The Touch of a Woman (16 page)

“Mom says you work for the state. What do you do?” Jonathan asked.

“I’m a program analyst for homeless services. I keep track of whether or not programs are delivering resources according to the specifications of their grant. Not a money auditor. More like a hall monitor on the lookout for waste and malfeasance.”

“Don’t take this personally, but…how many layers of bureaucracy does the state need to run a soup kitchen?”

“A fair question.” And though he’d asked her not to take it personally, it was hard not to notice it was a challenge to her usefulness as a bureaucrat. “Only three, I’d say, because it’s never a good idea to consolidate too much authority. We have checks and balances, which I believe are necessary when you’re spending the people’s money. The service figures come to my office. Things like the number of meals, the number of individuals served, the number of paid workers versus volunteers, the ones who are working off a community service commitment because they got in trouble with the court. Then I do an evaluation and send it over to the audit department, where they—”

“And everything has to be done a certain way according to your state checklist. Not one deviation. No opportunities for innovation or efficiencies. It just seems like something the market could manage better,” he said smugly.

Straining to keep the sharpness from her voice, she replied, “Oh, I’d love to see the market tackle the homeless problem. Unfortunately, Wall Street isn’t interested in feeding people who can’t pay. Or in building them homes. That’s why caring for them falls to the state. We pay plenty of private contractors to do that, but we can’t just write them a check and walk away. That would be irresponsible.” Summer glanced nervously at the others, hoping she wasn’t breaking a house rule by challenging Jonathan’s views. Politics and mealtime weren’t always the best companions, particularly when she was a guest in someone else’s home.

“Yeah, Jon,” Jeremy said. “What’s the market plan for that?”

“A freer market would open up more opportunities so people wouldn’t be losing their jobs and homes in the first place. If you don’t have homeless people, you don’t have homeless problems.”

His tone wasn’t confrontational, but there was an air of uninformed arrogance that got under her skin. Still, it wasn’t her place to call bullshit. The siblings could do that.

“Do you plan on hiring schizophrenic panhandlers off the street when you open up your new law office?” Jeremy asked.

“Look, I know there are some people out there who legitimately need help. But even in a city like San Francisco, that should be in the dozens, not thousands. People aren’t going to take responsibility for themselves if they know the state will.”

“They didn’t choose to end up there, you know. Not everybody had the chance to go to Stanford,” Jeremy said.

Allison stood and high-fived her brother across the table.

“Not everybody, but you certainly did,” Jonathan said, his voice dripping with disdain. “Both of you. It’s not my fault you didn’t have the grades to get in.”

Jeremy rolled his eyes. “Nor the desire.”

“No, I didn’t have the grades,” Allison shot back. “In case you forgot, I got accepted there too, but they rescinded it because my father murdered seven people during my senior year and my grades went into the toilet. Not that it would’ve made any difference. You got all the big money for college, so Jeremy and I ended up at Cal-Davis. Other than that, yeah, we had exactly the same opportunity as you.”

“Stop it, please.” Ellis sighed heavily and buried her face in her hands. “Can we talk about something a little more festive?”

Summer exchanged an anxious glance with Bruno. Clearly he was as uncomfortable as she, though he didn’t have to feel guilty for escalating the conflict. She carved a piece of beef tenderloin and waved it with her fork. “This is delicious, Ellis.”

“Thank you. My boys don’t agree on everything, but I can never go wrong with bacon.”

A barely audible snort from Allison registered her protest.

Coming here had been a mistake, Summer decided. She had no business horning in on a family holiday. Never mind that Ellis had practically insisted. No one wanted their dirty laundry wrung out in front of a virtual stranger.

The conversation abruptly shifted to the topic of Sacramento, and even Jonathan admitted he might end up living in the capital someday if he opted for a political career. Funny he didn’t seem to connect the fact that politics was the ultimate bureaucratic job.

“Don’t take offense,” Ellis said, directing that to Summer, “but what I miss most is the culture. The theater, the ballet, the museums.”

“We have those things too. But you’re right, not as much.” Sacramento wasn’t exactly a stop on the Bolshoi tour, and the Crocker Museum couldn’t compete for the same prestigious collections on exhibit at the San Francisco Museum of Modern Art. But anyone looking for fine art could find it. Besides, the City was an easy day trip.

