the people Frank chartered it from and they could mail it to her. Sometimes he can be too much of a mother hen.
“Okay, then,” he says. “I’ll see you …”
“Whenever. Don’t take too long.”
“I’ve got to stay until they’re gone,” he tells her, his voice also low. “I trust Rusty, but it’s your family’s dock and I feel responsible.”
“That’s comforting.”
Against her better judgment, she had given them permission to put in at her family’s private dock north of Santa Barbara, because it was Fiesta, and during Fiesta the harbor’s a zoo, there’s no mooring for miles; with the clear understanding that they’re leaving tomorrow at first light for points unknown to her. She had wanted to say “no,” but she would have felt like a snob. Besides, Frank already promised them, she could feel his unspoken pressure.
He kisses her neck. “I won’t be long.”
She kisses him back. He can be a prick at times but she loves him, that’s the way it is. He’s a man, a man among the boys she’s known all her life. “And keep your hands off Sheena,” she adds, directing her stare at Morgan, who’s striking a pose on the dock.
“If that’s the best I can do, I’m pretty pathetic. I’ve got you, babe, and that’s more than enough woman for any man.”
Which is a crock of shit, but he’s her man, you put up with it.
She calls out in false bonhomie to the others: “See you later, guys. It was fun. Thanks for everything.” Then she starts walking the length of the dock (uttering a final “and fuck you” under her breath) towards a dusty Jeep Grand Wagoneer which is parked alongside a couple of ranch pickups, both of which are adorned with camper shells.
“Hey, wait up!” Morgan calls as she emerges from below deck, wrestling a Samsonite valpack behind her. “I’ll ride in with you.” She’s pulled on a pair of skintight shorts over her bikini, the two-inch-wide top barely concealing her nipples.
“You’re not going in till I do,” Rusty informed her curtly.
“But why do I have to wait around here?” Morgan pleads. “I want a real shower, I want to wash my hair.”
“Because you’re with me, not her,” Rusty answers with finality, putting his body between Morgan and the dock.
“Don’t bother Laura,” he orders her. “And get your silly suitcase out of our way.”
Laura gives Morgan a bemused smile, as if to say “your problema , sister, not mine.” Tossing her bag into the back of the Wagoneer, she starts the engine and takes off up the private hard-pack dirt access road that winds through the hilly overgrowth to the highway. After waiting a moment to let the dust settle, she gets out of the car to unlock the security gate, swings it open, then turns and looks down the bluff, at the boat.
The men are lounging on deck, drinking an end-of-the-journey beer. Morgan, apart and alone, stares up at the car. Even from this distance Laura can see the pathetic look on Morgan’s face.
“ Hasta la vista , baby,” Laura sings out gaily. She shuts the gate and slams home the combination lock, twirling the dial and pulling it hard to make sure it’s secure. Then she jumps back into the car and eases onto Highway 101, disappearing in the flow of the traffic as she heads south towards the Queen Mission city.
“Okay, everybody who’s done this before, I want you on this side, the rest of you, over here with me.”
They are in what used to be, seventy-five years ago, the gymnasium of an exclusive all-girls high school, decades defunct now. Located in the center of town (a block from the bus station, making it especially convenient to seniors), the county appropriated it by eminent domain a couple of decades ago and brought it up to speed, serving now as a multicultural center for a multitude of gatherings: “The New Woman: Empowering Her Liberty Through Non-Competitive Sexuality”; Craft Gatherings: “Pottery for Seniors”; and this evening’s dance class,
“Okay, then,” he says. “I’ll see you …”
“Whenever. Don’t take too long.”
“I’ve got to stay until they’re gone,” he tells her, his voice also low. “I trust Rusty, but it’s your family’s dock and I feel responsible.”
“That’s comforting.”
Against her better judgment, she had given them permission to put in at her family’s private dock north of Santa Barbara, because it was Fiesta, and during Fiesta the harbor’s a zoo, there’s no mooring for miles; with the clear understanding that they’re leaving tomorrow at first light for points unknown to her. She had wanted to say “no,” but she would have felt like a snob. Besides, Frank already promised them, she could feel his unspoken pressure.
He kisses her neck. “I won’t be long.”
She kisses him back. He can be a prick at times but she loves him, that’s the way it is. He’s a man, a man among the boys she’s known all her life. “And keep your hands off Sheena,” she adds, directing her stare at Morgan, who’s striking a pose on the dock.
“If that’s the best I can do, I’m pretty pathetic. I’ve got you, babe, and that’s more than enough woman for any man.”
Which is a crock of shit, but he’s her man, you put up with it.
She calls out in false bonhomie to the others: “See you later, guys. It was fun. Thanks for everything.” Then she starts walking the length of the dock (uttering a final “and fuck you” under her breath) towards a dusty Jeep Grand Wagoneer which is parked alongside a couple of ranch pickups, both of which are adorned with camper shells.
“Hey, wait up!” Morgan calls as she emerges from below deck, wrestling a Samsonite valpack behind her. “I’ll ride in with you.” She’s pulled on a pair of skintight shorts over her bikini, the two-inch-wide top barely concealing her nipples.
“You’re not going in till I do,” Rusty informed her curtly.
“But why do I have to wait around here?” Morgan pleads. “I want a real shower, I want to wash my hair.”
“Because you’re with me, not her,” Rusty answers with finality, putting his body between Morgan and the dock.
“Don’t bother Laura,” he orders her. “And get your silly suitcase out of our way.”
Laura gives Morgan a bemused smile, as if to say “your problema , sister, not mine.” Tossing her bag into the back of the Wagoneer, she starts the engine and takes off up the private hard-pack dirt access road that winds through the hilly overgrowth to the highway. After waiting a moment to let the dust settle, she gets out of the car to unlock the security gate, swings it open, then turns and looks down the bluff, at the boat.
The men are lounging on deck, drinking an end-of-the-journey beer. Morgan, apart and alone, stares up at the car. Even from this distance Laura can see the pathetic look on Morgan’s face.
“ Hasta la vista , baby,” Laura sings out gaily. She shuts the gate and slams home the combination lock, twirling the dial and pulling it hard to make sure it’s secure. Then she jumps back into the car and eases onto Highway 101, disappearing in the flow of the traffic as she heads south towards the Queen Mission city.
“Okay, everybody who’s done this before, I want you on this side, the rest of you, over here with me.”
They are in what used to be, seventy-five years ago, the gymnasium of an exclusive all-girls high school, decades defunct now. Located in the center of town (a block from the bus station, making it especially convenient to seniors), the county appropriated it by eminent domain a couple of decades ago and brought it up to speed, serving now as a multicultural center for a multitude of gatherings: “The New Woman: Empowering Her Liberty Through Non-Competitive Sexuality”; Craft Gatherings: “Pottery for Seniors”; and this evening’s dance class,
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