“You put us through such hell.”
“I was pretty much of a creep there for a while. But now is what counts. The present. I’m not so bad now, am I?”
“Oh, honey,” she said, sobbing. “I love you.” She pulled Leigh’s head down and kissed her. Leigh stayed at her side while she took out Kleenex and wiped her eyes and nose. Her mascara was smeared, making her look a little weird, somehow reminding Leigh of Bette Davis in
“It’s Nelson’s specialty,” Leigh said. Hadn’t they been through this before? She didn’t mind. “You two really should come to the Bayview more often,” she said, returning to the sofa and picking up her wine.
“We don’t like to take advantage,” Dad said, looking vastly relieved. His eyes were red. He, too, must have been weeping.
“You’re not taking enough advantage,” Leigh told him.
“You’d see us there more often if you’d let us pay for our meals occasionally.”
“If that’s what it takes,” she said.
Some of the tension remained, and they soon got up to leave.
“I wish we could stick around till Deana gets back,” Dad said, “but that might be a while, and I’ve got eighteen holes waiting for me in the morning.”
They walked toward the door.
“Why don’t you and Deana come over next week,” Mom suggested. “We’ll barbecue, and the pool’s nice and warm with all this hot weather we’ve been having.”
“That sounds nice.”
“And tell Deana to bring her friend.”
“All right.”
“We really didn’t get much of a chance to visit with her tonight.”
“I know. I’m sorry about that.”
“You should bring a friend too.”
Let’s not start on that, Leigh thought. The one touchy subject that had fortunately been avoided until now.
“Really, darling, you’re thirty-seven and—”
“We’d better be on our way,” Dad interrupted. He hugged Leigh and kissed her cheek. “I had a wonderful time, sweety. Thanks so much for the dinner and presents. And give our love to Deana.”
“I will. Happy birthday, Dad.” He patted her rump and turned away to open the door.
“Next Saturday, all right?” Mom asked.
“You’re on.”
They hugged and kissed.
Leigh followed them out to the driveway, waited there while they climbed into their Mercedes, and waved as Dad backed the car up the steep driveway.
Inside, she shut the door, leaned back against it, and sighed.
Over.
At least Deana hadn’t been around to witness Mom’s tantrum.
She gathered up the glasses, took them into the kitchen, and rinsed out the milky residue of Mom’s Irish cream. She would wash them in the morning.
She had the house to herself. It felt good. If only she could get rid of that nervous feeling about Deana. From several years of experience, however, she knew that wouldn’t go away until Deana returned.
She looked at the clock. Not even ten-thirty. The first movie was probably just ending. Deana probably wouldn’t be home till one. A long wait.
So make the most of it.
Out on the deck, shivering as the breeze found its way through her gown, Leigh twisted a knob to heat the water in her redwood hot tub. She hurried back inside and walked down the long hallway to her bedroom at the far end of the house. There, she slipped out of her clothes and put on a soft, bulky bathrobe.
There was a greasy stain on the breast of her gown from a glob of Hollandaise that had dripped off an asparagus spear. She took the gown into the bathroom and scrubbed at the spot with hot water. She threw it over a bedroom chair. It would have to go to the cleaners. She tossed her undergarments into the hamper. She lined up her shoes on the closet floor. No hurry. She wanted the water in the redwood tub to be good and hot before she ventured out again.
Dropping onto her bed, she checked
Generation gap.
She thought about her mother.
Mom’s right. I’m damn lucky Deana hasn’t gone freaky, the way I went when I was her age.
Pretty harmless stuff, though.
Except for that sit-in. That’s what got to them, the idea that their wonderful daughter almost got herself thrown in the slammer. That’s what did it. That’s why they sent you to Uncle Mike’s…
Her stomach knotted cold.
Quickly, she rolled off the bed and took a towel from the closet. She hurried down the hall.
Don’t think about it.
Do not.
I’ll watch the TV when I come in. A toss-up between a
Leigh left the foyer light on, then made a circuit of the kitchen, dining area, and living room, turning off all the lights. Stepping outside, she slid the glass door shut behind her. She flicked a switch to start the bubbles, climbed the three stairs beside her tub, and dropped her towel onto the platform. She took off her robe. Gritted her teeth at the feel of the breeze.
Quickly, she stepped over the side of the tub. The warm water wrapped her leg to the knee. Not bad, but it would get better as the heat increased. She lifted her other foot over the edge, stood on the submerged seat, then stepped off and crouched, covering herself to the shoulders, sighing with relief as the water eased her chill. For a while, she didn’t move. The water swirled, its warm currents caressing her like gentle, exploring hands.
Then she glided forward, stretching over the front rim and peering over the top, higher than the deck railing, so she had an unobstructed view.
Below, most of the houses at the foot of the hill were lighted. A lone car circled the cul-de-sac and pulled into the Stevensons’ driveway. Off to the left, a car crept up Avenida Mira Flores, turned toward her, and dipped down the slope. Much too early to be Allan’s car. Over the tops of the hills, she could see a piece of Belvedere Island rising out of the bay, dark except for a few specks of light from streetlamps, house windows, and cars.
Beyond Belvedere, far off in the distance, the northern end of the Golden Gate was visible—red lights on top of its tower, cables sloping down. The bridge was often shrouded in fog, but not tonight. Nor was there fog sneaking over the tops of the hills beyond Sausalito. Too bad. The fog was always so lovely in the moonlight, glowing like a thick mat of snow and always moving, always changing. She watched the headlights of cars on Waldo Grade, then lowered her eyes to the lights of Sausalito.
Leigh rarely went to Sausalito anymore. It was no longer a town, it was a traffic jam. She shook her head, remembering how she used to love that place. Back in her high school days. A century ago. God, the hours she used to spend there, wandering around. It had street people then, not just tourists. It had the Charles Van Damm: The ancient, beached stern-wheeler was a coffeehouse in those days, and she used to sit in the smoky darkness far into the night, listening to the singers. The guy with the twelve-string who did “The Wheel of Necessity.” Leigh sighed. She hadn’t heard that song in about twenty years.
Staring out at the swath of Sausalito lights, she could hear it in her head—the pounding thrum of guitar