“I like it here,” Jeremy said. “And I like having Mom here too. It’s safer, cheaper, quieter. The City’s great, but I didn’t like Mom being there by herself.”

“I’ll drink to that,” Jonathan said, raising his glass of iced tea.

While the family exchanged gifts after dinner, Summer busied herself with the dishes, glad to be free of the tension.

“Hey, here’s one for the jailbird,” Allison shouted from the living room, holding up what looked like a shirt box.

Summer sought out Ellis, who was on the couch whistling innocently. “I thought we agreed no gifts.”

“It’s not a big deal. I saw it and thought of you.”

Summer slid her finger through the tape and neatly straightened the folds in the wrapping paper.

“Just rip it!” Allison shouted.

It was a heather gray T-shirt emblazoned with the words,
Friends Don’t Let Friends Watch Fox News
. “I love it. I’m going to wear it to work out, and I’ll try to get there five minutes before Gene Steele and hide the remote.”

Jonathan was the only one who didn’t seem to find the gag gift funny. On the contrary, he was visibly agitated, and within moments, announced he needed to leave.

Summer took the opportunity to slip out as well, still wishing she’d taken a pass on the whole day. It was three thirty. Queenie and Sam’s house party kicked off at four. She hadn’t formally RSVP’d, but their invitation had been insistent.

After three hours with the Rowanbury siblings, even Rita looked manageable.

* * *

A rainbow flag hung from a pole above the porch at the modest ranch house in the area known as Arden-Arcade. It was a middle-class neighborhood with well-kept lawns and mature trees, the same one where Summer and Rita had lived for twelve of their tumultuous years.

“Look who it is!” Queenie met her on the front porch with a hug that nearly cracked her spine. The woman didn’t know her strength. “I’m glad you decided to come. And I hope you’re starving. Sam made enough lasagna to feed the whole neighborhood.”

Summer wasn’t hungry at all, but she’d make room for Sam’s lasagna. “Are you kidding? I could smell it when I turned the corner.”

The living room was packed with familiar faces. Courtney, Norma, Vicki, plus a few she hadn’t seen lately because they didn’t come to the potlucks. All were watching basketball, the Sacramento Kings taking on the Lakers. Couples mostly, but a handful of straggling singles like herself. Summer greeted them all, though one face was missing, and she gave Queenie a tentative look.

“In the kitchen with Sam…drinking club soda, as a matter of fact.”

She was glad to hear it, though she couldn’t quite suss out Queenie’s implications. After their talk the other day, she was hopeful they’d given up on their efforts to push her back to Rita. It was beyond her why their friends had been so eager to see them back together given the stormy nature of their relationship.

With a deep breath, she continued to the back of the house to find Rita bent over a magazine at the kitchen table. She wore tan slacks and a dark green cowl-neck sweater with oversized hoop earrings. It was far dressier than what the others wore, and she’d even tamed her wild red hair.

“Something smells awfully good back here.”

“Summer!” Sam was carving a tray of pasta. She dropped her spatula and opened her arms for a hug. “Merry Christmas.”

“Same to you.” She turned to Rita, who was on her feet, clearly in hopes of getting the same greeting. The moment they embraced, Sam dashed out of the room, no doubt to give them space Summer didn’t want.

“I was worried you wouldn’t come,” Rita said solemnly.

“What you said at Muntean’s about us being friends…I’ve been thinking about what that would look like.” She dropped her arms and took a step backward. “For sure it means we ought to be able to hang out with our friends without dragging them into any more drama. We can do that, right?”

Rita passed the first test simply by not getting defensive. “I’m still not drinking.”

Summer nodded her affirmation, careful not to show too much gusto. She couldn’t let her approval be the pot of gold at the end of Rita’s rainbow.

“And I stopped by your house again the other night—sober. I just wanted to tell you that I heard you loud and clear. No more laying it all on you.”

She couldn’t let on that she’d seen her.

“I talked to the kids this morning,” Rita said. “They all said to tell you Merry Christmas.”

