Excerpt
Chapter One Lily died the day we signed the escrow papers for the bed-and-breakfast. It was late October and one of those wonderful Cambria days. Fog raced across the treetops and wrapped around their trunks like cloaks of mist. Yet it wasnt cold. The sun was glorious as it flickered from every facet of the sea. Cambria is special in this way, fog and sunshine sharing the day like loving siblings. We were realizing Lilys dream of living in the tiny seaside California town. It wasnt my dream. Truth is, I had no dream, and stole hers like a pickpocket. I wanted to write, but about what I didnt know. Nonfiction, as it turned out. I wrote nonfiction because it was about something from outside me. Lily, on the other hand, had wanted to live in Cambria and become one of its quaint denizens since her parents brought her to the place when she was a child. I took her to Moonstone Gardens for lunch after we left the escrow office. We ate salads and relished our dessert of lemon ice cream and raspberries. Lily talked of Monroe House, as our recent purchase was called, a ramshackle two-story Victorian dating from the turn of the centurythe century before last. It had been run as a bed-and-breakfast before our entrance into its aura, and a badly managed one at that. It was located half a block off Burton Way in the East VillageCambria is divided into villages, east and west, god knows whyand had failed because it was obscured by curio shops and restaurants. Lily had a plan to correct this deficiency, of course. Lily was filled with plans. Its the curse of those destined to die. “Well place a sign on Main Street,” Lily said between spoonfuls of yellow ice cream and red raspberries. “Just like The Brambles. You know, an in-your-face kind of sign.” The Brambles was Cambrias most famous establishment, a four-star restaurant that early on, as Cambria began to transform itself from a sleepy little mining and logging community into a tourist attraction, had put the town on the map. The restaurant was a converted house, as many of Cambrias more established businesses were, with a sign at the corner of Main and Burton that left no doubt where it was located. “They might not let you put a sign there,” I suggested. “They let The Brambles do it,” Lily retorted. “The Brambles is famous. Monroe House isnt.” “Well make it famous!” “Lily, Im just saying, it might take a little convincing for us to be allowed to put up a sign like The Brambless, thats all.” “Do you like the wallpaper in the lobby?” That was the way with Lily. Opposition was either overwhelmed or ignored, and changing the subject was a tactical maneuver. She knew I didnt like the wallpaper in the lobbyknew, in fact, that I didnt like wallpaper at all. Its anachronistic. The lobby wallpaper in Monroe House was a dark, dingy representation of flowers I couldnt identify. It had been put up by the previous owners recently, another miscalculation on the way to accumulative failure. “Its awful,” I responded. “It has character.” “So do punch-drunk fighters,” I said. “Even so, I think we need to have wallpaper throughout the place.” “Sure. Its your hotel.” Technically, it was our place. Community property. But the money to purchase Monroe House came from Lilys trust fund, a small inheritance left by Lilys grandfather that barely covered the cost of the bed-and-breakfast. It was ours; it was hers. “Its yours, too!” she protested. “Fine. Will this town give me a variance for slot machines?” “Wallpaper,” she insisted. “I demand veto power. Otherwise, you decorate the place by yourself.” “But something brighter.” Yes, something brighter. That was Lily. Something brighter. We met in Los Angeles. I was born there thirty-four years ago. She had taken a job doing ad layouts at the magazine where I wrote and sometimes edited. She was a star the day she walked through the door, and unlike many beautiful women, and some not so beautiful, Lily had handled the knuckle-callused attempts of her male coworkers to get her into bed with grace and wit. I was living with someone then and, ever the loyalist, didnt realize it was over until she arranged to have me walk in on her making nice with another guy. Had I been a drinking man, I would have dove into a bottle and not surfaced for a month. My way of handling hurt is to clam up, to withdraw inside and replace sentences with grunts and groans. Lily noticed this, somehow, as no one else had. She made an effort to cheer me up, a crusade that did not utilize her body or her femininity. She made me laugh. She was a great physical comedian. She had wit, as I mentioned earlier. And she was an empath who finally said, “Geez, Parker, who wants a woman who arranges for you to walk in on her with another man?” At that moment I realized several things. One, everyone at the magazine knew about the incident, probably because Nancy wanted them to know about it, and she worked in distribution. Two, the only one in the place with any guts had just put her professional relationship with me on the line. And three, really, who would want a woman who arranged to hurt you and break up with you at the same time? Had I been a drinking man, I would have ordered a Coke. A week later I asked Lily out. She said no. “Seeing someone?” I asked. “Not you,” she replied, not unkindly. Two weeks later I said, “You know, Im really not a bad guy, no matter what Nancy says.” “I dont know what Nancy says,” Lily replied. “Shes too busy rutting. But I still wont go out with you.” “Why not?” “Youre the only person at this magazine I like.” Lily logic. There it was. So the campaign began. Flowers failed early on. I tried humor. I left notes on her desk, e-mail in her computer mailbox, and grinned repeatedly and without masculine grace from across the room whenever I could. I stood by and watched her with disapproval as she briefly dated a guy from accounting. I made myself annoying, an achievement of little repute, true, but there it was. “Is there some way I can make you desist?” she asked one day at the coffee hutch. “Im sure I dont know what you mean,” retorted I. “Youre making me anxious.” “You mean, you have a nervous condition?” “No, apparently I have you.” “Then let me buy you dinner.”