He’s flashing his famous, quirky grin.
I flash my own grin back at him—I can’t help it.
He’s really so good-looking, especially out here working: His round, hard muscles pop out of his white T-shirt; his brown skin raises a sheen in the mid-morning sun as he carries the planks of wood over his wide, square shoulders. I’ve made sure the wood carries the Forest Stewardship Council label, or FSC, which stands for a nonprofit organization that works to assure the responsible management of the world’s forests. The FSC wood is also VOC Free, or free of Volatile Organic Compounds, those very nasty invisible things that are emitted by various building materials and contribute to smog, soil, and water contamination, as well as cancer. And even though they’ve put some stringent restrictions on the use of VOCs in California, I’m still vigilant in making certain I’m not sold the old stuff off of somebody’s back shelf.
The ground has already been leveled, much of it by a contractor, but I assisted, getting down on my hands and knees, pulling up roots and scraggly bushes, rocks and stones, doing my best to make sure the jacaranda that my mom planted when I turned five can remain standing. Although the new bedroom will be smaller for having saved the tree, retaining the images of my mom and the light-purple blossoms that she adored, as well as rewarding the tree’s remarkable tenacity at hanging on to the side of this itinerant slope, is worth it.
I also participated in pouring the concrete, and eventually I’ll do the dry polish, which is more environmentally friendly than wet polish, and then I’ll seal it with a silicate sealer that, again, has virtually no VOCs.
But first, the bedroom frame has to be built.
Hugo sets the wood down on the concrete with a grunt. “Don’t you need a permit for this?”
I set my armload of wood down next to his, realize my peach-colored tank top is wet with sweat and getting a bit transparent, and I start to feel self-conscious, but, I have to say, in a somewhat titillating way, as I shrug. “I’ve got a contractor, you know. But he’s actually not as strict as me, especially on the environmental regulations—I’ve got very high standards.”
I look him up and down. I’m thinking about …
What?
No. This is not a man I should be involved with—ever.
He looks me up and down, lingering.
I almost gasp.
We stare, for a moment.
Sex in the air, the blue sky almost blaring potential, and the smell of the fresh soil, and the wood, and the sage, and the ocean, and the stuff that is earth and lusty and good begins to work on my body like a seductive vortex, and, for an instant, I’m sure we’re both going to topple to the dirt and start rolling around like animals.
But …
There’s also a jagged saw, a couple of hammers, and nails on the ground, and I don’t believe I will lie down on nails.
I say his name: “Hugo.”
“Gabriel?” he urges hopefully.
A part of me knows that I should probably let myself … fall … with him.
For all of my insight into why I’ve been shaped to get up from the slipping land, and the sensation of falling, there are also times when it could be a good thing for me to just let myself, my determination, go.
But right now?
I can’t.
I repeat, “Hugo.”
My tone is serious.
We stand, facing each other, hands on hips, squinting in the October sun.
We’ve had our breakfast: organic coffee, organic fresh-squeezed orange juice, organic wheat tortillas, and a scramble made with tomato, onions, avocado, green chilies, and just a sprinkling of diced jalapeno, all of it organic.
I don’t eat meat, poultry, or fish.
No dairy either. And I don’t use eggs; I scramble tofu instead.
When Hugo asked me why, that first time he had breakfast in my home, I didn’t eat “normal” food, I told him what I tell everybody: “It’s a personal choice—but it works for me. You see, many cows, pigs, and chickens, even when they’re so-called ‘Animal Care Certified,’ sometimes—heck, more than sometimes—aren’t treated humanely. Besides that, the meat’s loaded with antibiotics. That scares me. As for seafood, the ocean has been so overfished it barely has enough left in it for the sea creatures that live there. And the eggs?”
He’d waved me off. “No, no, don’t tell me.” He’d put on a face of horror, making choking noises, staggering a bit, and blanching as if he might be sick.
He definitely can exhibit the drama of our culture when it suits him.
Still, he did come back for more, didn’t he?
Yep. Because my vegan dishes are delicious.
I smile to myself.
Anyway …
He’s helped me move the wood.
The deal is done.
We know it.
His tan eyes glint gold in the sun. “So tell me about her, your friend. Charlene Pryce.”
Ecopsychologists and psychologists often have very different opinions on what psychotherapy means. For instance, I might take a walk with a patient by the beach, or explore some equine-assisted therapy, in my belief that the synergistic relationship between human beings and nature can be as beneficial to their situation, whatever it may be, as a traditional office setting, if not more. Most psychoanalysts, on the other hand, still adhere to the couch.
But wherever we might differ, ecopsychologists and psychologists may as well be joined at the hip when it comes to one intrinsic tenet of all psychotherapy: We both answer questions with questions.
But so do journalists.
Yep. Two can definitely play this game.
I ask, “How do you know I know her?”
He retorts, “How do you know her?”
I’m silent.
He shrugs. “Come on, Ez. You spoke at Charlene’s funeral. I just downloaded archives.”
I remain quiet.
He starts again. “Did you know Abigail, too?”
“What makes you think I know Abigail?”
“But you know the family, right?”
I shrug and ask, “Can you know a family if you haven’t spoken to them in decades?”
“Ez … ”
We’re at an impasse.
He’s stone-faced. So am I.
Finally, he says, “Your friend’s brother married Penelope De Vos.”
I nod, feeling satisfied that he gave up information first.
I tell you, I’m only this competitive with him.
I wonder, for a moment, what that says about me?
