Sooner or Later (8 page)

In a couple of weeks, they’d found themselves an apartment off campus and began to do what Maya called “throwing parties” and what Ellie called “giving little soirées.” Which in plain terms meant everybody brought a bottle and those who were musicians played guitars and anything else they happened to bring with them, as well as blasting rock on the hi-fi and dancing up a storm. After a month, the landlord threw them out.

Undaunted, they found another place, a house this time where the noise would be less noticeable, and any-how
the neighbors were fellow students. Then Ellie, high on freedom, went out and traded in her Pathfinder for a Harley. Metallic-scarlet, flashy with polished chrome, and hot.

Maya was rocking slowly back and forth on the old floral swing set on the front porch, when Ellie roared up on it.

“How about this?” Ellie yelled over the space-shuttle roar. “Great, huh?”

Maya stopped her rocking. She had a splitting headache from the tequila last night and was not at her best. But, ever fashionable, she tuned right in. “We’ll need proper outfits.”

“Right.”

It was terrific, the way they knew each other’s mind. If one did something, the other picked right up on it, no questions asked. Maya climbed on the back and they shot off, downtown to the bike shop. An hour later, they emerged, sleek as panthers in tight black leather pants, fringed jackets, boots, gauntlets and sinister black and silver helmets.

“Perfect” was Maya’s comment.

And that’s how they became known as the “Arizona State Hogettes,” famous for their speed, their soirées, their sartorial splendor and general outrageousness.

All in all, they behaved like kids who’d never been away from home before, wild with freedom and completely irresponsible. Because they were bright, they got away with a minimum of classes, until the boom came down and the Dean threatened expulsion, and Miss Lottie and Mr. Morris showed up, furious.

They’d caught them as they zoomed up on the Harley, long hair streaming behind them in the wind, singing at the top of their voices, shrieking with laughter as
Ellie executed a neat U-turn, tight on centrifugal force, then screeched to a halt.

“Whoawhoawhoa,” Maya yelled, vaulting off the back. “How about that, then?”

“How about that,” her father’s voice repeated grimly from the porch.

Maya’s eyes met Ellie’s and they swung round, taking in Miss Lottie, regal and rigid with fury in a smart beige suit, and Michael Morris, icy-eyed and businesslike in gray pinstripes, standing on their ramshackle front porch, looking as out of place as Hell’s Angels at a presidential banquet.

“Shit,” Maya said softly, glancing at Ellie.

“We’re in for it now,” Ellie muttered back. “Think you can talk your way out?”

Maya shook her head gloomily. “Not a chance. How about you?”

Ellie took a deep breath. “I’ll give it a try.”

She bounded up the front steps, beaming. “Well, hi there, Miss Lottie. What a surprise.” She stopped, uncertainly. In all her life she had never seen her grandmother look at her that way, sort of hurt and disappointed, as well as angry. And she had never,
never
before, not put her arms round her and given her a big hug. Ellie embraced her anyway, while Maya watched, admiring her balls.

“Boy,” she murmured, when Miss Lottie did not hug back, “are we in trouble.”

“I’ve come to take you home, Ellie,” Miss Lottie said coldly. “Mr. Morris agrees with me, that there’s no point in you girls staying at college if you’re not going to learn anything. And, of course, the Dean agrees as well.”

“But Gran …”

“You’re forgetting your manners, Ellie. Please say hello to Mr. Morris.”

Ellie shook hands, smiling uncertainly at Maya’s father. “There’s nothing for it, but to apologize, to both of you,” she said humbly. “Maya agrees with me on that.”

“Sure,” Maya mumbled in the background. “Hi, Dad. Hi, Miss Lottie.” She waved a limp hand, eyeing Ellie, hoping for a miracle.

“Gran?” Real tears stood in Ellie’s eyes and she touched Miss Lottie’s arm uncertainly. “I didn’t realize … I mean I didn’t know how I’d upset you. I’m sorry, truly, I am.”

She meant every word of it, Maya could tell, and tears pricked her own eyes. “Oh, hell, Dad,” she said, hurling herself up the steps and into his unwilling arms. “We only meant to have fun.”

Shaking his head, Mr. Morris glanced down at his beautiful daughter. “I guess you did, punkin,” he agreed. “But somehow you just forgot about work.”

