He rose and carried his cup to the sink. "I saw her dance once. She must have been fifty,
but she was graceful as all get out. She came out of retirement for a benefit."
"Pardon me," I said politely, joining him at the sink, "if I have trouble imagining you at a
modern dance concert."
"My wife dragged me to it."
"Your what?"
He edged out of the kitchen. "My wife. I was married for about eight months to a psych
major who was determined to improve my taste and my sanity."
This was news to me. I followed him out of the kitchen like a basset on the scent. "You
were married?"
"About ten or, Jesus, twelve years ago. I was a senior at Northridge, and Linda was
working on her masters. She thought I needed a shrink, and I thought she needed a husband. We
were both wrong."
"Why have you never mentioned this interesting fact?"
"It never came up," he said mildly. "Don't you have skeletons in your closet, Lark? I
seem to remember a pro football player."
"Yeah, but I told you about him. And anyway I didn't marry the jerk. You're so damned
secretive." I grumbled at him, but I was more dumbfounded than angry. We had some
communications gap.
The next morning I sent Llewellyn a note, accepting the invitation for myself and Jay,
and then my bookstore started drawing a respectable number of customers, and I got too busy to
brood. Lydia Huff came by again just to make sure we were coming. That set my teeth on edge,
but the Huffs didn't know Mother so it wasn't collusion. I also ordered a copy of
The
Collected Poems of
E. David Llewellyn
. I figured I'd better read "Siskiyou
Summit."
"I begin to see what the old boy meant by summit." I peered over the shoulder of the
county road and about two hundred feet straight down.
Jay shifted into second and the Blazer rumbled. "We're only twenty-two miles from
downtown Monte."
"As the crow flies." I am not fond of heights. "Let me know when both edges of the road
go up." I shut my eyes.
"Did you bring firecrackers?"
"Dennis would not approve." The fire danger was Extreme, red on the Forest Service's
little pie-wedge scales. They had closed down logging and were discouraging people from
camping in the mountains. Five weeks of ninety degree heat and no rain in sight. It was six-thirty
and stinko hot even at that altitude. Jay had the air-conditioner on for a change. He rarely uses
it.
"You can look now."
I opened one eye. We were tooling along a high, wooded plateau, but a bend ahead
promised more winding.
"So," he said, as if picking up the thread of an argument, "do we tell everybody I'm a
cop, or do we play it cool?"
"For heaven's sake, Jay." I swallowed, and my ears popped. "Bill Huff knows what you
do. He's a journalist."
Jay grimaced. He was not fond of journalists but was usually prepared to tolerate them.
"You have to admit my job tends to create awkward pauses in the conversation."
That was depressing but true. Otherwise mild and law-abiding citizens edge off
muttering about traffic tickets when they find themselves in social contact with a policeman.
My brother, who is a lawyer, says people at parties pump him for free advice, and I've
heard doctors say the same thing, but the only professionals besides cops who evoke the guilt
reaction are English teachers. Or so I've noticed. "Guess I'll have to watch my grammar." It's the
same reaction cops get. There's a big difference, though, between cops and English teachers.
Cops tend to associate only with cops, whereas English teachers have no shame.
I explained English teacher-avoidance and told Jay he could hang out with Winton
D'Angelo when we got to the lodge. Still, I wasn't surprised to hear Jay say he worked for the
county, as Dai Llewellyn, cocktail in hand, began introducing us to the others.
We were the last set of guests to arrive. That afternoon Jay had been buried in
paperwork, and I got nervous about my bookstore, so we weren't on the road until five-thirty.
Everyone else was well-lubricated and anticipating dinner by the time we showed up at the lodge.
We gave our bags over to the chauffeur-houseboy, Miguel, who was indeed young and pretty, as
Ginger had promised.
Llewellyn himself was a handsome, white-haired old gentleman with marvelous waxed
mustachios and a warm voice. I had seen his photo on the jacket of
Collected Poems
, so
I expected the mustache. I didn't expect him to be short.
I am six feet tall. A little over, in fact. My mother, who is five-foot two, didn't mention
her mentor's stature. Maybe it didn't occur to her that he was short. To be accurate, he was
probably five six--not tiny. Still, he had to look up at me, and I could see him blink as he shook
hands. He was too suave or too kind to ask how the weather was up there, and he accepted Jay
with every sign of pleasure. I liked him.
