“Well, so it’s okay, being gay.” I glance sideways surreptitiously. “That’s what I mean.”
I swear I see her roll her eyes at me as she reaches for the radio tuner buttons. What I’m trying to tell her, but I’m doing such a miserable job of it, is that love is what counts. Whatever form it comes to you, even if it sneaks up on a strange, unanticipated night, love is all that matters in this world of ours. Even if you lose that love when you least expect it.
“Andrea, are you even listening to me?” I demand, feeling more forceful and assertive than I usually am with her.
She turns to me, blinking her crystal-blue eyes. “Yeah.”
“The important thing is whether you find someone to love. Someone to love you as much as we all do.”
“Do you like Rebecca? ’Cause if you weren’t always gay…” she suggests, winding a long auburn lock around her fingertip thoughtfully. “Well, you might not always be gay now, right? Then you might like Rebecca, I mean. Sort of like Gretchen’s daddy liking boys.”
“Sort of like.” I cough, raising my coffee mug to my lips as a way of concealing my face.
“’Cause you could do that,” she presses, “like he’s gay.”
“I could, yeah, conceivably like women again.”
“Good, ’cause I like Rebecca.” She gazes up at me through her rust-colored lashes. “She’s really fun and cool. I totally like her.”
“Well, maybe we can get together with her again soon,” I offer, thinking of the amazing inroads she’s made with my child. Thinking of how I could have spent all afternoon in that Chinese restaurant just talking to her. Looking at her. “Maybe she could come back over again and spend time with us.” Like we’re a unit, a full package, not that I’m one lonely man who has become infatuated with a beautiful, available woman.
“I’d like that,” she agrees.
“Yeah. Me, too.” Oh, I’d like it, all right. A whole lot more than I care to admit, even to myself just yet.
***
As we hit the heart of Santa Cruz, my breathing changes. Becomes rapid and a little desperate. It’s the thought of seeing Laurel again that’s got me all wound up, not just being back here to visit Allie’s grave. I’ve already done that drill a few times in the past year. Been there at Thanksgiving, and again at Christmas. But I haven’t seen Laurel, not since a year ago, and I’m not sure what to expect. Still, I shove those dark thoughts aside as we drive up the long, steep hill to the Richardson house.
Or maybe “home place” is a better description of the million-dollar house where my baby grew up. A rambling old Victorian by the sea, it crests the hilltop like the local icon that it is. There’s no pretension to it: the mansion boldly crowns this cliffside part of town.
“Wonder if Grandma’s roses are blooming yet,” Andrea reflects.
She loves her grandma’s garden, and it’s always been something that binds them together, working in it side by side. Planting seeds and watching them yield life. Nipping the buds off waning pansies. She makes Andrea feel important, and reaches her in a way that I haven’t figured out how to do since Al passed. What worries me is the thought that maybe Laurel might find a way to do that, too.
Andrea unzips her Barbie backpack, pulling out a large envelope. “I brought this for Aunt Laurel.”
“What’s in it?” I ask, my voice just a little too bright. As I turn the truck into the pebbled driveway, there’s a crunch and spray of rock beneath my tires. I have to skid a bit to slow down on the drive.
“Something I made her in art class.” Laurel is a world-class painter, with an exclusive gallery of her own in Santa Fe.
“What kind of project was it?” I stare at the closed front door of the house. So much rests behind that colored Tiffany glass pane, and I’m not sure I’m ready to face it yet.
Andrea takes the envelope in one hand, then reaches eagerly for the door handle with her other, never answering me as she shimmies out onto the driveway. Then, full throttle, she runs across the lush green yard and up the steps, onto the sweeping veranda. She hasn’t been this excited since High School Musical 3 finally came out.
Feeling ancient and slow as hell, I plant my Nikes on the pebbled drive, ready to face what waits.
***
Time is endless in Ellen Richardson’s home. There’s the steady ticking of the grandfather clock, the groaning creaks of the one-hundred-year-old hardwoods, the rhythm of the crashing waves down the cliff side. My blood pressure lowers; my heart rate slows. The day lengthens whenever I enter. Why couldn’t that eternal spell have worked a number on Alex’s life?
Ellen embraces Andrea, leaning her aged shoulders low to really hold her close. She watches me over Andie’s head, a faint smile playing on her lips. But I’m already looking around for Laurel, ’cause I don’t get why she hasn’t joined us in the sweeping hallway for our big entrance.