Homecoming (4 page)

F. M.

3:30 p.m.

INTERNAL MEMO, Mansion Enterprises

From: Russell White

To: Frederick Mansion

F.M.—It’s hard for my department to come up with accurate planning since we don’t have all the data on Carson’s Bluff yet. For all we know, there might be municipal zoning problems. I don’t think shutting down my department would be cost-effective, as you’d just have to start from scratch again in setting up the engineering team next year, and good engineers are hard to find. Let’s sit on it a minute.

R. W.

4:15 p.m.

INTERNAL MEMO, Mansion Enterprises

From: Frederick Mansion

To: Russell White

Good engineers are a dime a dozen in India, and our accounting department has already given me the figures for closing down your department and outsourcing if we don’t get the Carson’s Bluff property. The figures look pretty damned convincing. Get moving.

B. M.

FAX FROM: Frederick Mansion, Mansion Enterprises

FAX TO: Federica Mansion, c/o Mayor’s Office, Carson’s Bluff

Federica—your silence is highly irresponsible. As you know, we’re operating on a tight schedule. Please give immediate report on the status of negotiations. Did you warn the City Council that the offer falls by $10,000 a day?

Uncle Frederick

MESSAGE NOT RECEIVED/NO SIGNAL

June 1st

Birdsong filtered into the darkened room. Federica opened her eyes and lay staring at the ceiling shrouded in shadows.

This time she knew where she was. She was in Carson’s Bluff. There was something she had to do here, something urgent, but nothing seemed to penetrate her befogged brain.

She had a vague memory of people coming into her room and forcing her to eat. An old rocking chair sat in the corner with an afghan haphazardly laid across it, and she seemed to recall someone spending the nights there, though night and day tended to blur in her memory.

No matter. She didn’t want to think of the past. She didn’t want to think of the future. She didn’t want to think of anything.

Throwing off the covers, she walked slowly to the shuttered windows and flung them open, closing her eyes against the bright sunlight.

A tall stand of oak shed filtered dappled sunlight across a wide, untended lawn. Wild roses grew in profusion and Federica could hear the soft buzz of bees. The sun was halfway up a brilliant blue sky. She smiled, yawned and turned back to the room.

A door in the far wall was ajar. She remembered that it was the bathroom, and she could vaguely remember someone helping her to it more than once. She frowned, but the memory wouldn’t jell further.

It was an old-fashioned bathroom, with a claw-footed tub and a big, no-nonsense showerhead. For the first time in years, it wasn’t necessary to figure out the super-modern workings. All she did was turn the hot water faucet clockwise, fiddle with the cold water faucet until it was exactly to her liking and stand under the refreshing jet. Still dripping, she padded into the bedroom.

Her suitcase lay on the floor, open, the elastic straps still in place. Usually, the first thing she did when arriving somewhere was unpack and try to make the temporary hotel room as homey as possible.

Her traveling wardrobe was either business suits or casual wear for the hotel room. She rummaged, and brought out black leggings and a turquoise silk top.

She felt as if she were moving under water. Black wings of anxiety—
there was something she had to do
—brushed fleetingly across her mind, but she couldn’t hold onto any thoughts as she descended slowly, carefully, down a big wooden staircase to the ground floor.

She was in a beautiful building. That much penetrated her benumbed senses, but it had no meaning, as impersonal as the sun shining through the big transom window over the front door, as right and timeless as the oaks and the roses and the buzzing bees.

She stepped out onto a wide veranda and breathed deeply. The air smelled as sparkling as champagne.

The sound of an engine changing gears as it climbed the mountain road filtered through the morning’s silence.

Federica sat down on the top step and waited for what the morning would bring, bare feet curling into the rough wooden planking. She felt as if she were living each moment, each second, anew, as if she had never done anything but sit in the morning sunshine on a wooden veranda, and would stay there forever.

A dusty van rounded a corner and the driver killed the engine. Slowly, the sounds of the forest began again—a gentle soughing of wind, the soft hum of bees.

A tall man unfolded himself from the van and walked with an easy, lanky grace up the driveway, carrying a large paper bag. The Mayor. The Sheriff.

Dispassionately, Federica saw that he was handsome, in a rough, very masculine way, totally unlike Russell—but that thought escaped her as quickly as it formed. He had intense blue eyes, set in a strong, bluntly carved face tanned a deep brown. He had the kind of tan that came from working in the sun, not lying in it.

She watched him walk up and shaded her eyes against the bright sunlight.

“Sheriff.”

He stopped a few feet away, tipping back his Stetson with a thumb. He held up the bag. “Brought breakfast.”

She smiled. “Right neighborly of you, Sheriff.”

He climbed the steps to the veranda and sat down beside her. He opened the bag and peered inside. “Let’s see what Stella packed this time. A thermos of,” he unscrewed the cap and smelled reverently, “coffee. Stella’s coffee is famous in three counties. A couple of Danish and four apples.”

There were some paper cups in the bag. Jack poured them two cups and handed her one.

They sat in a comfortable silence, sipping coffee. The morning fog was clearing quickly, revealing a handful of wooden buildings down in the valley, beautiful even from up at the Folly.

“What’s that?” Federica pointed with her cup. “Brigadoon?”

“Not quite.” The sheriff smiled. “But close.”

“It’s pretty.” She sighed. “Peaceful.”

“That it is.” He slanted her a close look. “Folks around here would like to keep it that way.”

“That I can imagine.” She tilted her face into the sun and closed her eyes.

“So,” he said quietly as he put the cup of coffee down, “how’re you feeling?”

“I’m not sure.” She still had her face to the sun, like a soft sunflower. Slowly, she lowered her head until it rested on her knees and turned her face to him. “I think—I think I’m having a nervous breakdown.”

