I arrived at San Francisco International Airport with swollen ankles and a T-shirt covered in marinara sauce from an in-flight argument with a chicken parm. I smelled like recycled airplane air. I was exhausted and cranky from staying up late with last-minute packing, and annoyingly horny due to my marathon read of Loins of Endearment.
I struggled to load my luggage into a cart, then struggled to get it onto the rental car bus, and then struggled to load it into the freaking golf-cart-size car they gave me. I don’t know where the midsized SUV I’d reserved had disappeared to, but at this point I would have driven a scooter to Mendocino. I just wanted to get there.
Firing up the putt-putt-mobile, I consulted my GPS, turned on some tunes, and hit the freeway. And then got stuck in traffic. Then hit the open road! Then more traffic.
Determined to keep my adventurous spirit intact, I rolled down the windows to breathe in that California air. Certain that it would be laced with flowers and sun, I was surprised when it smelled the same as Pennsylvania. But no matter. I was here! Aaaand back in traffic again.
Two hours later, I finally saw signs of the shoreline. The state highway began to wiggle back and forth along the coast; I started noticing tiny slivers of peekaboo blue. Rocks rose majestically out of the water, cliffs sprang up and out toward the deep blue water. The Pacific looked angry, crashing against the shore as though it was taking it personally. I found it invigorating; it could thrash itself as much as it wanted to. I loved the sea spray it created; the hidden caves bubbling the water back out as quickly as it was pushed in.
As I neared the seaside town at a grandmotherly pace of forty-seven miles per hour (thank you, weenie car), I decided that it was a blessing to have to go slow. To take in the beautiful surroundings, to not have anywhere in particular to go—and I’d get there when I got there. It was liberating, it was freeing. I had a devil-may-care feeling: I could go anywhere, be anything I wanted—
Honk!
What?
Honk honk!
There was a line of cars on the highway behind me that didn’t care for my joie de vivre. Loins of Endearment had been set in wartime Paris, so I had French on the brain. And by French I mean a great war hero, member of the resistance, and the owner of his own very ample baguette. He had taken his lover up against the counter in a bakery, and when he pushed into her, taking her virginity for God and country, the moment was frozen in time. Never mind the bombs falling, never mind the countryside wracked with woe, this was here. And now. And the only thing that could stop the invasion into her heart was the—
Honk honk!
“I’m going, I’m going!” I yelled out the window, pushing the damned car to fifty-five, causing the entire frame to shake and shimmy. Baguette, indeed.
I spied the town of Mendocino in the distance, and pushed it to fifty-seven. Now we were talking!
My GPS took me straight to the coffee shop on the main drag where I was meeting Mr. Montgomery, the attorney who had contacted me. I gazed in wonder at the beautiful town, noting the Victorian homes and neat-as-a-pin front lawns. Cottages large and small dotted the twisting streets, built to take advantage of the natural landscape and picture-perfect ocean views. Set high on a cliff, the town looked down onto the sea below.
With a wide grin, I pulled into the parking lot near the coffee shop. Stretching out after my long drive after an even longer plane ride, I then headed toward a row of rocking chairs on a long porch where a gentleman sat.
He smiled at my approach, standing. “Ms. Franklin, I presume?”
Who says that anymore?
“Just Viv, please. Nice to meet you, Mr. Montgomery.” I smiled, shaking his hand. He was tall and stately, his black suit and tie seeming at odds with the casual atmosphere of this little artsy village. But his smile was genuine, and his blue eyes danced. I looked down at my ripped jeans, combat boots, and sauce stained T-shirt, and zipped up my leather jacket. “Turbulence. Not great for eating pasta at thirty thousand feet,” I explained.
“Not to worry. I’m sure once you get settled in at the house, you’ll be able to relax and clean up a bit. Shall we take care of this business so you can be on your way? I’m sure you’re anxious to see everything.” He gestured toward a table and chairs where he had some paperwork set up, and I nodded. As we sat down, a pretty woman with dark blond hair crammed unsuccessfully into a ball cap approached.
“Any coffee for you?” she asked, and as I looked down I saw that Mr. Montgomery did indeed have a coffee there. I looked around her to the restaurant we were seated outside. Cliffside Coffee was the sign on the door, and now that I noticed, on her ball cap too.
“Oh, um, yeah that’d be great. Black. Thanks.”
“Sure. You the Franklin girl who’s taking over Maude Perkins’ place?”
Surprised, I looked at her with narrowed eyes. “How’d you know about that?”
“Small town. Coffee shop. I know everything.” She grinned. She had an easy way about her, pretty face, good energy, unfazed by my piercings—you never know how some people will react. “Been out to the house yet?”