be back first thing tomorrow,” I told Esther, resting a hand on her shoulder for a moment and giving it a squeeze.
Saying a quick good-bye to the others, I retrieved my purse from the office, updated my time sheet, then slipped out the kitchen door. I took the back path past the pigsty and cabins to reach my car on the far side of the lot, hoping to avoid questions from the guests or the police. No one stopped me, not even Jason.
Once in my Honda, I locked the door and sat for a moment. People were checking out. And who could blame them? But if we ran out of customers, Esther would have to shutter the farm. I’d be out of a job.
Again.
Then what would I do?
6
I took the on-ramp for the highway and drove toward home. As usual, traffic was light yet slow, a sharp contrast to the Bay Area freeways that I’d been navigating up until six weeks ago. A lingering memory of fast-paced Silicon Valley encouraged me to press the gas pedal a little harder but I immediately let up to stay with the flow of traffic. The highway patrol was notorious for ticketing along this stretch.
Exiting at Main Street, I cruised through the two blocks of downtown. Vacant shops were interspersed among the open but clearly struggling stores. Leaves on the oak trees lining the street drooped as if in despair, a sharp contrast to the rainbow balloon arch over the door of the Get the Scoop ice cream parlor. At least the parking lot of the nearby Breaking Bread Diner was half full, even at this early dinner hour. I’d have to stop for a grilled cheese sandwich one of these days.
Seeing the now-defunct video rental store, I wondered if nearby Mendocino was suffering as well. Probably not. Tourists flocked to the town’s whale-watching events and music festivals. But without the stunning coastal views and artist atmosphere, Blossom Valley was merely another stop-off for gas and Big Macs on the way to the ocean.
I hung a left on Orchard Street and studied the houses. When I was growing up, children had filled the streets on warm evenings, running through sprinklers or playing impromptu games of tag. Now, once pristine houses showed cracks in the paint, the lawns in front slightly overgrown, the aging owners finding it harder to keep up appearances. Long gone were the kids running around the yards. We’d all grown up and moved on.
Unfortunately, some of us, namely me, had moved back.
My sister Ashlee’s red Camaro occupied the driveway, so I flipped a U-turn and pulled to the curb in front of the light blue single-story ranch-style house where I’d spent my childhood. A dogwood tree sat at the edge of the rectangular lawn, its delicate pink blooms beginning to brown. African daisies and peonies waved hello from the red brick planter box that stretched across much of the house front. I stepped out of the car, reached back for my purse, and headed up the walk. Before I reached the porch, the front door flew open.
Mom bounded down the steps in dark blue slacks and a simple cotton blouse. She hugged me in a tight squeeze. “Dana, thank God you’re all right. Tell me what happened.”
She released me and I took a step back to regain my balance, clutching my purse to my chest. I studied Mom in the afternoon light. Since Dad’s death last year, she’d aged a good decade, her once salt-and-pepper hair now a solid gray, new wrinkles visible every time I visited. But now that I was here to stay awhile, maybe I could stunt the aging process.
“Are you talking about one of the guests dying?” I asked. “How did you find out?”
“Everybody knows about the murder,” Ashlee said as she popped out the front door and joined us on the walk.
Her blond hair gleamed and her baby blues sparkled. We shared the same eye color, but hers always appeared a shade bluer, aided by the ever-present eye shadow and liner.
Ashlee blew a bubble, then plucked bits of gum off her bottom lip as she continued. “Lucy at the salon has a daughter who’s dating the
Saying a quick good-bye to the others, I retrieved my purse from the office, updated my time sheet, then slipped out the kitchen door. I took the back path past the pigsty and cabins to reach my car on the far side of the lot, hoping to avoid questions from the guests or the police. No one stopped me, not even Jason.
Once in my Honda, I locked the door and sat for a moment. People were checking out. And who could blame them? But if we ran out of customers, Esther would have to shutter the farm. I’d be out of a job.
Again.
Then what would I do?
6
I took the on-ramp for the highway and drove toward home. As usual, traffic was light yet slow, a sharp contrast to the Bay Area freeways that I’d been navigating up until six weeks ago. A lingering memory of fast-paced Silicon Valley encouraged me to press the gas pedal a little harder but I immediately let up to stay with the flow of traffic. The highway patrol was notorious for ticketing along this stretch.
Exiting at Main Street, I cruised through the two blocks of downtown. Vacant shops were interspersed among the open but clearly struggling stores. Leaves on the oak trees lining the street drooped as if in despair, a sharp contrast to the rainbow balloon arch over the door of the Get the Scoop ice cream parlor. At least the parking lot of the nearby Breaking Bread Diner was half full, even at this early dinner hour. I’d have to stop for a grilled cheese sandwich one of these days.
Seeing the now-defunct video rental store, I wondered if nearby Mendocino was suffering as well. Probably not. Tourists flocked to the town’s whale-watching events and music festivals. But without the stunning coastal views and artist atmosphere, Blossom Valley was merely another stop-off for gas and Big Macs on the way to the ocean.
I hung a left on Orchard Street and studied the houses. When I was growing up, children had filled the streets on warm evenings, running through sprinklers or playing impromptu games of tag. Now, once pristine houses showed cracks in the paint, the lawns in front slightly overgrown, the aging owners finding it harder to keep up appearances. Long gone were the kids running around the yards. We’d all grown up and moved on.
Unfortunately, some of us, namely me, had moved back.
My sister Ashlee’s red Camaro occupied the driveway, so I flipped a U-turn and pulled to the curb in front of the light blue single-story ranch-style house where I’d spent my childhood. A dogwood tree sat at the edge of the rectangular lawn, its delicate pink blooms beginning to brown. African daisies and peonies waved hello from the red brick planter box that stretched across much of the house front. I stepped out of the car, reached back for my purse, and headed up the walk. Before I reached the porch, the front door flew open.
Mom bounded down the steps in dark blue slacks and a simple cotton blouse. She hugged me in a tight squeeze. “Dana, thank God you’re all right. Tell me what happened.”
She released me and I took a step back to regain my balance, clutching my purse to my chest. I studied Mom in the afternoon light. Since Dad’s death last year, she’d aged a good decade, her once salt-and-pepper hair now a solid gray, new wrinkles visible every time I visited. But now that I was here to stay awhile, maybe I could stunt the aging process.
“Are you talking about one of the guests dying?” I asked. “How did you find out?”
“Everybody knows about the murder,” Ashlee said as she popped out the front door and joined us on the walk.
Her blond hair gleamed and her baby blues sparkled. We shared the same eye color, but hers always appeared a shade bluer, aided by the ever-present eye shadow and liner.
Ashlee blew a bubble, then plucked bits of gum off her bottom lip as she continued. “Lucy at the salon has a daughter who’s dating the
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