Where the Heart Lives, page 11
She walked the short distance to the Whale’s Belly Deli to pick up the sandwiches she’d ordered: a meatball hero for Kevin, a ham-and-fried-egg for herself. Carrying the fragrant paper bag, she walked back to Sawyer Construction, where her Doc Martens pounded like hammers on the wooden steps.
When she pushed open the door and strode in, she saw Kevin standing at a big table, poring over huge sheets of paper. He looked up with surprise at seeing her. “Hi, Su … Susan.”
She strutted over to him, punctuating the beats of her shoes by swaying her hips side to side. “Hey, Kevin.” She tried to sound casual. “What’s going on?”
“Not too much,” he answered.
“So, are you busy?”
“Got lots of paper work.”
“You’re not busy for lunch, right?” she asked, sliding off the straps of her backpack and thrusting a hand in to retrieve her paper bag. “You gotta eat some time, Kevin. Might as well be now. Might as well be free.”
Susan placed the backpack and their food over on Kevin’s desk where they could sit together, and sauntered toward the kitchen corner. “Got any sodas in here?” Not waiting for his answer, she opened the office mini-fridge, ignored the muck growing around its edges and rummaged inside. She pulled out two generic sodas, made a face at them, shrugged her shoulders, and headed back to Kevin.
Susan eyed a nearby chair, disregarded it, and settled sideways on Kevin’s desk. As she did, she watched him fold his long body into his chair. When she’d opened the cans, she yanked at her tiny skirt and handed Kevin his sandwich, then ripped the paper on her own to take a bite.
Kevin Ransom glanced first toward the excellent view of Susan’s bared leg, then toward the long, fat sub in its wrapper. As he tried to decide which seemed more enticing, his stomach rumbled and he unwrapped the waxy paper, inhaling the fantastic aroma of the homemade meatballs with their thick tomato sauce.
“Yum!” he cried, hefting the crusty French bread with its seasoned filling. He closed his eyes and opened his mouth wide for a first bite, then chewed blissfully for a long moment.
“How is it?” she asked.
“Mmph oog,” he said, his voice muffled.
Susan smiled, took a bite, then guzzled some of her soda.
When Kevin’s mouth was finally empty, he asked, “What’s the occasion?”
“Doing you a favor.”
Oh, boy. That’s what I was afraid of. “Oh, yeah?”
“Yeah. So how about doing me one in return?”
This was the part Kevin dreaded. “Sure,” he said after he swallowed some of his drink. “If I can.”
“Okay. I need a ride to the Bowl. And a ride home. And I need you to wait, like, after the show.” Susan took another bite of her sandwich.
“The Central Coast Bowl?” He tried to calculate whether or not his truck would make it that far. “Uh, when?”
“Saturday night. Big concert.” Susan reached into her back pack.
“Wait, that’s when …”
“Got free passes.” She waved them in front of his face.
Kevin opened his eyes wide. “No way,” he said. “It’s the Doobies!”
“Like ’em, huh?” Susan’s mouth pulled to one side in a crooked grin.
“They’re terrific! Wow. How did you …”
“I’m doing a story for the Milford-Haven News. Gotta see the concert. Gotta go backstage and interview them too. Thought you might like to go with me.” Susan slid off the desk, wrapped the second half of her sandwich, and began picking up the lunch debris.
As he chomped his last bite, he stared at the colorful concert passes, then said again, “Wow.”
“That’s the second time you’ve said that, Kevin. Guess that means yes.” She went to the garbage container and dropped in the trash.
“Yeah, sure,” he said, wiping his mouth and standing. “I have to check the truck, make sure it’ll get us there.”
“It better,” she said, returning to the desk. Now that he was standing, she had to look up at him, and she did so through long black lashes.
Kevin towered over her, his hands thrust as deep into his jeans pockets as they’d go. She’s so pretty. Wish I could hold her. Don’t know if she’d let me. He couldn’t help but stare at the side of her nose. “Does that hurt?”
Susan touched the edge of her nostril. “The nose ring? Not much. Like it?”