I was surprised to find everyone indoors, because the natural setting was spectacular
even for that spectacular country. We had taken a good look before we knocked at the vast
wooden door.
A rolled lawn starred with daisies embraced the narrow arm of a lake so deep the water
was blue-black. The lowering sun cast a lazy gold light over madrones and Douglas fir, yellow
pine and incense cedar. Low, shiny-leaved clumps of manzanita were pruned back from a path
that led to a gleaming beach and a long narrow wooden boat dock. Two red canoes reposed
upside down on the dock, and I saw a couple of rowboats bobbing on the water. By that time the
lawn was in half shadow, and a dim porch light across the water already showed at the Peltz's
cabin, the only other sign of habitation.
"We dine tonight," Llewellyn said reaching up to guide me across the shadowy lounge
by the elbow. "Tomorrow we picnic." I was, alas, dressed for a picnic and I somehow didn't think
he'd delay the banquet while I changed. I blinked my vision clear and felt the welcome brush of
refrigerated air on my bare arms.
A woman a couple of years younger than I and Angharad Pot, sorry, Peltz, raised languid
glasses to greet me. Angharad was wearing one of those dresses that look like Victorian
underwear. Bill Huff's daughter Janey was a librarian home on vacation, Llewellyn explained. I
said something polite. Lydia was leading Jay clockwise around the huge room.
I stumbled on a throw rug that had to be hand woven Navajo and nearly fell on Denise.
She extended a graceful hand as if she expected me to kiss it. I didn't. Dennis was off fighting a
fire. I wondered if he'd been invited. Ginger hadn't been.
"Let Miguel pour the poor child a drink, Dai, darling. She looks hot."
I do not enjoy being referred to in my presence in the third person. Lark was not hot. She
was embarrassed.
Denise patted the leathery couch she was sitting on, and I had to sink down beside her.
Darn it, basketball players are coordinated, even if they're not graceful. The couch was very, very
deep. I peered out at the others between my jeans-clad knees as my host drifted off to find me a
glass of white wine.
Jay was standing by D'Angelo and a surly bear in bib overalls I took to be Ted Peltz.
D'Angelo was saying something earnest. I met Jay's eyes, and he crossed his. Briefly. I grinned
and decided I'd better listen to what Denise was saying.
"...dancing for my oldest friends to your mother's little tone poems. One of my fondest
memories."
"Uh, how nice."
"Poor Hal did the score."
Hal? Poor Hal--Llewellyn's friend who had been killed in a wreck. "I didn't realize he
was a composer."
Denise's dramatic eyes flashed. "Superb. Of course that dreadful bank kept him busy
most of the time. If he'd been able to devote himself to music he would have rivaled
Schoenberg."
Schoenberg. Atonality. I felt as if I were trying to follow the dialog in a foreign movie
with bad titles.
Denise raised her glass in melancholy salute to the departed Hal and sipped. "My dear,
as you grow older you will find memory a bittersweet gift. All your golden days shadowed by the
fell hand of death."
"Now, Denise." Llewellyn had returned. He handed me a delicate fluteful of good
stuff.
"I know, Dai. I promised." Her voice throbbed. "No more repining."
"Isn't Denise's diction wonderful?" He sat on a straight-backed chair that looked as if it
had come from someone's dining room. "Right out of Swinburne."
La belle
Denise did not look amused. She had very little sense of humor.
"I don't see Bill Huff," I murmured.
The silence continued a beat too long. Then Llewellyn said lightly, "Bill's putting his
paper to bed. A special for the Fourth." He brushed imaginary lint from the sleeve of his natty
blue blazer. "He'll be along after dinner. Tell me about your bookstore, my dear. Lydia says it's
splendid."
"Did I hear my name?" Lydia swarmed up, lacy shawl awhirl. I contrived to rise from my
leathern pit. We shook hands.
"Have you met my sweet step-daughter? Of course you have. You and Janey have so
much in common. She wind-surfs."
I must have looked blank.
"So athletic," Lydia murmured. "I'm sure you'll get along famously."
