’s Place, everyone had gathered at the grill to celebrate the resurrection of the old Stearman biplane and congratulate Karl on a job well done.
Carla and Nguyen had gone all out, telling everyone, “Coffee and apple pie is on the house.”
“ Daisy , that’s what I’m gonna call her,” Karl said. He had finally settled on a pet name for the plane.
“What happened to Chronic Bitcher? ” Sam asked, stirring his coffee. “Much more colorful.”
Karl forked in a chunk of apple pie and washed it down with a gulp of coffee. “Too cynical. I don’t feel that way towards her anymore. Nope, it’s going to be Daisy . Besides, it has sentimental attachment.”
“Let me guess,” said Rufus. “Name of the girl that stood you up for your high school prom.”
“ No . God, no!” laughed Karl. “Daisy was the name of the best dammed Labrador retriever I ever owned.” He pushed his plate away and leaned back from the table. “And unlike you, Rufus, you old hermit—I actually went to my high school prom.”
Rufus chewed on that for a moment, then shot back with, “Didn’t know they allowed dogs to them things.”
* * *
Outside, a VW camper bus pulled up and parked in front of the store. The engine stopped, but the music continued. Pounding speed metal—loud industrial stuff—Metallica, or maybe Nine Inch Nails, echoed out from the van and filled the town.
Dust and dirt had turned the white camper a dirty beige. The rear window and back hatch were papered with bumper stickers: Free Tibet, Coachella 2011, Question Authority, Nirvana, Dog is My Co-Pilot, Mystery Spot, Peace, I Survived Burning Man, The Cure, Ministry, Bad Religion.
The doors were flung open, and a collection of San Francisco street kids—a Goth, two rivetheads, and a couple of wannabe hippies—poured out onto the hardpan. Odd bedfellows indeed!
The group was made up of two girls and three guys, all in their twenties. Lander and Maya, dressed in sandals, shorts, and tutti-frutti T-shirts, were the two 60’s throwback hippie impersonators. The remaining three—Kristin, Donnie, and Spider—were clad in a mix of camo pants, leather jackets, and Doc Martin boots. In true rivethead style, Donnie and Spider’s jackets were heavily studded front and back.
Kristin was working the Goth thing big time. Dead girl makeup. Jet black hair moused into liberty spikes. And a pyramid-shaped stud protruding from her lower lip that completed the stay-the-fuck-away-from-me look.
Donnie and Spider bounced into the middle of the street and began playing air guitar, writhing to the music.
Maya began brushing Lander’s hair, trying to coax it into a ponytail, and Kristin, looking totally bored, lit a cigarette and wandered over to Nguyen’s porch.
* * *
Inside, Tommy was
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