His expression didn’t change. “That so?”

“I’m not so sure, because I’ve never had one before, you see, but it certainly feels like one.”

“Well,” he grinned suddenly, “you’ve come to the right place. We’ve all had one—it’s practically a precondition for citizenship of Carson’s Bluff.” A shadow passed briefly across his face, so quickly it was gone almost before she could notice it. “I’ve had mine. Lilly’s had hers. Hell, Doc Alonzo’s had a couple.”

She smiled and rested her forehead on her knees. “I guess I’m in good company then.”

He crushed the paper cups and leaned back on his elbows. They sat for a long while, watching the sun rise above the oaks. A rabbit crossed the lawn, not warily but bold as brass, stopping halfway and staring at them, nose twitching, as if they were intruders on his turf.

Jack stared out across the lawn. “Phone lines seem to be down,” he said.

She looked at him and didn’t speak.

“Fax isn’t working either,” he continued pensively. “I guess anyone looking for you is going to come up empty-handed.”

“Guess so,” she said softly, and the corners of her mouth lifted in the ghost of a smile. “I appreciate it, Sheriff.”

“Jack.”

“Federica, then.”

The comfortable silence returned. Federica watched a hummingbird flit among the morning glory, which climbed the walls of Harry’s Folly.

“I think,” she said to Jack, “I’ll go back up to bed for a nap. It’s been a strenuous morning.”

FAX FROM: Frederick Mansion, San Francisco Administrative Headquarters, Mansion Enterprises

FAX TO: Federica Mansion, c/o Mayor’s Office, Carson’s Bluff

Federica,

I have sent you five email messages. I can only hope that this long silence means that you are locked in twenty-four-hour negotiations with the Town Council of Carson’s Bluff. Still, you could have had one of the secretaries send me a fax in code. Why is your cell phone switched off?

You have our negotiating parameters, and I expect you to stick to them. This silence is extremely annoying and I trust you will contact me soon.

Uncle Frederick

MESSAGE NOT RECEIVED/ NO SIGNAL

FAX FROM: Ellen Larsen, Inter Airways, SFO Airport

FAX TO: Federica Mansion, c/o Mayor’s Office, Carson’s Bluff

Federica—you there? Knock twice if you’re among the living. I’ve been trying and trying to call you, but to no avail. Have left any number of messages on your answering service. You’re not answering your emails.

I can only imagine that you’re tied up in business, but do get in touch the minute you’re free. I’m off tomorrow and the next day, so we could get together here if Uncle Frederick slips the leash a bit. You’ll find me at the usual Inter Airways hellhole. This time he’s found a place to put us all up at for $34. He’s overpaying. Eat this fax.

MESSAGE NOT RECEIVED/ NO SIGNAL

Federica awoke from her morning nap and contemplated starting her afternoon nap early when she heard a deep male voice calling her name from downstairs.

Jack.

She smiled and swung her legs over the bed, searching with her toes for her flip-flops and finding them. Going barefoot twice was perhaps a bit much.

Something, somewhere in the back of her mind told her that when she had been someone else, in another incarnation, she had been relentlessly formal. She had never encountered anyone unless she had been dressed, coiffed and made-up properly for the occasion.

Federica shook her head.

So much wasted energy.

She combed her fingers through her hair, gave a quick, disinterested glance at herself in the mirror on the dresser, and went out to the Folly’s spectacular staircase and leant on the balustrade, looking down into the immense foyer.

Jack Sutter stood in the center of the mosaic-tiled floor. He smiled up at her and held up a big paper bag.

“Lunch,” he announced.

Federica felt a sharp tug, somewhere in the vicinity of her heart.

“Why sheriff,” she said. “Déjà vu all over again.”

Chapter Three

They had lunch on the Folly’s immense lawn, soaking up the sunshine.

When the sun was directly overhead, they moved beneath the shade of a century-old oak, watching the leaves shimmer in the light breeze.

“This picnic,” Jack announced, “is a compendium of the talents of Carson’s Bluff. Stella cooked, my second cousin Rose Franklin wove the tablecloth, Lilly made the plates and my brother Wyatt made the beer.”

He spread an exquisite linen tablecloth on the crabgrass, laid out gray and blue earthenware plates and matching earthenware glasses, and opened two bottles of beer. He handed one to Federica and she looked at the label.

The hand-printed label was a copy of a sepia print of an old saloon, above it the legend, Prime Pigswill.

“Wyatt’s finest,” Jack said, and chugged a slug from the bottle.

Federica poured half the bottle in her glass, admiring the glaze of the earthenware glass and the solid heft of it. She took a sip and her eyes widened.

Jack noticed and smiled. “Good, eh?”

“It’s great,” Federica said sincerely. “As good as Korean beer.”

“Better,” Jack said absently, as he opened Stella’s picnic basket. He pulled out a roast chicken.

Federica was suddenly curious. “How do you know? Have you been to Korea?”

“Couple of times,” he said curtly, and pulled the tinfoil off a bowl of potato salad.

Something about his tone and the suddenly shuttered expression on his face told her he didn’t want to talk about it.

That was fine with Federica. She didn’t want to pry. She didn’t want to pressure him. She didn’t want to do anything but sit in the shade of an old oak tree, sip beer and eat Stella’s delicious food.

She crossed her legs at the ankles and took another sip.

“Tell me about the beer. When did your brother start making it?”

Jack leaned against the tree trunk. “When Wyatt was eighteen,” he began, in a storyteller’s singsong cadence, “and even more hormonal than he is now, he saw a rerun on TV of an old chestnut called
The Vikings
. Kirk Douglas as a Viking chieftain and Tony Curtis as his slave, believe it or not. You ever see it?”