“I’m not sure.”
Susan laughed, and took a step closer to him. A spicy cologne lifted off her skin and tickled his sinuses. “You should bring a blanket,” he said.
“Really?” Her eyes flashed. “Why would I do that?”
“Don’t have any heat in the truck.”
“Oh. Then you can keep me warm. And besides, Kevin, we can have a nice, long talk while we drive over to the Central Coast Bowl.” She turned and slid into the shoulder straps of her pack. “Gotta get back to work.”
Susan beat a percussive path to the door of Sawyer Construction. She turned to look at him once more. “Later!”
Kevin watched the door slam shut after her. “Wow,” he said softly to the empty room.
Chapter 7
Zackery Calvin parked his gunmetal-gray Mercedes 500 SL in the shade of a spreading sycamore in the Santa Barbara Library parking lot. He wished he could’ve spent the afternoon at home. Instead, after his workout he’d showered at his cottage, zipped into his casual-wear Puma Indie Blue track suit, and chosen the library as a likely spot to find some badly-needed peace and quiet.
This morning he’d asked the Calvin Oil secretary to forward any urgent faxes directly to his cottage, and he’d caught up on his business reading. Then he’d spent ninety minutes in the estate’s gym to use the treadmill and weights. From Calma, he’d driven to Starbucks for a bottle of their new Frappuccino beverage, and concealed the unopened drink in his briefcase before making his way inside the library to stop at the reference desk.
The librarian had been very helpful when he asked for environmental references … perhaps too helpful, given the heft of the stack of books he now carried. Finding a remote carrel, he plunked the books on the desk and settled himself.
It’d seemed like such a good idea to read up on environmental matters in preparation for Calvin Oil’s upcoming meeting with the Coastal Commission representative. Now he just felt overwhelmed.
He reviewed the selections recommended by the librarian: Rachel Carson’s Silent Spring; Alston Chase’s Playing God In Yellowstone; Aldo Leopold’s Sand County Almanac. According to the dust jackets, each offered horrendous stories of sullying the planet and decimating now-endangered species. Wonder if any of them offer some hope of redemption. He looked at the computer print-out he’d requested. “Oil Spills: California.” The list went on and on. No redemption for an oil man like me … unless I start a company campaign to contribute to some local ecological charity … that’s a thought.
He pulled out his Frappuccino for a sip. Not only do I feel like a reprobate. I feel like a refugee, hiding out from the onslaught at home. The whole estate had been taken over by a crew of strangers. At eight a.m., they’d started hammering at tent stakes; at ten, they’d banged open hundreds of folding tables and chairs. It’s anything but “Calma” today! By now, the place will be unrecognizable … all for the sake of my so-called birthday party.
Actually, he’d celebrated his birthday last evening—on the actual day. James, the family butler, prepared a delicious meal; Dad gave him the garage-hoist for his car’s hard top—something he’d been wanting. And Cynthia presented him with nice Cartier cufflinks, then later … well, she offered her considerable charms in his bed late last night.
She’d left for the main house early this morning to supervise preparations—whatever that might entail. Tonight’s party was actually a holiday fund-raiser. For some reason, Dad’s agreed to have the event at Calma. Must’ve been Cynthia’s idea, even though she’s not in charge of the charity. I remember that she started out working with the Fine Arts Museum, but then there was some snafu with two charities having their big events on the same night. When the committee realized 1996 was named International Year for the Eradication of Poverty, they switched to Unify, a local charity for low-income residents, which is all to the good. She does seem very excited about it—except for being spooked about the date.
Friday the thirteenth. She mentioned it over and over again. Dad thinks the superstition is the silliest thing he’s ever heard. But I’m not so sure. I do have an odd feeling about the whole event. Why? Guilt.
There it was, rearing its head again … a lingering discomfort about Cynthia. Mostly, he enjoyed their time together and had been seeing her on and off for two years. They did well at parties and on the few trips they’d taken. And why shouldn’t I date her? Flashy. Beautiful. Fun. Sexy. Even now, he could feel the heat that radiated from this connection of theirs. Do we ever really talk? Or is it mostly about the sex? He never seemed to be able to answer that question.
