Spider Web (14 page)

“You said you were and weren’t a native to San Celina,” she continued. “What did you mean?”

Safe emotional territory. I grabbed for it immediately. “I was actually born in Arkansas, but my parents came to San Celina when I was a toddler, so I don’t really remember living anywhere else.” I smiled at her and took the next exit. “I’m going to swing through Templeton. It’s where we bring our cattle to auction. Many people probably don’t know that there are still working ranches in California and that we’re actually the biggest agricultural state in the union.”

“I didn’t realize that. What about your husband? He’s San Celina’s police chief, right? Does he like his job? Is he a native?”

“Yes, Gabe is San Celina’s chief of police. He’s not from here.” I braked to let a group of schoolkids cross the street. It looked like they were heading for the stock auction buildings. It reminded me of a field trip our third grade class took to the Templeton Stock Auction. I’d been disappointed because I went there once or twice a month with Daddy to eat at Hoover’s Beef Palace Café in front of the pens and watch the cattle being auctioned off so it didn’t feel like a real field trip to me. “I guess he likes his job most of the time. I think sometimes we Californians might drive him crazy. He’s from Kansas.”

“Really? What part?”

“Derby. It’s a town about fifteen miles south of Wichita.”

She nodded while we watched the children meander across the street, the little girls holding hands, the boys pushing and shoving each other. “I’ve been to that part of Kansas. It’s lovely. Midwestern people are very kind, I’ve found. More, I don’t know, dependable than . . .” Then she caught herself. “Oh, my, I didn’t mean to imply that . . .”

I waved a hand at her. “I know what you mean. Yes, Gabe is definitely dependable and it
is
real pretty around Derby.”

“How’d he end up here in San Celina?”

The last child—a raven-haired boy in a red-striped T-shirt—crossed the street. He turned to wave at us. I waved back. “Like how many people get places, by accident, fate, God’s providence, whatever you want to call it. After high school, he joined the service and served in Vietnam. After his tour was up, he went to visit his uncle Tony in Southern California and stayed for a while. He applied at the Los Angeles Police Academy and worked for LAPD. About six years ago he took the job as San Celina’s police chief.”

It was a condensed version of Gabe’s life. When Gabe was sixteen, his dad died and Gabe started going wild. His mother sent him to live with Uncle Tony, his dad’s older brother. When he turned eighteen, Gabe joined the marines and went to Vietnam. Once he came home, he applied to the LAPD, eventually working undercover narcotics in East LA. He married, had a son, got divorced. He was also single with lots of other female relationships for more years than I liked to think about.
Then
he came to San Celina.

“Vietnam,” Lin said softly. “I had some good friends who served there. They were never the same after they came home. Is Gabe okay?”

“Yes,” I said, a little taken aback by her personal question. “It was a long time ago.”

“Time is relative with things like that.”

“Suppose so.” My voice sounded more curt than I intended, but I didn’t want to discuss Gabe’s Vietnam years with a virtual stranger, even if I did sympathize with her situation. Changing the subject, I quickly went into tour guide mode. “Templeton’s still a quiet little country town, but it’s getting kind of upscale now too. There’s a new neighborhood of custom-built homes over by the freeway. It might be a smart place to buy a house right now.”

“Looks lovely,” she murmured, turning her head to look out the window.

We drove down Templeton’s Main Street, past the grain tower and Templeton Feed and Grain. I pointed out the bakery that baked incredible chocolate chip scones, the steak house that had won culinary awards for their tri-tip, the little hardware store where the staff were retired ranchers whose collective expertise had impressed an
LA Times
reporter enough to write a feature about them. At the end of the street, the Templeton Stock Auction buildings appeared to our right. The auction yards were closed today, but Hoover’s Beef Palace Café was open.

“That’s where the locals eat,” I said, glancing at my watch. “Are you hungry?”

“As my daddy used to say, I could eat,” she said, smiling.

I laughed and pulled into the crowded parking lot. “Yeah, my daddy says that too. Where did you say your father was from?”

“I don’t think I did say. Actually, he was born and raised in Mississippi.”

“My dad’s an Arkie. They’re practically cousins. I hope you’re not a vegetarian?” I said when we reached the porch of the small café in front of the auction buildings. “If so, we can eat somewhere else. Paso has some good restaurants.”

