Saturday Morning (11 page)

Friday night dinner with the bosses and their spouses was not what Andy had had in mind when she’d called Martin and told him she could come to San Francisco, not for five days this first time, but three, Friday through Sunday. Here again was a case where he should have consulted her before making plans. Why didn’t he? What had happened to common courtesy? The thought of having to play the part of the good little corporate wife, of wearing the right clothes, of watching every word she said and smiling until her cheeks ached made her want to cancel her flight and tell Martin something had come up.

Andy opened her desk drawer and sorted through the files, tossing old papers. It wasn’t a closet, but it did the job. So he wanted to keep the fact that she wasn’t moving to San Francisco under wraps, did he? Fine. She would go along with that for now. Obviously,
Martin was worried what his bosses would say if they knew how things were between them.

But he was wasting his time if he thought he could convince her to move. Apparently, he still didn’t get it, despite repeated explanations via e-mail about what the family home and Lavender Meadows meant to her.

She didn’t mind going out with a Realtor. She had always enjoyed looking at model homes and open houses. Again, however, she wished he had consulted her first. She really would have to make herself clear on that. Making plans of any kind without consulting her first was just plain rude and inconsiderate.

Andy checked the clock. She had four hours to get ready. Good thing Medford wasn’t one of those two-hours-in-advance airports. She filled hummingbird feeders, seed feeders, and the chickens’ automatic feeder and waterer, then soaked the pots and hanging baskets on the deck and porch, pinched seed pods off the fuchsias, and deadheaded other flowers as she went.

When she had finished, she checked her house computer one last time for any e-mails. Martin’s e-name popped up: [email protected]. Andy clicked on the message.

“No, no, no. You are not going to do this to me, Martin Taylor!” She slammed her fists down on the desk, scaring Chai Lai. “After all I’ve done to make this trip happen, you tell me something’s come up and you can’t pick me up? And worse—you can’t even pick up the phone and call to tell me?” She shook her head, refusing to accept that Martin would do this to her. He knew she hated traveling alone.
Crowds frustrated her, and SFO, the San Francisco airport, was always crowded. It had been a long time since she’d flown in or out of there, but she remembered hearing Martin say that an international terminal had been added and that it was far more complex. And as for using BART! Not in this lifetime. She would hire a cab to take her right up to the door of the hotel.

The anger she’d been trying to keep under control skipped over orange and red and flared white hot. “What is the matter with him?” The trip had started out as a goodwill gesture, but now it would be a confrontation. She was sick and tired of being treated like an entry-door rug, and she intended to tell him so.

She sucked in a deep breath and wiped off the streaming tears. Calling her husband names along the line of “ungrateful wretch” and “workaholic who thinks of no one but himself” helped to let off steam. If only she could quiet the little voice that kept reminding her that Martin had put his dreams on hold for all of them. But then, so had she. She had given up her dreams of business success to share their dreams of home and family. But thanks to her love of gardening, Lavender Meadows was now her dream.

“But above all, put on love.”
The verse wouldn’t leave her alone.

I’m not feeling very loving at the moment, she thought, heading upstairs to pack. She wasn’t sure what a corporate wife should wear, but she couldn’t go wrong with her black slinky, a sparkly necklace, earrings, and bangle bracelets. Voilà. It would work. Slinky styles had become her equivalent of the little black dress all the fashion magazines said was de rigueur for cocktail parties and dinners with bosses. Her stomach took three flips and a swan dive. Was a hostess gift appropriate? It wouldn’t hurt. People always liked gifts. But what kind of gift? A bottle of wine? A gift certificate to a restaurant? She shook her head. Hardly. Lavender wands? She only had three left, but they would have to do.

Back to packing. She added a black-and-silver shawl and a silver belt that would make the slinky outfit work for Saturday night at the theater, strappy sandals for both evenings, the remaining necessities, Bible, and journal, and left the suitcase open on the bed for anything she’d forgotten. After laying out khaki pants, rose cotton sweater, navy blazer, walking shoes, and gold jewelry, she stood back to study the mix. She added a blue oxford shirt in case it was warm, but the time she’d been in San Francisco before, she’d nearly frozen to death.

Before showering, she rushed back out to the workroom, wrapped the lavender wands in tissue paper, placed them carefully in a white box, then tied the box with a bit of lavender ribbon. She’d kept just enough room at the back of her suitcase for the gift. Snagging a handful of business cards, she locked the workroom and headed back to the house.

It seemed strange to leave her car in the parking lot. Usually, she was dropping off one of the children.
Perhaps this will be good for me, going alone, taking care of everything myself, she
thought as she checked in.
Maybe next summer I’ll be flying off to France to visit lavender farms and practice my French. Ah, mon chéri. Mon petit chou. Combien? Quelle heure est-il?

Pulling her bag, she made her way to the America West waiting area, found a seat, sat down, and stared out the window. Her thoughts went over everything Martin had said and everything he hadn’t said. She had always envisioned them growing old together at Lavender Meadows, enjoying their grandchildren who would miraculously live nearby. Not in Seattle or Montana, but within a few miles in Medford. She’d thought Martin had the same vision. How could she not have known?