Maybe that was why he continued to flirt with the idea of contacting Miranda Jones again. He’d meant to call her right after they met last October. Finding that painting of hers when I drove up the coast … then meeting her in person … hiking across that cove. Heady stuff. I even told her I wanted her to do a special painting for me. Then I never got back to her … didn’t follow up with her rep, as she requested. Jesus, she must think I’m an asshole. I’ve gotta make it up to her. How?
Then it came to him. Why not invite her to the Doobies concert? He considered the notion. No idea if she likes their music … but I could arrange something special, like a backstage pass….
For the last six months, Zack had been helping out with a different fund raiser: a Doobie Brothers reunion concert that would benefit Vietnam veterans. Calvin Oil always contributed to a certain number of charities each year, something he and his dad usually discussed. But he’d never told his father about this one. Guess I wanted to see how the project developed—not to mention how I felt about working with Rune Sierra. Then, as the date got closer, I felt odd I hadn’t mentioned it to Dad. Anyway, not his kinda thing.
Last year, on a flight to New York, Zack had found himself sitting next to a musician in the First Class cabin. Keith Knudsen, one of the Doobies’ percussionists, mentioned his favorite charity, the National Veterans Foundation, and his goal to put together a benefit concert for them. Next thing Zack knew, he’d agreed to help out, though he could hardly imagine what that would involve.
Mostly he’d made phone calls over the past few months, using his contacts to sell blocks of tickets to other corporate sponsors. It’s been fun … gave me a different perspective. And going forward, I should generate my own list for Calvin Oil’s contributions to worthy causes.
He’d considered inviting Cynthia to the concert, but she’d made it clear any number of times that she couldn’t stand rock-and-roll music. Had he been working with James Taylor or Stephen Stills, she’d have accepted in a heartbeat. But raucous guitars and men with long hair didn’t seem to ring Cynthia’s bell. On the other hand, Miranda might really enjoy them. And it’d be a helluva way to get back in her good graces.
He peered around the edge of his carrel. I’m as far away as I could get from the librarian … and no one else seems to be here at the moment. Guess I can use my cellular. He pulled his Motorola Star-TAC clamshell phone from his pocket then fished in his briefcase pocket for the slip of paper with Miranda’s phone number. If I don’t call her now I never will.
He pressed Send and listened to the first ring, startled when she picked up before the second.
“Hello?”
“Miranda? You answered!”
“Sorry, who is this?”
“Zack Calvin.” Silence filled the airwaves for a long moment.
“Oh, hi, Zack,” she finally said.
“I owe you an apology.”
“You don’t owe me a thing, Zack. How have you been?”
She sounds distracted … or disinterested. Serves me right. “Fine. Busy. But I’m not offering that as an excuse. I just hope you can forgive my not calling sooner.”
“Nothing to forgive,” she asserted. “What can I do for you?”
“You’re painting, aren’t you? I’ve probably interrupted you.”
“Uh, I am sort of in the middle of something.”
“Okay, I have a question. I’ll be up in your neck of the woods next week, and wondered if you might have some time?”
“Depends what day. I’ll be out of town till next weekend.”
Out of town … hadn’t counted on that. “Well, if you’re back home next weekend, how’d you like to go to a concert?”
“Oh, gosh, that’s very nice of you. I thought you wanted to discuss your commission. But I don’t think I can spare the time for a concert.”
Shoot! I still haven’t mentioned her painting! Should have said something about that first. “I apologize again, Miranda. I meant to follow up and contact your rep. It’s just been … well, I’ve been working on this concert, among other things.”
“Working on … you mean, you’re performing?”
“No! No, not me. But some guys I know, or have come to know, because of this project. They’ll be at the Central Coast Bowl.”
“You don’t mean….”
Zack heard suppressed excitement in her tone.
“The Bowl? Well, of course, there’s the Doobies reunion concert, but I heard the tickets are sold out, so it can’t be them.”
