With an Extreme Burning (3 page)

Eileen said, “Good idea?”

“A lot better than any I could come up with.”

“You know, maybe I missed my calling. Maybe instead of a nurse I should have become a family counselor. Or a sex therapist, like Dr. Ruth. What do you think?”

“I think I'm going to buy your lunch.”

“Ah! The exact amount of my consultation fee. It also entitles you to an extra ten minutes, so let's move right along to
your
sex life. How're things with you and Jerry?”

“Jerry and I are just friends, you know that.”

“Meaning you still haven't slept with him.”

“No, I haven't.”

“Going to?”

“I don't know. Probably not.”

“Doesn't make your toes tingle? He's a real hunk.”

“Let's drop that subject, okay?”

“Uh-oh. Do I detect a hint of sexual frustration?”

“No, you don't.”

“That's what it sounds like to me. How long has it been, anyway, since you got laid?”

“Eileen …”

“Come on, how long?”

“I don't keep track of things like that,” Cecca said, which was a flat-out lie. It had been thirteen months, give or take a few days. One night with Owen Gregory. On a sudden whim or temporary brain lock … whatever you wanted to call it. After she and Owen had been to a party at Eileen and Ted's, as a matter of fact, and she'd drunk a little too much wine. It hadn't been very good. In fact, it hadn't been good at all. One-night stands weren't for her; she'd felt cheap afterward and still wasn't quite at ease in Owen's presence, even though he'd been a gentleman about the whole thing. She was a woman who needed a strong emotional attachment before she was comfortable in a sexual relationship. And since Chet, there simply hadn't been anybody. She wasn't even sure she wanted there to be anybody again. Once burned, twice shy.

Still, Eileen was right: She
was
a little frustrated. You didn't lose your sex drive when you got divorced and then turned forty. And with all the things that had been wrong with her marriage to Chet, sex hadn't been one of them. Lord, no. In fact, if it hadn't been so damned good, she might have left him before he decided to leave her—and wasn't
that
a sad, pathetic comment on the life and mindset of Francesca Bellini?

A busboy took their plates away. On his heels was the waiter with a dessert tray. Eileen said, “Oh, no, not for me,” and then allowed herself to be seduced into ordering a piece of Chocolate Decadence. “My friend and I will split it,” she said, and smiled at Cecca, who thought fondly: No, we won't. You'll eat the whole thing, you pig.

When the waiter was gone, Cecca said, “Oh, I didn't tell you who I saw earlier” to forestall any more of Eileen's probing sex questions.

“Who?”

“Dix.”

“You stop by his house, or what?”

“No, he was coming out of the hardware store.”

“How did he look?”

“Pretty well, considering. He's lost some weight.”

“I'd be surprised if he hadn't. Poor Dix.”

“I think he's going to be all right.”

“I hope so. I worry about him, rattling around in that big house all alone.”

“It was what he wanted.”

“What people say at funerals isn't necessarily what they mean.”

“Dix meant it. He has a right to grieve in his own way.”

“Well, sure he does. But I still think a person needs friends at a time like this, not isolation. If I lost Ted the way he lost Katy, I'd want a houseful of people around me every minute.”

“I suppose I would, too,” Cecca agreed. “If it hadn't been for you and Katy when Chet walked out, I don't know what I might have done.”

“So is Dix ready to start letting us back into his life?”

“Soon, I think. He as much as said so.”

“Encouraging,” Eileen said. “When are you seeing him again?”

“I don't know, I hadn't thought about it.”

“Don't wait around. Invite him to dinner tomorrow night.”

“That's too soon.”

“No it isn't. He's alone, you're alone. Two needy people. Make your move before somebody else does.”

The waiter brought Eileen's Chocolate Decadence and two forks. She plunged into it greedily. Cecca didn't touch the second fork; she was frowning.

“You think I'm needy?” she said.

“Aren't you, honey?”

“No. And even if I were, even if I were interested in Dix Mallory that way, which I'm not, Katy's been gone only three weeks. Three weeks, Eileen!”

“The living go on living. You're not attracted to Dix?”

“Not the way you mean, no.”

“Well, he's always been attracted to you. The way he looks at you sometimes … I'd say he's very interested. He never made a pass at you?”

“Dix? Don't be silly.”

“Well, why not? He's a man, and men are horny beasts, thank God.”

“He worshipped Katy. He wouldn't have cheated on her.”

“It's too bad Katy didn't feel the same way.”

“Oh God,” Cecca said.

“I know, I know, she was like a sister to me, too. But I swear she had a lover.”

“You don't
know
that she did.”

“Well, you don't always have to have proof positive. She was getting it from somebody besides Dix, all right.”

“I don't see how you can be so catty about her.”

“I'm not being catty. I'm the brutally frank type, honey, you ought to know that by now. I say what I think.”

“But after the horrible way she died …”

“Sure, it was horrible. But quick in an accident is a lot better than slow with cancer, no matter how awful the accident.”

“Even at forty? I suppose so.”

“You bet it is. Besides,” Eileen said philosophically, “accidents happen. Most of the time we're lucky enough to survive them, like when the ceiling panel collapsed at the hospital and almost squashed me. Or that time up in Oregon—all three of us could have been highway statistics that night. Poor Katy's luck just ran out.”

“Can we please change the subject? My lunch is starting to curdle.”

“When you've been a nurse as long as I have,” Eileen said, “nothing bothers your digestion. Or your appetite. You sure you don't want some of this cake? There's only one thing I can think of that tastes better than Chocolate Decadence, and Ted's not here.”