Her thoughts scattered when the agent called her section for boarding.

She felt like a wood chip on a raging stream when she deplaned
at SFO. Crowds, speaking languages from every country in the world and dressed in clothing from around the globe, poured both ways on the concourse. And no one to meet her. She comforted herself with the knowledge that no one could come to the gates any longer without a ticket. As she dodged her way to the exit, she hoped Martin had had a change of heart and would meet her at the screening area. She followed the signs to the exit and passed through the crowd waiting to claim their relatives and friends. Several people waited toward the back, holding signs for the people they were supposed to meet; a family converged in a hugging match; and a young couple kissed as if they were alone in their bedroom.

But no Martin.

Swallowing her disappointment, she scolded herself for even thinking Martin would be here. He’d given her instructions and gone about his business, knowing that capable Andy would manage.

She kept a polite smile in place, all the while seething inside. She stopped short when she saw the BART signs. Yes, it would be easier to take a cab, but she’d come this far alone successfully, so why not go the distance? If she could do BART without Martin, she could do France with or without Martin.

The ride into the city passed without difficulty. Trying to ignore the homeless man sleeping against the wall in the station, she took the escalator up the steep incline to the street level. She should be right in front of the hotel. But she wasn’t. The Sheraton Palace was across Market, a street as wide as her lavender nursery field and filled with cars, trucks, trolleys, buses, and the stink of gas and diesel. Street people lined the sidewalks, one of them a toothless woman rocking and singing to herself, eyes closed, a clawlike hand clutching the blanket tight around her shoulders.

“Miss, can you spare a dollar?” a black man with one eye importuned, his smile hopeful.

Martin always told her to never give anyone money.

But Martin wasn’t here. She pulled two dollars from her purse, stuffed it in his can, and joined the throng at the stoplight. How could anyone function with all this—the noise, the smells, the hurry that rode the crowd like a jockey driving for the finish line? The light changed, and she walked with the rest of them, keeping one hand on her shoulder bag, the other clenched to the handle of her suitcase. If she’d read the instructions better, she would have saved herself this trek.

“I hate city life,” she muttered. Now she was getting as bad as those people on the sidewalk who were talking to themselves. Poor things. Yet she’d read about the problems of the homeless. Most of them, not willing to stay in shelters or to be retrained for a productive life, chose street life. The problem in San Francisco was endemic. Not that she believed everything she read. She entered the hotel by the door on Market.

Perhaps Martin would be in the room. She trundled down the hall, past the dark-paneled Pied Piper Bar and Restaurant and the vaulted Garden Court to the check-in counter, where a smiling young woman greeted her.

“Ms. Taylor, there is a message for you. You’ll find it waiting on the phone in your room.”

“Thank you.” She glanced toward the Garden Court. “Does one need reservations for the Sunday brunch?”

“Yes. This Sunday?”

“Please. For two.”

“Would nine be too early? That’s all I have.”

“Fine, thank you.” Andy smiled at the young Eurasian woman. The contrast between the feeling of elegance within this building and the chaos across the street almost made her close her eyes as she turned to find the elevators.
Lavender, think lavender.

She took the elevator to the twelfth floor, following the signs to her room. With only one bag, she didn’t bother with a bellman.

The fragrance of Martin’s aftershave greeted her when she opened the door, but other than his toiletry kit in the bathroom and his clothes hanging in the closet—as usual, the original neatnik, she’d so often called him—the room bore no trace of her husband. She pushed the button on the phone to retrieve her message.

“I’m running late, so please be ready at six sharp.”

She hung up. No “Glad you made it safely.” No “Welcome to San Francisco.” Don’t waste words. Yes, that was Martin all right. Endeavoring to stay calm, she unpacked and shook out her slinky outfit. Ah, the bliss of “no ironing needed.” Within half an hour, she was dressed with fresh makeup and the sparkly paste jewelry she loved. The only diamond she owned occupied the third finger of her left hand, in a set of rings she’d taken off only when the hospital insisted for the births of her children and for her hernia surgery.

She stared in the mirror. “Andy, m’dear, you clean up real good.” She turned to study all sides. While she wasn’t fat, her size-12 curves didn’t match the current style of skinny and emaciated. She smiled at the face in the mirror. How long since Martin had seen her dressed like this?

With half an hour to go, she thought about leaving a note that would say “Meet me in the bar,” but since she’d never done such a thing before, she figured now was not a good time to start. Instead, she picked up the
Guide to San Francisco
and flicked through it. A short while later, she heard the key card in the door.

Let the games begin
.

“You look striking.” Martin gave her an appreciative once-over.

Andy smiled up at him. “Thank you.”

“I’m really glad you could come.”

Andy saw the opportunity to play her first game piece. “I told you that as soon as the business could afford to hire an employee, I’d hire one. I just didn’t think it would happen so quickly.” She had decided not to tell him whom she’d hired, unless he asked, because she knew he wouldn’t see Shari as a real employee. “Of course, it’s just parttime, but if everything works out, I’ll be able to come once a month.”