The “kids,” now grown and starting families of their own, belonged to Rita’s older sister. One of Summer’s favorite memories was gathering at the Finnegan home on Christmas Day to watch them open presents. “Hi back to all of them.”

“You can still see them, you know. They know we’re split up, but I told them it wouldn’t bother me if they called you or whatever.”

That brought a smile…because Summer had seen them several times already. “I ran into Cheri a couple of weeks ago at the mall. She had the baby with her. What a sweetie.”

So far it was the best conversation she’d had with Rita since well before they sold the house. If they could get through the day without a melodramatic scene, they just might be able to make a friendship work.

“Summer, I owe you an apology…a real one.” Her chin quivered slightly. “I’ve made it my New Year’s resolution to stop being such a pain in the ass. I hope you mean that about us being friends.”

“Sure.” She hated sounding so brusque, but there was danger in showing Rita too much approval. “I appreciate you saying that. I’m sorry for all the ways I’ve hurt you. It would be nice to feel like that’s behind us.”

Sam returned to the kitchen and her lasagna, breaking the tension and giving Summer a window to leave.

Back in the living room, she squeezed between Queenie and their friend Toni, a capitol police officer originally from LA, and the only one in the room pulling for the Lakers. The camaraderie was palpable, a stark divergence from the family tension in Ellis’s apartment. This was where Summer felt most at home—surrounded by women she’d known for years. People she understood innately because of their shared experience as lesbians. Friends who’d seen her and Rita through dark times.

Ellis Keene would probably never be comfortable in a room like this. She hadn’t grown up feeling out of place, hadn’t been the target of venomous insults, hadn’t been denied the basic rights most people took for granted. At heart, she was a San Francisco socialite, the liberal version of a Stepford Wife. No matter how easily she’d handled Summer’s overt flirtations, she couldn’t possibly feel a kinship with these women.

Would she rather hang out with her friends, or with Ellis’s squabbling kids? No contest.

“I thought I was going to lose my mind.” Ellis had been ranting to Summer all the way to Modesto about what a slob her daughter was. Their week together in the tight quarters of the River Woods apartment had driven both of them to the brink.

“At least it’s over with. You can send her to Cancun for spring break.”

“I wish.” She grew increasingly nervous as they neared the fairgrounds. “Do I really want to do this?”

“Turnabout is fair play. I met your family. Now you have to meet mine.” Summer wore the same outfit she’d had on the night they first met—jeans and a white shirt with . The only difference was that her wire-rimmed glasses had darkened in the sun.

Ellis made note of the parking row in the large field adjacent to the exhibit hall, an open warehouse with a concrete floor. She’d never been to a fairgrounds in her life, not even this one in her home town.

“I have to warn you, my mom is kind of trippy.”

“What does that even mean? Is she going to feed me brownies with pot?”

“Nah, they don’t grow that anymore.” Summer grinned. “But they can probably tell us where to get some if you’re interested.”

“Whose trippy now?” She actually was eager to meet a couple of old-time hippies. Her journalistic nose smelled an interesting backstory, one she’d probably never have the chance to write in Sacramento. Perhaps Gil would be willing to run it in the San Francisco magazine for some extra cash.

Summer paid their cover charge of five dollars each and they strolled down the first line of booths. Neon art, healing magnets, CDs that played dripping water and harps.

Looking ahead, Ellis spotted an older couple she knew instantly to be the Winslows. The gentleman was tall and lanky, dressed in khaki work pants and a blue flannel shirt. In other attire, he might have passed as a college professor with his wavy salt and pepper hair and dark eyes. His wife was the picture of what Summer might look like in twenty years, with the same stone gray eyes and fair skin. Her long white hair was tied in a single thick braid that hung to the middle of her back. She wore jeans and what appeared to be a hand-knit sweater and scarf.

Her suspicions were confirmed when Summer quickened her pace to greet them with a hug.

“Mama and Daddy, I want you to meet a friend of mine. Not a girlfriend though, so you don’t have to give her the third degree,” she added swiftly. “This is Ellis Keene. She lives in the building next door to me, and she hates Fox News as much as we do.”

“Then she’s good enough for us,” the man boomed, extending his hand. “Rupert Winslow, and this is my wife Rosemary.”