Cecca sighed and watched her vacuum up the cake. And thought about Dix. Attracted to her? Maybe, in the same platonic way she was attracted to him. Nothing serious, just an easy, good-humored friendship. Nothing sexual. She liked the way he looked, and his intellect, and his gentleness, and his smile—but that was all. Eileen was crazy if she thought there could be a romance between them. Still, she had to admit that he appealed to her more than Jerry or Owen, and she'd gone to bed with Owen. There was no harm in inviting him to dinner, seeing him socially. Not dates, exactly, just two friends getting together. Not even Katy could have found fault with that.

Katy, she thought. My best friend Katy. Dead three weeks, burned to death at the bottom of a ravine, and here I sit, planning casual get-togethers with her husband. I'm as bad as Eileen. Worse, because I'm not as honest.

God, what predators we humans are.

When they stepped out of the Mill's air-conditioned coolness, heat closed around them like sticky wool. Splinters of sun-glare pricked at Cecca's eyes; she put on her dark glasses. The light change bothered Eileen even more, made her grumble as she donned her own shades.

“Why did we have to have a heat wave
now
?” she said. “It'll be even hotter up at the lake.”

“Not in the water, it won't. What time are you leaving tomorrow?”

“Ted says we'll be on the road by seven, but if we're off by eight, I'll be happy.”

“Coming back Monday or Tuesday?”

“Labor Day, dammit, fighting traffic all the way. I've got to be at the hospital at eight
A.M.
on Tuesday. Still—seven glorious days of R and R.”

“I envy you. I'd settle for a two-day vacation right now.”

“Honey, are you sure you can't get away for that long? There's plenty of room at the cabin; the boys can double up.”

“I'd love to, I really would, but I've got showings scheduled for next week and there's a good chance the couple from Walnut Creek will decide to make an offer on the Morrison property. I really need at least one commission soon. Otherwise I don't buy any new fall clothes or you any more lunches.”

“Well, if things happen fast and you have the time, just come ahead. No need to call first.”

“I will.”

“Give my love to Dix when you see him,” Eileen said, and winked, and went off toward the public parking lot behind the Mill, her ample hips grinding inside those hideous paisley stretch pants she insisted on wearing.

Cecca drove to Better Lands to check her voice mail. The Agbergs, the Walnut Creek couple, were still debating, evidently—not that she'd expected otherwise. They were a methodical pair; it might take a week or two before they made up their minds. There were no other messages and not much going on at the office. Tom Birnam, boss and friend, told her there'd been only half a dozen calls and one showing all day. Saturdays were usually a busy time and she'd been a little sorry to have this one off. End-of-summer doldrums … but she knew that wasn't it. This damn recession was hurting everybody. She'd had just two sales in the past fifteen months, and it was the sheerest luck that one of those had been on the Ridge. One of the other agents hadn't had a sale of any kind in ten months.

And what made the pill even more bitter was the fact that Los Alegres had once been and should still be a real estate agent's paradise. Home prices had climbed radically in the greater Bay Area in recent years, but most houses here were still affordable and a good value for the money. Small-town America was dying, thanks to global shrinkage, overpopulation, technology, a dozen other factors. You couldn't find many towns in California these days, particularly close to a major urban center like San Francisco, that had a hundred-and-fifty-year history, an untricked-up, old-fashioned ambiance, community pride, good schools, a jobless rate of four percent (half the state average), no serious drug or gang problems, at least not yet, and therefore a relatively crime-free environment,
and
a commute to the city of not much more than an hour. Escapees from Oakland and Berkeley and San Francisco ought to be flocking here, engaging in bidding wars for prime home sites. Would be, once the economy perked up.
If
it perked up in the foreseeable future.

She stopped at Safeway for a few things, so it was almost three when she turned onto Shady Court. She'd always loved this one-block cul-de-sac; it was the prettiest little street on the west side. Tall elms lined both sides, their branches interlocked overhead to form a tunnel of summer shade. Well-maintained old houses of mixed architectural styles: Spanish, Victorian, neo-colonial, 1920s frame. Shady Court had such traditional charm that Hollywood location scouts, like bugs with highly sensitized antennae, had scoped it out and offered enough money to make the residents give in and allow their homes to be used as backdrops for (at last count) three TV commercials and scenes in two films. Cecca had voted against the intrusion of cameras and outsiders the last time, but as the newest resident, she was outvoted. In fact, she'd been the only dissenter.

She had adored Shady Court as far back as she could remember. Her parents' Christmas-tree farm had been a nice enough place to grow up, but it was too far out in the country to suit her; she preferred town and its attractions. When she was at Los Alegres High, eight blocks to the north, she had driven by the Court often on her way to and from school and had told her friends, “I'm going to live there someday.” They'd laughed at her. Well, it had taken her twenty years and an ugly divorce, but here she was. Thank you, Chet, she thought wryly and not for the first time. Walking out on Amy and me was a lousy thing to do, but at least you were decent about the settlement. Half the joint savings, Chet agreeing to give her seventy-five percent of the proceeds on the sale of their Cherry Street house in exchange for title to the Mendocino beach cottage, this place coming on the market at just the right time and at just the right price … sometimes in the midst of chaos there is an island of good.

Amy's little Honda, that her granddad had bought her over Cecca's protests last Christmas, was neither parked out front nor in the driveway. Off somewhere with her friends; she finished work at Hallam's Bookshop at one on Saturdays. Cecca felt a small disappointment. Eileen had psyched her up and she thought she knew now how to approach Amy on the subject of sex, if not the subject of the condoms. You had to walk such a fine line with the girl sometimes. Most of her hostility was gone, but it still flared up now and then, when Amy felt she was being threatened in some way. “If you and Dad had stayed married, it wouldn't be like this.” Insecurity. Distrust. Thank you again, Chet Bracco, you deceitful jerk. At least Amy's hostility had extended to her father as well, and in fact seemed to be lingering there, where it belonged. Cecca couldn't have stood it if she had somehow been twisted around in her daughter's mind so that she became the villain.