A Letter for Annie. Laura Abbot
Clouds gathering in the west obscured the weak April sun, so Kyle tucked his sunglasses in the pocket of his denim work shirt. “Wanna come see Rita?” The dog perked up his ears and eyed Kyle expectantly. Kyle climbed out of the truck. “C’mon, then.”
This was their evening ritual. Bubba wouldn’t leave the cab until Kyle invited him. And every evening, Rita, the plump, friendly receptionist, had a doggie treat waiting in the office.
When they entered, Rita looked up from her computer. “Hey, handsome, who’s your friend?” She winked at Kyle, as she always did. Bubba sat beside her desk, his tail wagging. “Have you been a good boy today?” The dog lifted one leg and pawed the floor, a trick she had taught him. “Okay, Bubba. Here you are.” She pulled a box of dog biscuits from her drawer and gave him one. He mouthed it and scurried off to a corner to enjoy the morsel.
“You’re spoiling him.”
“Nonsense. He just needs some good mommy-loving.” She raised an eyebrow. “Something he sure can’t get from you.”
Kyle laughed. “Jeez, I hope not. We’re manly bachelors.”
“Don’t you think it’s time you found a better bed partner than a hairy beast?”
“Meddling again?”
“Somebody needs to, you big blockhead.”
“I suppose you’ve got somebody in mind?” The minute the words left his mouth, he wished them unsaid.
Rita nodded imperceptibly toward the office area behind the glass divider at her back.
Kyle followed her gaze, then shifted awkwardly from one foot to the other. Rosemary. It figured. “Wouldn’t that be a cliché? Dating the boss’s daughter?”
Rita tapped a pen impatiently. “Nonsense. You know darn well you’re practically like one of the family already. You could at least try to make it official.”
Kyle sighed. He’d had this conversation more than once and usually offered a litany of excuses. Rosemary was younger. He couldn’t date the bratty little sister of his best friend. He might be accused of currying favor with the boss. She was a nice girl, but nice girls weren’t his type. None of it had deterred Rita.
Nor Rosemary, who continued to flirt and look at him with hope. Rosemary, who had Pete’s eyes. In a way, Kyle wished he could be attracted to her. Rita was right about one thing. It did get damn lonely in that mobile home of his. And he was sick to death of his own cooking. Even so, he was better off not encouraging Rosemary. He needed to keep his relationships with the Nemecs on as businesslike a basis as possible, to know he’d earned every responsibility Bruce Nemec had given him.
“Here.” He thrust his notes into Rita’s hands. “Can you write up the bid for the Brady place and mail it to them?”
“Sure.” Rita tucked the paper into a folder and stood. “Got big plans for tonight? After all, it’s Friday.”
“I figure I’ll treat myself to an evening at the Yacht Club,” he said, referring to a local bar near the fishing pier.
“That’ll be a novelty. Do you ever go anyplace else?”
“Nah, why change my routine?”
Rita picked up her sweater from the back of her chair and shrugged into it. “You’re impossible.”
“That’s why you love me, right?” He threw Rita a roguish grin. “See you Monday.” Then he called Bubba and they headed for the truck.
On the way home, Kyle drove slowly, pondering Rita’s comments. The rut he was in, though comfortable, was also paralyzing. Bruce had made no secret of the fact he was grooming Kyle to take over Nemec Construction someday. Putting him in charge of their home repair and remodeling division, AAA Builders, was a tacit step toward that end. But the company should have been Pete’s. Damned if Kyle would worm his way further into the family by marrying Rosemary. Besides, she deserved more than he could give.
He didn’t want to think about any of this. Especially not about Pete. Remembering was too painful. More than anything, he missed the friendship they’d shared ever since they were happy-go-lucky kids riding their bikes all over Eden Bay.
But that was then. Kyle was far from happy-go-lucky now. He survived one day at a time. Nose to the grindstone. Minding his own business. Expecting nothing.
A fog rolling in from the ocean forced him to concentrate on driving. Beside him, Bubba licked his chops, then pressed his nose to the passenger-window glass.
A man and his dog. It was enough.
THE MORNING AFTER her arrival Annie stood at the window facing the sea, watching rivulets of water smear the panes. The rain had started late last night shortly after she’d moved all her belongings to this upstairs front bedroom, the one that had always been Geneva’s. Now, because of her weakened condition, Auntie G. stayed in the downstairs bedroom. The damp Pacific coast was a far cry from the dry desert air. No welcoming sun greeted Annie here. But what had she expected? In memory, she’d always pictured Eden Bay through a scrim of gray mist.
Pulling the oversize plaid flannel shirt closer around her, she turned to study the room. Although most of her aunt’s belongings had been moved, the double bed with the inlaid wood headboard and its matching dresser were still here, as were several of Geneva’s oil paintings, including the one Annie had always liked best—a rocky beach scene with white-tipped, emerald waves crashing against the shore.
A wide, six-foot-long table stood against the north wall. Annie didn’t know where it had come from, but Geneva’s thoughtfulness of providing a worktable made Annie feel at home in a way little else could have.
Moving to the first box, she unpacked multicolored scraps of upholstery material and stacked them beneath the table. In a second carton she located shears, scissors, spools of thread, braiding and her large button box. She arranged these items neatly on the left, then pulled a piece of cranberry floral material from the fabric pile and spread it across the surface, visualizing the exact way she wanted to cut it to transform it into a satin-lined tote. For the first time since Carmen’s call, she felt the coils of tension ease.
Keeping busy was the answer. Between caring for Geneva and burying herself in work, there would be no time to think, to remember.
At the sound of a light tap on the door, she said, “Come in.”
Carmen waited with a tray. “Breakfast, Annie? Your tia, she is still sleeping.”
With the first whiff of blueberry scones and coffee, Annie realized she was ravenous. “Thank you, Carmen.” She moved across the room and took the tray. “But I don’t need to be waited on.”
“Maybe just for today.” In the woman’s eyes, Annie read understanding.
Annie set down the tray. “Will you call me when Geneva is awake?”
“Sí. Your visit, it is bringing her joy.”
“What have her doctors said?”
Carmen shook her head. “Better to ask her. It is not for me to tell.”
“I need the truth.”
“She is strong. She is not afraid of that truth.” Carmen nodded at the tray. “If you want more, come to the kitchen.”
“Thank you.” Annie closed the door behind Carmen, then sat with her breakfast in a chintz-covered armchair. The scone was buttery and delicious and the coffee strong and hot. Neither, however, filled the empty place within her.
LATER THAT MORNING when Annie entered the living room, Geneva looked up and smiled. “Good morning, petunia.” She gestured toward the bay window. “Nice day for ducks.”
“Typical Oregon.” Taking the chair across from her aunt’s, she noticed that Geneva was wearing a colorful Moroccan-style caftan. “How are you? Did you eat your breakfast?”