The near-silence of the tree-shaded streets was shattered by the most sorrowful song Cindy had ever heard. "Why you still insist on listening to country music is beyond me,' she said. 'Either the woman is cheating, leaving or dying....' she had remarked, once, 'or his dog and truck died."
Soon, the heavily lemon-scent of eucalyptus trees, their branches laden with silver-gray leaves, filled the warm, humid air with the smell of southern California. The Gold Rush immigrant, brought from the Australian island of Tasmania, was now as native to the state as the former Hoosier women splashing in the coastal surf. Even Abbot Kinney, most famous for founding Venice, California, was a state-wide promoter of the gum trees.
She thought back to that morning...
**********
"Halloween? You want to get married on Halloween?" Greg asked. "You're kidding, right?" He looked up through the darkness to where the ceiling would be. 'Halloween... God, what next?'
When he put it that way, Cindy wondered if it was such a good idea, after all. "Well...' she started to say but a ghostly vision of black cats and old crones...
"It definitely sounds crazy..." he said, "but, if that's what you want, it could be fun. Are you going to wear an orange gown?" He started to laugh. "This is Martine's idea, isn't it? That woman is..."
He rolled from his back onto his right side, his left arm encircling her waist as he nuzzled her neck. He breathed in her morning scent.
"Stop that... you know what it does to me," she begged, in vain.
He ignored her pleas for mercy; his tongue traced wet lines of pleasure under her ear forward to below her chin and down the hollow of her neck. She was usually quiet when he made love to her, the excitement staying deep within her mind; she surprised herself as a moan rose up and left her wet lips.
That first night, when she had come to his bed, she had told him she was going to teach him how to kiss. If he was surprised, he never let on. As much as her checkered past still haunted her, he never once hinted he might have a clue about what she had done. She still wasn't sure if he knew or not but was afraid to broach the subject. 'Let sleeping dogs lie...' was as good an adage as any, especially when they had such a fatal bite.
Her legs invitingly parted, she reached down and her body welcomed him.
The thin black line wavered in the summer heat; the ants moved from the window sill, down the tile behind the sink, across the counter and to the three dishes waiting to be washed.
"Oooh..." Cindy said, grabbing a glass of water and splashing it over the scurrying insects. "Get... out... of... my... kitchen!" She swabbed down the countertop, chasing the little black creatures around the sink edge. She peered down and looked closely, wondering if she had missed any of the scavengers.
Later, she took a clean towel and wiped down her tired but satisfied face; tying her hair into a ponytail, she washed the kitchen table. During breakfast, every time she looked at him, she smiled. How she was so lucky to have him, she would never, could never understand. She knew he had had an Italian girl somewhere in his past, he let that slip once or twice in conversation with Elliot downstairs and he definitely knew about her troubled marriage but nothing about the bar. 'Thank God,' she prayed, 'thank God, he knew nothing about that.'
A dark scowl crossed her face. She couldn't imagine life without him, now. When he wasn't home, she waited for him to arrive. When she was at Raymond's, she couldn't wait to go home. When they were home, she looked even for his shadow, the echo of his voice, the sound of his footsteps, and the scent of his arousal...
That man at the beach had almost let her secret out. Drowning in the ocean would have been the only decision she would have had left if that encounter had gone another way. The Pacific had been right there, calling to her... its small waves rolling ashore... calling to end her uneasy secret.
'Thank God for Martine,' she continued thinking, anxiously wiping the countertop, again, her fingers pushing down harder as she thought back to that nightmare time. Her nights with Suzy were not that long ago. The fact that Suzy and Angie were now close friends had seemed odd at first until that lunch at Cantor's Deli in Fairfax. Both women danced to the beat of a very different drummer, Cindy thought and hoped that Suzy would keep quiet.
Her own bizarre behavior, Cindy finally realized, resulted from Suzy's uncovering a physical need for sexual comfort... sexual relief stronger than she could control following her miserable, dangerous life with Chris. Her nights of prostitution were something she was continually trying to forget but couldn't. The man at the beach was a reminder that the men who used her were still nearby.