Then they had all gone out to lunch and Miss Lottie and Michael Morris had decided on a three-month probationary period, with mandatory good grades, and the pressure was off. Except this time, they’d shouldered their responsibilities and gone to classes, worked nights in the library and gotten those decent marks. Then, since they did everything together, they had both fallen in love.

Maya’s beloved was a visiting professor from London, all tweeds and a pipe and argyle socks; and Ellie’s was Italian, an artist-in-residence. Young, sexy and built like Michelangelo’s
David.
That had lasted a whole year, until their lovers returned to their respective countries, and to the girls’ shock, their wives, leaving them devastated and in floods of tears.

“So much for men,” Maya had said bitterly. Then Ellie had pulled herself together. “Think of it this way,”
she’d said, “we’re free again. Have you ever been to San Francisco?”

And they’d shot off, on the scarlet Harley, across the Arizona desert to California, free as birds and giddy with youth and enjoyment, for a final summer of total irresponsibility, before settling into their senior year, and hard work and graduation.

They had fallen in and out of love several times since then, but only one was serious. Ellie had met Steve Cohen at a party in SoHo given by a friend of Maya’s. He was tall and lean, handsome in a predatory sort of way, and an intellectual. And he’d swept her off her too large feet. Overnight, Ellie changed from a slick, sexy dresser, to black turtlenecks and long black skirts. She’d dragged her hair back in a tight thick braid and wore Doc Martens at all times. It was all terribly exciting and sensual and she couldn’t get enough of him.

Maya knew Ellie always led with her heart, and in typical fashion, it was head over heels, all or nothing, but she also knew he wasn’t worth it. But she went right along with it, hanging out with the SoHo crowd, while Ellie went to culinary school, and she attended classes in creative writing, at Columbia.

Ellie always said it was the New York winter that killed her plans to marry Steve. Either that, or he was always too busy, pursuing a new career as an art dealer. It was his turn for an overnight change: from cords and leather-patched jackets, to Hugo Boss and Calvin Klein suits. Either way, the winter storms kept them apart, and so did his new, upwardly mobile social life. Ellie was wounded, but typically, she took it on the chin. The turtlenecks and long skirts were made redundant. Brokenhearted, she took off to Paris to gain culinary experience instead.

When she returned to California, Maya soon followed.

“Why put up with frost when the sun shines there all the time,” she’d said to Ellie on the phone. She was on a flight the next day and the two of them rented an apartment in Venice Beach, while they looked around at the world, and the men, and the job opportunities and decided how to play out their lives.

Maya wasn’t at all sure she’d found the answer yet, but Ellie certainly had. Whether it was because money suddenly became tight, or not, Ellie shouldered responsibility like a pro. With her background, brains and looks, she had a dozen different career opportunities. But Ellie knew what she wanted. Her own cafe.

It had taken her over a year of sheer, teeth-gritted hard work to pull it together, and that on a shoestring. But together it was at last. And Ellie was not about to let it fail, even if she worked all hours that God sent. And that, Maya thought, that was where the problem lay.

When the cafe finally closed, she stayed on to help Ellie clear up.

“You want my advice, hon,” she said when they’d finished and were sitting over a glass of fruity merlot, hacking chunks off the wheel of Parmesan and sticking it on slices of baguette. “Call him back. Say ‘yes, I would like to have dinner with you after all.’” She took an enormous bite of the Parmesan sandwich, rolling her eyes in appreciation. “I promise you it’s
easy.
And I know you’ll enjoy it as much as I’m enjoying this.”

“Wanna bet?” Ellie chewed her sandwich morosely. She was too tired even to think about Dan Cassidy. “I’ve just got too much to do.”

Maya shrugged, she knew when she was beaten. “Okay, I tried. And I’ll keep on trying. But we’ve got to
get you out of this rut, woman, before you forget you
are
a woman. Anyway, I’m off, I’m meeting Greg at …” She glanced at her watch. “Right now!” Picking up her purse, she headed for the door.

“Who’s Greg?” Ellie called after her, curious.

Maya paused, a hand on the door. “Greg is a writer. A
published
writer. He’s giving me some tips on structure.” She grinned. “I’m not sure whether he means mine or his. He’s also a very nice man with some very nice friends. Maybe you’d like to meet one of them,” she added hopefully.

