Candy Apple Red. Nancy Bush
I’m sure. Whenever they get a notion in their heads to go boating, they always invite me. I guess they need a referee. Whether I accept or not depends on my own phase of boredom. Luckily, I hadn’t resorted to their company yet this summer.
Foster’s was rocking and rolling as we pulled up. Blue flags fluttered at the top of poles attached to each boat slip. Luckily, we were able to nab a docking space, one made available as a boat was just pulling out. It was a Master Craft with a pole jutting out of the center, constructed for water-skiing and wakeboarding. I can wake-board and water-ski, but it’s so much work I pretty much just don’t do it. Anyway, I just had alcohol on the brain, and food, if I could afford some. If not, just alcohol. I’m pretty sure this is a bad sign, but I didn’t much care.
There were two seats open at the outdoor bar, a curving wooden structure nestled beneath the boughs of an oak tree which was arranged for a perfect view of the water. Dwayne grunted that he was going across the street to Johnny’s Market but I beelined for the chairs. I settled myself down with a sigh of contentment and ran my repertoire of mixed drinks through my head.
Manny, On The Lake’s best bartender, looked over at me.
Even though I’ve done my share of bartending I buckled, turning toward the all-time female standard. “Could I have a glass of Chardonnay?”
“Any particular kind?”
“The cheapest.”
I used to make all kinds of fancy concoctions at Sting Ray’s. Once in a great while I still manage to whip something up. I spent a lot of hours at Sting Ray’s trying to create a drinkable drink that includes blue curacao. Personally, I feel the stuff is damn near toxic but its electric blue shimmer is inviting as hell. My best answer to date: cut its godawful taste with Sprite or Seven-Up or some other lemon-lime soda.
I wasn’t sure whether I cared that Dwayne had left me to my own devices. Two weeks ago I’d been forced to drive over and sit by myself at the bar as, once again, I’d been looking for friends and everyone was busy. It had been one of the few, rare, lovely nights like this one, the kind where it stays warm way past dusk and beyond. I’d actually struck up a conversation with a guy who’d just arrived in Lake Chinook and was surprised by the good weather.
“I thought it rained all the time here,” he said.
I warned ominously, “Don’t let this fool you. Once or twice a year. Maybe three times tops. That’s all the really fabulous weather you can count on. Some years, not even that.”
“Lived here long?” he asked, then proceeded to look me over in a way that made my inner voice go, “Uh-oh.”
“Awhile,” I allowed.
He gazed speculatively over the water. “I’m traveling through, though I’m really thinking about making a move.”
Our small talk dwindled from that point, mainly because I bowed out of the conversation. After a while he went and stood on one of the docks, his back to me. My last vision of him was in silhouette, the flags dancing above him in a quirky little breeze. Now, I glanced automatically to where he’d stood. I wondered idly if he’d made the move from wherever it was he’d come.
Manny brought me my Chardonnay and I managed to down most of it by the time Dwayne reappeared from across the street with a bag which he hefted into the boat. I watched him from my perch, aware that he was debating whether to open up his cache and munch away in the boat, or join me at the bar. While he considered, Manny poured me a second glass and slid it my way without asking.
I said, “I hope you’re trying to get me drunk, and if you are, great. But I warn you, I have limited resources.”
“It’s on the house,” he said.
“And what if Foster finds out?”
“He doesn’t get worked up over a few ‘on the house’ glasses of wine.”
I sent Manny a knowing look. “I bet those specials are supposed to be for the paying customers.”
Manny shrugged and smiled to himself. He wasn’t a serious conversationalist but he looked damn good in Hawaiian shirts and shorts, Foster’s summer employee uniforms.
My cell phone buzzed at that moment. I hate people who get calls in crowded restaurants and then proceed to yak loudly on and on about nothing. But I was curious because this was my second unexpected cell call of the day. Unheard of.
Squinting at the LCD display I saw my mother’s phone number pop into view. I grimaced. I wasn’t sure I was ready for the kind of convoluted conversations that were as much a part of my mother as her Thursday hair appointments. But guilt won out, as it most often does, and I answered cautiously, “Hey, there, Mom.”
“Jane?”
It confuses my mother when I answer already knowing the caller. Mom doesn’t understand caller ID, and I don’t think there’s any power in the universe able to explain it to her in a way that makes sense. Her call was unusual as she generally phones on weekends, claiming to be too busy during the week. I’m almost afraid to ask “doing what?” because the explanation will no doubt be long and involved and never be a true explanation. Most often I’m left struggling to decipher half of what she says, but she never fails to be entertaining.
“Hi, Mom. Yeah, it’s me,” I said.
Once assured she’d called the right number, Mom didn’t waste time on preliminaries. “Your Aunt Eugenie died and left you her dog.”
“What? A dog?” The events with the pit bull and the image of Dobermans flashed across the screen of my mind. “I can’t have a dog, Mom! I’m not around to take care of it. Dogs need—people—don’t they?” I paused. “Who’s Aunt Eugenie?”
“You don’t remember Eugenie? Shirttail relative who lives around Portland…? Well…lived. She’s been sick an awful long time. We started calling kind of regularly after she found out she was sick. It is just still a shock, though.”
My brain felt like it was on stall. I could feel things already spiraling out of control. “But…I can’t have a dog. I don’t want a dog. You didn’t tell her I’d take the thing, did you?”
“Well, yes, I did, as a matter of fact. I knew you’d be happy to help. She’d been worrying so much. You know, I really thought Eugenie would give the dog to her daughter, but they haven’t been close for a long time. Years. What’s that daughter’s name…Diana? No, Donna? Maybe it’s just Dawn. Anyway, she has children and a husband with allergies, I think. Oh, he might be in a nursing home. Not sure…” My mother’s voice wandered off.
“I can’t have a dog,” I reiterated.
“You can have a dog, Jane. You said Mr. Ogilvy allows pets.”
I pulled back the receiver and stared at it. How can my mother draw these obscure factoids out of her brain when she has difficulty remembering the name of the city where I live? And how can she remember Ogilvy’s name? I may have mentioned him once to her, but the owner of my bungalow isn’t generally a hot topic between us.
“Aunt Eugenie has a friend who’ll be bringing it by,” my mother went on. “I gave her your number.”
I seriously doubted whether I ever had a shirttail relative named Eugenie. My mother meets new “best friends” faster than I can blow through a twenty and invariably these new buddies enter my life as well. Leaving it all behind had felt like a side benefit in following Murphy to a new state, but it appeared now that my mother’s incessant friend-gathering had followed me to Portland as well.
“Well, I’m not going to take it. I don’t have room for a dog. I’ll send it to the humane society.”
“You need a dog. You need something around to keep you safe.”
I almost asked “What kind of dog?” but stopped myself at the last second. No good encouraging my mother. “Aunt Eugenie should have made other provisions for