Oh, who am I kidding? I know exactly what it says. I’m very attracted to him, yet I don’t trust him, so we’re stuck in this perpetual loop: attraction, the need to diminish the attraction, competition, victory, attraction …
Okay … on to something else.
I didn’t know anything about Abigail’s mother—until now. But I’ve been very concerned about the Pryce family: Charlie’s mom and dad; her brother, Anthony, and his wife, Abigail’s mom; any siblings. I must send flowers, a card, something, before I disclose to Hugo, or anyone, what I know about Abigail’s final days. When I was asked to give a statement about Charlie, so long ago, I was actually grilled—at least it felt that way—by the Majorca Point PD, and it was hurtful for the family, especially when the media got hold of the info.
Thankfully, this morning, I recalled the name of the street in Palm Springs where Charlie’s parents had moved: Desert Shadow Avenue. They’d refused to live in Majorca Point after they lost their beloved daughter. By all accounts, they didn’t keep in touch with anyone here. Not even me. I remember sending letters, just to let them know I was thinking of them. But after a few years of getting no response, I stopped. The connection I’d had with Charlie drifted away and finally vanished, like a paper boat on the water.
A child’s dream.
I shake my head, slightly.
Hugo doesn’t notice. I can tell by his stance that his mind is intent on my next words—whatever they may be.
I’m still thinking.
I was relieved that Mr. and Mrs. Pryce were easy to find; their address in Palm Springs was the same.
Finding Anthony was a different story.
Considering Charlie used to berate him much of the time, as siblings will do, I never paid much attention to her brother, except to agree with her that, usually, he was annoying.
I guess, unconsciously, I still perceive him as a kid.
But I discovered that now, he’s a big executive with a multinational corporation called De Vos Industries, or DVI. And now, thanks to Hugo, I know what the name means—that Anthony married into the business. They’ve got offices and buildings scattered around Los Angeles and all over the world. But Anthony’s office is listed in the nearby harbor city of San Pedro, down by the waterfront, where high-rise office space, luxury condos, and trendy lofts overlooking the Long Beach Port are actually starting to go up in price and are sometimes inciting bidding wars, even in these challenging economic times.
Google yielded absolutely no info about Anthony’s personal residence, or residences, though.
Nothing on his personal life, either.
Nada.
I ask, “Do you know where Abigail’s parents live?”
But Hugo’s quickly back on his game, demanding, “Do you know why Charlene killed herself?”
I ask, “Do you know why Abigail killed herself?”
He’s immediately all over that. “Why do you think she killed herself?”
I take a literal, and figurative, step back. “I don’t.”
Damn—I answered.
But I also realize why he must think this—Detective Suzy Whitney—and she doesn’t like me very much. One, because she likes him too much, him being Gabriel Hugo García. Two, she can be an ecological tyrant, and she’s proud of it. We’ve even had a few recent run-ins at Majorca Point town hall meetings—she wants to allow ATVs on our bluffs. Can you imagine: all-terrain vehicles speeding around on the unstable land, crushing the flora and fauna, one of them eventually falling into a crevice? Needless to say, I don’t support the plan. So if she thinks I’m aware of something, anything, regarding Abigail’s death, she’ll have me in her office in a millisecond.
Hugo comes in for the kill.
He even steps toward me, feral, like his cat-eyes: glowing, hungry.
I gulp.
I ask, “Why were you at the cliffs last night? This is a little removed from your area—isn’t it?” I toy with the words, letting a hint of sardonic innocence creep into my voice. “I mean, aren’t you the big shot now? Aren’t you supposed to be anchoring?”
I’ve caught him off guard.
I knew I would.
I follow the verbal jab with, “Hmmm. Could it be you wanted to come over to this neighborhood to see me?”
I’ve got him.
He doesn’t blush or fumble; he’s too adroit for that.
But he blusters a bit. “I’m turning down the desk job. I’m not old enough. Got too much energy for that.”
Then he gets me.
His voice as innocently sardonic as my own, he says, “There’s too many fish in the sea to be tied down to just … one … desk.”
It’s cliché, I suppose.
But it hurts.
It does.
I just nod.
The sun is nearly on top of our heads; sweat beads down both our faces.
Finally, I say, “Thanks for the help, Hugo.”
He reaches to the ground, picks up his light-blue button-down shirt, and wipes it under his T-shirt, and when I catch a peek of his hard abs my heart flutters, so much so that I’ve got to feign looking down at my dirty, uneven fingernails as he brushes the moisture off his biceps, his neck, his chiseled face, then tosses the material over his shoulder.
“Anytime, Ez ...” He turns away.
I know …
I could just let him go, but I want to see what he’s driving these days.
I follow him up the hill, make a left turn around the front of the house, and stand in the driveway.
There it is …
His same old, same old.
The Hummer.
It’s a vintage car, hasn’t been manufactured in several years. But it lives on as the universal symbol of gas-guzzling atrocities.
I can almost hear him inwardly groan. He knows what’s coming. He tries to deflect it by glancing over at my little Ford and saying, “Nice hybrid.”
I tilt my head over toward the Hummer.
“Nice gigantic carbon footprint-maker,” I respond.
“Don’t judge a car by its cover.”
“I’m not judging the car,” I say. “It’s you, Hugo. When are you going to get the environmentally friendly car that you’re always telling me you’re going to get?”
He gives me a look, at once vulnerable and fierce.
“I’ll have Suze call you,” he says.
Ouch. Now, that really hurt.
Suze.