Suspicion

“How does your father feel about that?”

Her shoulders tensed under his arm. “It’s my decision. I was going to wait until I knew for sure before I told you, but I want to buy my grandmother’s cottage. My dad still owns it and…we’re just working out the details.” She could see Ed gearing up for a discussion and she cut it short. “Look, I really am tired. Thanks for dinner. I’ll talk to you tomorrow, okay?”

“WHAT TIME DID DAD SAY he’d be here?” Ingrid asked Ava the next day over a plate of chili fries at the Beehive. “Just so I can leave before he arrives.”

“Noon,” Ava said. “Which means one at the earliest.”

They were sitting in the Beehive’s window booth, which everyone on Catalina knew was Dr. Sam’s unofficial consulting room. Three or four days a week, he dispensed medical advice, scribbled prescriptions and offered up political opinion and social commentary over the luncheon special. It didn’t seem that long ago, Ava reflected, since the days when Diana would send her or Ingrid down to the Beehive to remind their father he had patients in his real office. “I guess I should be glad he’s not sitting in a bar somewhere,” Diana used to say, “but just once in a while, couldn’t he even pretend to be conventional?”

“All right, girls. More tea?” Shirley, the Beehive owner, poured from a plastic pitcher, molded to look like cut glass. “Your dad joining you?”

“Supposed to be,” Ava said.

“Don’t hold your breath,” Ingrid said.

Shirley stuck a pen into her henna-red beehive and fixed Ingrid with a look. “When you going back to medical school?”

“Never.”

“You’re breaking your father’s heart. All those plans he had for you. Going into practice together…”

“Those were his plans.” Ingrid dipped a French fry in the chili and bit into it. “I’m happy with my life.”

With a shake of her head at Ingrid, Shirley addressed Ava. “How you doin’ hon?”

Ava smiled brightly. “Fine. Terrific.”

She watched Shirley make her way to the row of chrome and red-vinyl stools that lined the counter, stopping at the end stool to whisper in the ear of a gray-haired woman whose face took on the rapt look of someone receiving juicy gossip. Shirley and the Beehive were inextricably linked. Years ago Shirley had been a HeeHaw Honey. Black-and-white photos of her on the HeeHaw set, in pigtails and gingham, her front tooth blacked out, hung on the wall above the cash register.

“So what’s going on with the cottage?” Ingrid asked.

“Same old, same old. Dad’s going to let me have it, but first he has to do his thing with it. I’m about ready to say to hell with it.”

“Which is why I won’t play his game.” Ingrid shook her head. “I’d love to use some of my trust fund to buy the stables, but I’d burn the whole place down before I asked Dad about it.” With her fork, she poked at the diced onion on the chili. “Do you ever think how weird it is that no one ever picks up on the difference between the lovable, eccentric Dr. Sam and the stubborn, contentious—”

“Dogmatic,” Ava said. She’d heard Ingrid ask the question a dozen times. “Don’t forget dogmatic.”

“I’m serious. No one has any idea what he’s really like.”

Ava leaned her head back against the booth. She didn’t feel like talking about Sam. In truth, he was somewhere between both versions.

“I mean nothing’s changed for him since Mom died,” Ingrid said. “Nothing about her being gone stops him from chopping wood up at the camp, or seeing patients, or tearing around in the Jeep, or doing whatever he damn well feels like doing. Sometimes I want to tap him on the shoulder and ask if he’s aware Mom’s not around anymore.”

“Tomorrow’s her birthday,” Ava said. Would have been. Referring to Diana in the past tense was something she hadn’t quite mastered. She drank some water, set the glass down.

“Hey.” Ingrid tapped a French fry against Ava’s hand. “Where are you?”

“Right here. I’m fine,” she said when Ingrid kept peering at her. “I was just thinking about the birthday cake we made her last year.”

“Coconut,” Ingrid said.

“No, lemon. We squeezed fresh lemon into the frosting. You don’t remember that?”

“I remember coconut,” Ingrid said. “And I remember she had a headache.”

“She always got a headache when we had birthdays and celebrations,” Ava said. “Like when Rob and I got engaged. Mom wanted that big party and I just knew she’d get a migraine.”