“Good night, Maya.” Ellie pushed her out the door. “See you tomorrow. Have fun.”

She was smiling as she carried their dishes back into the kitchen. But there was work to be done, and she would stay there until she’d finished it.

It was late, and Dan was thinking that a cozy cottage overlooking the ocean could be very lonely with no one else to marvel at the sunset. No one else to share the sound of the surf crashing, to sniff the clean salt air and say how great it felt after New York’s traffic fumes and L.A.’s smog. No one but him to admire the romantic moon riding high in a flawless, star-filled sky and the silver path it cast across the water, all the way to the horizon.

Moonlight and silence had not featured much in his life. He was restless, missing his job, the action, the big city.

It was not meant to be a substitute, but he decided that tomorrow, first thing, he would go to the local animal shelter and get himself a dog.

I
T WAS ONE IN THE MORNING BEFORE
E
LLIE GOT HOME.
Her back ached and her feet ached and there were tight little ripples of tension in her neck.

Kicking off her shoes, she thought wistfully of Dan Cassidy’s invitation. Dinner out? The idea was laughable.
She
was the one who organized and served dinners.
She
ate hers in the cafe kitchen, not in smart restaurants.

Besides, she was afraid of getting involved. Too much was at stake. Everything she had and could borrow was invested in Ellie’s Place, and that meant her whole life, her
future.
She was determined to prove herself, though to whom, she hadn’t yet figured out. And most of all, she had to make enough money to take care of her grandmother.

Her little house was cozy and welcoming. There was a poky little entry hall with a small sitting room to the left, furnished with a few antiques from Journey’s End. A pair of silver candlesticks stood on the beat-up-looking pine mantel with a couple of framed photographs of Miss Lottie and Maria, and, of course, Bruno. A pretty Venetian
mirror hung over the mantel, and an antique French giltwood console with a large faience urn of jungle-red tulips stood against one wall. There was a glass-topped coffee table piled with books, a bronze silk-skirted side table holding a nineteenth-century lamp with an amber shade, and half a dozen old paintings scattered across the walls. With a comfortable old cream linen-covered sofa, a couple of chairs and small tables, the tiny room was crammed to the hilt. Not another thing could be squeezed into it.

On the other side of the hall, the walls of the dining area were painted her favorite forest green, with the earthquake cracks showing white plaster in the corners. There was a round travertine marble table and half a dozen old wheelback chairs, a fake ficus tree in a terracotta pot, and more paintings.

An archway led into the little white-tiled kitchen, which was immaculate, mostly because she never used it, except to fix a cup of tea.

Stairs led steeply up to the one large bedroom and bath. Comfortable, lived-in, this was her place. The canopied bed had been her parents’, only then it had been draped in Indian shawls and bright spangled sari fabrics in gold and orange and purple. Now it was more chaste in creamy gauze, and piled with pillows. She’d tossed several beautiful Persian rugs, one on top of the other until they overlapped, in a pleasing mosaic of soft color and pattern. The night tables were inlaid Italian marble and the lamps were simple urns with biscuit-color shades.

There was an antique pine dresser with a silver tray on top containing her makeup, a bottle of Eau d’Issey—her favorite perfume—and a photo of her parents; and the comfortable pink chenille robe she’d had since she was seventeen and couldn’t bear to part with, was tossed over the striped chaise near the window.

It was simple, pleasing, and it was all her.

She took a shower, pulled on an old Lakers T-shirt and a pair of white sweat socks and sat in front of the mirror, patting cream into her face and inspecting it for wrinkles. Then she brushed her long hair, wishing it didn’t curl, and wondering how she might look with a straight bob.

Wandering to the window, she stared out at her tiny glimpse of ocean reflected under a high-riding moon, imagining a date with Dan Cassidy. Dressing up, a good restaurant, a bottle of wine. Somehow it didn’t seem to fit. Still, as she climbed wearily into the canopied bed, it wasn’t a bad image to fall asleep with.

Closing her eyes, she recalled the clean jut of his jaw, the deep blue of his eyes and the way they had changed from anger to amusement when he’d recognized her. She told herself, yawning, he probably still thought of her as the freckle-faced kid he’d taught to surf all those years ago. And she fell asleep with the memories of those days filling her dreams, when life was fun and easy, and Miss Lottie was still her old self, and the sun seemed to shine perpetually on them.