A tear crept slowly down her cheek. If only they could move away... far away from the memories waiting to trap her. It was driving her mad. Greg would never leave the beach, would he? She was startled by the popping of the toaster. "Whoa!" she almost shouted. Taking the bread out, she reached for the butter and began to spread it across. A spoonful of boysenberry jam and a cup of morning tea completed her breakfast. She carefully put the small bag aside in the refrigerator.
Greg had continually told her to use a new bag each time but old habits die hard. Her mother's tight upbringing during the Depression had reached deeply within her psyche and refused to let go. 'At least,' she thought, 'I'm not going to waste Greg's money... our money.'
The crackle of the frying eggs and bacon called her back to the stove.
"Greg, honey, breakfast's ready."
**********
Each time she and Martine made the 'cookie trip,' Cindy promised herself to bring a camera and each time she forgot. She so wanted to photograph the old Victorians while they were still standing. The area, once home to wealthy families, had fallen on desperate times soon after the Depression and most had been turned into small apartment or rooming houses. The once beautiful paint was covered by a dull gray chalky mess that cried out for help from someone... from anyone... but, no one seemed to care to save the once proud and beautiful homes.
"This will be a lot of fun. We'll close the restaurant after the lunch service and decorate the dining room for the reception. Everything will be BOO-tee-full..." Martine grinned. She never thought Greg would agree to a Halloween wedding and yet... for some insane reason, he did.
Already, her mind was working around two possibilities: an orange-spice cake with chocolate frosting or a chocolate cake with a light orange frosting... with plenty of rum. Laughing, she knew the rum would win out; 'besides, who wanted a dark-frosted wedding cake? Now,' she happily thought, 'to start planning...'
Cindy pulled her cream-colored convertible up to the gate and impatiently honked the horn.
"Every time, you gotta honk the horn. They know we're coming. Jesus, give them a chance, will you?" asked Martine. "It's just a couple of little kids, you know."
Within minutes, two boys, no more than ten years of age, unlocked the heavy chain-link gate and swung it wide enough that she could drive in and around the back to the kitchen. Piled high in the back seat were almost one-hundred boxes of cookies. Almost, that is, because on the front seat between the two women was a half-empty box of chocolate chip raisin cookies, once carefully wrapped in wax-paper. Now that the car had stopped, the smell of the cookies on the back seat filled the car.
Last time, she had needed the vacuum cleaner to clean all the crumbs. 'Oh, but it was worth it,' Cindy realized, laughing at the memory. Greg had come behind her and gave her a playful smack on the behind as she waved the metal tube around the car. Before she knew it, they were kissing and his hand was between her thighs, gently bringing her to a climax.
Every time the women came to the orphanage, Cindy said it was her right as 'driver' to 'inspect' the cookies for freshness. Martine laughed, dipping into the box for another one. If lunch was anytime soon, it probably was spoiled.
She pulled out two chocolate chip cookies. For some reason, she'd been reaching into the cookie jar one too many times, she was sure. She patted her tummy. Martine's cooking was leading her down the primrose path.
The orphanage, well hidden from the street by a very tall hedge, was easily missed if you didn't know where it was, as Cindy had done the first two times. The Sisters of Saint Dorothy had gone to great lengths to hide the children from the outside world.
These were the 'lost' children... the ones that would never be adopted.
Cindy was going to say something, even with a mouth full of cookie, when the first nun arrived, surrounded by several small girls. One was clutching the old woman's habit as if her life depended on it, causing the nun's large rosary to sway back and forth like a pendulum across the heavy, dark cloth.
"Welcome back," she said, hugging Martine. The nun greeted Cindy with a curt nod.
As much as Cindy admired the work the Sisters were doing, the idea of never loving a man just seemed so desolate an existence...
Standing by the kitchen door were two more stern Italian nuns, surrounded by five or six children vying for their attention like small puppies jumping for a treat. Cindy couldn't really tell; they never stood still long enough to make sure. One of the nuns bent down and swooping up a small girl kissed her on the cheek and gave her a wide, honest smile.