“Bring on the beef.”

I waved to Sandy, one of the regular servers, and she brought over two menus. We both ordered open-faced, rib-eye steak sandwiches with French fries. While waiting for our lunch, I pointed out the wall of photographs of local ranchers dressed in suits and white cowboy hats.

“Those are all Cattlemen of the Year,” I told her. “My dad was 1987. It was the highlight of his life.”

She smiled. “You’re proud of him.”

I nodded. “He taught me everything I know about cattle and ranching. He taught me to ride and how to train a green horse. He’s quiet, but a rock, you know?”

Her face relaxed slightly. “He sounds a lot like my dad. There’s days I miss him so much I ache. He was a big hunter. Taught me to shoot when I was six.”

She looked around at the counter with the blue stools, almost every one occupied by men in Wranglers and straw cowboy hats. One wall was decorated with wooden plaques the size of license plates with local families’ cattle brands burned into the glossy wood. Another wall held photos of famous local bulls. Thick white coffee mugs advertised the café and local businesses. “This is very authentic.”

“As Western as it gets,” I said. “A small town within a small town. Every rancher in San Celina County comes here at least once or twice a month.”

“I like it,” she replied. “In a strange way, it reminds me of the clubs on a military base. Kind of safe, you know? Where people know who you are.”

Once they brought our food, we were quiet for a moment while we settled into eating.

She cut a small piece of steak and looked up at me. “Are you still close to your father?”

I finished chewing, then said, “Yes, I see him and my gramma Dove two or three times a week. Dove is Daddy’s mom.”

She put her fork back down on her plate. “Losing a mother so young is hard, isn’t it?”

“Yes, but Dove was a great substitute. I would be crazy to shake my fist at God. I’ve really been very blessed.”

“That’s a wonderful attitude. Are you and Gabe going to have children?”

I stared at her a moment, suddenly uncomfortable with her probing questions. Was she interrogating me? Though I didn’t want to go there, the vague thought that she had an ulterior motive made me wary.

“How did you end up in Seattle?” I asked, deciding to turn the tables.

She picked up her fork again. “Oh, like you said about your husband, in a roundabout way. I followed a boy to San Francisco in the early ’70s. Lived there for a while. Took some history classes at UC Berkeley. Married the boy. Divorced him and then went back to college. Changed my major from history to accounting because I wanted to actually find a job that paid me enough money to live.”

I gave a half smile at her comment and my own paranoia. She wasn’t interrogating me. She was just being friendly.

“What?” She touched her chest with her fingers. There were still traces of clay beneath one nail.

“I majored in history.”

Her cheeks blushed a dull red. “I’m sorry . . .”

I cut into my steak. Juice pooled around the sourdough bread slice, turning it a brownish red. “No, you’re exactly right. My degree didn’t do squat to get me a job. I worked as a waitress in a truck stop café after college when my first husband and I needed the money for his family ranch, but that’s about the extent of my formal employment.”

“But your job as a museum curator. It’s perfect for a history major!”

I smiled. “Yes, but I only landed it because my gramma has so much influence in this town. After my first husband, Jack, died in an auto accident, I was floundering. Dove pulled some strings. I think it started out as busywork because the museum was just getting started. The co-op was added to give the museum some, I don’t know, legitimate reason for being there? My suspicion is both the museum and co-op started out being a big tax write-off for Constance Sinclair.”

“Your patron of arts, I’ve heard.”

“Yes. The hacienda belonged to her family. She’s a descendant of one of the original Spanish land grant families. Anyway, she and my gramma . . . well, they’re not friends, but they have lots of philanthropic interests in common.” I shook my head, remembering. “It was something Dove had arranged to jolt me out of my depression, but it ended up being a great job.”

The café door opened, and we both turned to look at the large group of laughing people who walked in. I waved at two of the ladies who were members of the Cattlewomen’s Association. I turned back to face Lin.

“It’s always been a part-time job, at least pay-wise. There’s no way I could support myself on what I make. I do receive a small income from my cattle herd that I keep at my dad and gramma’s ranch, but before I married Gabe, I was barely scraping by. I’m afraid now I’m a bit of a kept woman.”