I had never tried wind-surfing. I said something polite and let Lydia sink into my spot on
the couch. I perched on the arm of the couch between Lydia and Llewellyn, and we talked
bookstore for awhile, Llewellyn listening with cocked head, like a white-plumed egret. He made
several surprisingly practical suggestions, seconded by Lydia, who was, after all, in the business
of selling books, too. Denise sipped at her drink, probably something poisonous like absinthe,
and brooded. I was grateful to Lydia for coming over to us and to Llewellyn for existing. I began
to relax and settle into a discussion of computerized inventory systems.
"A cop? Jesus H. Christ!"
I craned around. Across the room, the bear in bib overalls had turned purple and swollen
several sizes.
D'Angelo made anxious, soothing noises. Jay was looking into his beer.
"I don't give a shit," the bear roared. He stalked toward us. If the floor had been wood
instead of flagstones it would have shuddered. "By God, Dai, it's harassment. If you think you'll
get me off the fucking place by..."
"Ted!" Angharad had risen at his roar, white as her dress.
He shook his head at the sound of her voice like a bear shaking off a fly. "I'm
goddamned if I'll..."
Llewellyn had risen, too. He said coldly, "I have no idea what you're bellowing about,
Ted, or what you've snorted, smoked, or ingested, but if you can't behave like a civilized human
being to my guests, all my guests, you can get out. Now."
The bear raised its paw.
Llewellyn didn't bat an eyelash. "Now." His waxed mustachios bristled.
I had jumped up at the first roar. Now I started to move between Llewellyn and Attila the
Hun. I thought Peltz was going to strike a man fifty years older and a hundred pounds lighter. I
didn't stop to wonder what I could do to prevent him.
Then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw the white flash of a uniform jacket. Miguel had
come up. Reinforcements.
"
Señor
..." He touched Peltz's blue-clad arm.
Peltz jerked away. "Get your fucking hands off me, you greasy little queer."
"Now," Llewellyn said very quietly.
There was a moment of pure stillness. Then Peltz gave an inarticulate, muted roar and
rushed out a pair of French doors that led onto the veranda. They must have been ajar, because I
don't think he would have stopped to unlatch them. One of them slammed against a white metal
table. Glass tinkled on the flagstone porch.
"Such a...stirring young man," Denise breathed.
Llewellyn was icily outraged. "I beg your pardon, my dear."
I gave a sickly smile.
He made his way across the flagstones to Jay and D'Angelo. "And yours, Dodge. What
set him off?"
Jay took a swallow of his beer.
"I happened to mention that Dodge worked for the sheriff's office," D'Angelo said in the
injured tones of one who has made a social gaffe and is trying to evade responsibility. "And Ted
just blew."
I looked over at Angharad. Her color had come back--in fact, she was flushed--but she
made no attempt to defend her husband, or apologize for him. Beside her Janey Huff sat straight
up, looking indignant.
"Please,
patron
..."
Llewellyn turned. "What is it, Miguel?"
"Domingo says the dinner is ready."
"Ah. Well, we can't keep Domingo waiting. Let's not allow this little contretemps to
delay our meal. Domingo makes a superb gazpacho." Llewellyn began describing the menu,
drawing it out like a
Gourmet
columnist, and, with Lydia's and Miguel's help, herding us
in the direction of the dining room. The tension in the air eased but didn't disappear.
As we seated ourselves around the huge mission-style table, I noticed two things.
Someone--Miguel?--had already removed Ted Peltz's place setting; there was an empty space on
the host's left. And Dai Llewellyn was trembling. The trembling was very slight, but my place
was at his right hand. When he had tasted and approved the wine, I saw him fumble something
from an old-fashioned silver pillbox. He took the pill with a sip of wine.
Miguel served the wine, a pleasant chardonnay, with silent efficiency, Lydia chattered
about the upcoming Frankfort bookfair she was about to fly to, D'Angelo responded, and Janey
began telling Jay, across the table, about wind-surfing. Thank God for Miguel and the female
Huffs. As the spoons clinked in the soup bowls and the conversation grew general I could almost
feel Llewellyn relax beside me.
Jay was telling Denise that he'd seen her dance. When she had ransacked her memory
and recalled the entire program of dances in order, she wrung him dry of flattery. Jay is not
without aplomb, but I could see he was groping after synonyms for graceful. The woman was
insatiably vain--or insecure.