“Maybe it can.”
“Now you’re teasing.”
“Nope.”
“So that’s what you do! You were so mysterious when we had dinner. At last, the man of mystery begins to reveal something of himself.”
Zack felt a nervous laugh bubble up. “I don’t know about that. What do you say? Do you want to go?”
“Yes!” Miranda seemed to collect herself before adding, “I love their music. Just hope I’m back from L.A. in time.”
“L.A.? That’s where you’ll be next week?”
“Right. Actually, I leave tomorrow morning.”
“The Doobies are doing a show at the Hollywood Bowl, if you’d rather see that one.”
“Which night?” she asked.
“Friday.”
“No … that’s the day I’m driving back to Milford-Haven.”
“Okay, so here’s another idea. Would you like to come to a rehearsal in L.A.?”
“Really?”
Zack grinned at the almost childlike delight in her voice.
“They have one scheduled at the Bowl—the Hollywood—Wednesday afternoon.”
“Okay, let me just check my schedule.” He heard the phone hit something—probably the countertop in her kitchen. A moment later, her slightly breathless voice said, “Perfect. That’s the one day I didn’t have another field trip.”
Field trip? Wonder what that means, exactly. Maybe she’ll explain when I see her. “Okay, so here’s the plan. Come to the Hollywood Bowl at about two p.m. this coming Wednesday the seventeenth. Tell the guards at the gate that you’re with me and they’ll let you through to the parking lot. Once you park, walk up the concrete ramp toward the auditorium. If I don’t come get you right away, ask for Jeff and he’ll find me.”
Zack heard scribbling. “Just making some notes,” Miranda explained. “Okay, got it.”
“Sorry I won’t be able to pick you up on Wednesday. Know your way around Los Angeles?”
“No. But I have my trusty Thomas Guide.”
Zack chuckled. “Yeah, that’s the bible for that city. And then on Saturday, I will give you a ride from your place. I’ll have to pick you up early like, say, at three p.m., and you’ll have to wait backstage, if you don’t mind.”
“Mind? Being backstage with the Doobies? I think I can handle that.”
He laughed. “Okay, I’ll see you next Wednesday in L.A. Bring your earplugs. It can get really loud near those speakers.”
“I’ll be ready.”
Wonder if she’s staying with somebody? “Do you have a number where you’ll be staying in L.A., in case I need to leave you a message, or something?”
“I don’t have the number right here, but I’ll be at a hotel called the Hacienda. It’s near LAX in an area called El Segundo.”
El Segundo … AKA Chevron-town. Why in the world would an environmentalist like her being staying there? Wonder if she knows who runs things there. “Uh … okay. And by the way, I’ll be at the Hollywood Roosevelt, near the Bowl, if you need to leave a message for me.”
“Okay.”
“Well, glad I reached you, and sorry again it took me so long.”
“That’s … yeah, it’s okay. Thanks so much for the invites. Sounds very special.”
“See you soon, Miranda.”
“Bye,” she said quietly before hanging up.
That soft voice … brings it all back. That evening with her at the Lighthouse Tavern … how lovely she is, and how shy. Later, that kiss by her front door … rather chaste … but with a lot of potential.
Joseph Calvin paced the carpeted floor of his office, ignoring the panorama of the Pacific. He’d hoped his fact-finding trip to Chris Christian’s condo with Deputy Johnson would reassure him. Instead, he found it had left him even more agitated.
To make matters worse, Zack had failed to send him the promised agenda for their meeting with the Coastal Commission. Normally, he gives our secretary his dictation and Mary has it typed up a few days ahead of time. But the meeting is set for Monday, and apparently he hasn’t yet sent her anything.
Stopping at his desk, Joseph scanned his agenda book one more time. “I swear if I don’t hear from Zack soon, I’ll—” His muttering was interrupted by the ringing of his private line, and he grabbed it before Mary could.
“Hello?”
“Hi, Dad.”
“Zack, where in blazes are you? I can’t believe you haven’t done your agenda for the Coastal Commission meeting. Why the procrastination?”