Ingrid laughed. “I even remember filling a plastic bag with ice to take in to her. Uh-oh,” she suddenly said. “Did Mr. L.A. Times just walk in?”

“Did he?” Ava ducked her head. “I don’t want to talk to him. Pretend you didn’t see him.”

“He’s with some girl. Oh, my God, you should see her hair. It’s orange, bright orange. And she’s wearing army boots.”

Ava picked up the menu and raised her eyes just long enough to see Scott smile at the orange-haired girl. She returned to the menu, the image of him burned into her brain. Neat, preppy, controlled. Khakis and a greenish-gray polo shirt. He probably looked neat, preppy and controlled in bed stark naked.

“Not that I give a damn,” she told Ingrid. “But the Tangerine Temptress doesn’t exactly seem like his type.” She downed a glass of water, ate the last French fry and glanced at her watch. “Look’s like Dad flaked out. Maybe what I should really do is take the next boat back to the mainland and start a new life.”

“Before you do,” Ingrid said, “be sure to ask Dad about Mom’s diaries. I want to see them.”

ON THE EVENING OF Ava Lynsky’s exhibit, Scott stood with Carolyn in a corner of the gallery watching guests in summery clothes chat and mill about while juggling glasses of white wine and paper plates. The music wafting softly over the subdued buzz of talk and laughter was classical—Chopin maybe, but he wouldn’t bet money on it. Spring flowers in straw baskets and raffia-tied mason jars bloomed on every surface, including a white-covered buffet table at the end of the room.

He hadn’t seen Ava since their conversation in the park and would have forgotten about the event altogether if the waitress at the Beehive hadn’t mentioned it when he stopped in for breakfast that morning. He hadn’t seen Sam Lynsky, either, or heard anything more about the book. He’d told Ellie the trip to Spain was a no-go. She’d told him she hated him.

“I don’t know about you,” Carolyn whispered now, “but I feel about as conspicuous as a stripper in church.”

“You wanted to come.”

“Yeah, well, there was nothing on TV.”

He shot her a glance. Mark had returned to L.A. and Carolyn was decked out in full club-scene regalia. Ring in her left nostril, short flouncy black skirt, bomber jacket, black fishnet stockings and combat boots. She’d also furnished his ensemble for the evening: a shirt the approximate color of cow dung, khaki-olive according to Carolyn, and some pants that made him feel like a gangster from a 1920s movie, but that, Carolyn assured him, looked “very West Side.”

Possibly not the appropriate sartorial note for a Catalina soirée, but assimilation didn’t happen overnight.

Carolyn tapped a black-painted finger against her arm. “I swear to God, if that old bag in the pink muumuu gives me one more look, I’m going to go over and rip that damn flowerpot thing off her head.”

“Ignore her. She’s—” Scott hesitated, already anticipating his sister’s reaction “—president of the Catalina Chow Chatters,” he said sotto voce. Carolyn’s predictable hoot drew a few glances in their direction and he shot her a warning look. “Keep it down. She’ll think we’re laughing at her.”

“Hey, I am laughing at her. This whole scene’s hilarious, I swear to God.” Her usual expression of terminal ennui, an essential club-scene accessory was gone, in its place a broad grin. “Catalina Chow Chatters. What the hell is that all about?”

“They meet once a week to chat about their chows,” he said, straight-faced. “She has two chows, Charley and Charmaine.” He elbowed Carolyn in the ribs. “Behave yourself. I did a story on her last week. She was quite…charming.”

“Oh, God, Scott.” Carolyn shook her head. “Please don’t tell me they serve chow mein.”

“Chocolate-chip cupcakes.” He felt himself losing the battle not to grin. “Okay, knock it off. Everybody is looking at us.”

“The hell with them,” Carolyn said. “You know what? I was never a huge fan of your ex-wife, but she was right about one thing. You were crazy to give up your job at the Times. I mean seriously, how long can you get up every morning and write this kind of garbage? You’re going to go stark-raving nuts.”

“Well, it’s not all like that. There are…meatier stories.”