“Lucky you,” she said. “I do mean that sincerely. Though with his job as police chief I’m sure you have a lot to do as his wife.”

“Being a police chief’s wife was certainly more complicated than I realized it would be when we got married.” I picked up a French fry, inspecting it before dipping it in ketchup. “Then again, we didn’t know each other long before we got married, so we
both
had lots of surprises.”

“How long did you date?”

“I’m almost embarrassed to say. We knew each other only four months before we got married.”

She sipped her iced tea. “You courted after you were wed.” “That about sums it up.”

“How long have you been married?”

“Five years. Hard to believe sometimes.”

“Good for you. Sometimes short relationships can be very intense, can change us for life, but it’s not often that they turn into something long-term.”

I tilted my head and looked at her without answering. It seemed such an odd thing to say.

She pushed her plate back. “This is delicious, but I ate such a big breakfast.” Her cheeks were pale; her voice strained. She hadn’t eaten more than a bite or two.

“Are you okay?” I asked, taking my napkin from my lap, ready to help her to the bathroom.

She held up a trembling hand. “I’m just getting over a little bout of flu. Please, excuse me for a moment.” She stood up, faltered a little, gripped the edge of the table. “Really, I’ll be fine.”

I watched her walk toward the restrooms in back. She didn’t look fine to me. I’d give her five minutes, then check on her.

She was back in a few minutes, composed and breathing more evenly. “I’m so sorry, Benni. I think I’m just a little shaky.”

I stood up, picking up my jacket and purse. “I can take you home right now.”

“No, please. I think if we just drive and not get out anywhere, I’ll be okay.”

I hesitated, not certain if I should take her word for it.

She laid a hand on my forearm. “I know how precious your time is and this free afternoon is rare for you. I want to continue our tour.”

“Okay,” I said, uncertainly.

“Let me pay for our lunch since I ruined it,” she said.

She overrode my protests, so I let her pay.

When we stepped out of the café, a loud
shoop-shoop-shoop
filled the air. Lin’s head jerked up.

“It’s just helicopters,” I said in a loud voice. “They’re probably flying out of Vandenberg Air Force Base.”

She gave a nervous laugh. “Sorry, it just caught me by surprise.”

On the drive up to Paso Robles, we stuck to trivial subjects—the weather in the different parts of San Celina County, the best places to buy produce, where the good cafés were. We drove through the treelined streets of Paso Robles, admiring the old Victorians and the small bungalows that made up “old” Paso. She exclaimed over the quaint downtown with the vaguely mission-style Paso Robles Inn and the redbrick Carnegie Library. Like the almost identical Carnegie Library in San Celina, it belonged to the local historical society. The modern new library sat within eyeshot of the original. We drove around the newer neighborhoods, and I pointed out the million-dollar mini-McMansions that now surrounded the town.

“Interesting mix of new and old,” she commented. Once she was settled into the truck, her color seemed to return, though I could tell that the day was starting to wear on her by the strained skin around her bright blue eyes.

“Yes, it is. Paso Robles is definitely torn between the old ranchers and townspeople versus the ‘city folk’ who have a lot of disposable income to support the businesses owned by the ranchers and longtime citizens. It’s an uneasy marriage, but seems to be working, for now.”

“How is Paso Robles different from San Celina?”

I rolled my eyes heavenward. “Let me count the ways. In a nutshell, San Celina’s a tad more liberal, what with the college and all. Paso is still, even with the addition of the city folk moving in, more rural. Still quite a few working ranches up here, though the wine people are rapidly becoming a force to be reckoned with in the ag community. The weather is milder in San Celina. In Paso, when it’s hot, it can be blistering. When it’s cold, it’ll turn your bones to chunks of ice.”

“I’ve lived in a place with extremes. It can be daunting. But exhilarating too, in a masochistic sort of way.”

We pulled back onto Interstate 101 and took curvy Highway 46 over the hills to the coast. When we hit the summit, I pulled over. From this vantage point, you could see the rolling emerald hills, dotted with dark green oaks and the deep blue line of the Pacific Ocean in the distance. I had always felt like heaven would look exactly like this spot.