Chapter 16

“Sarah, what was the name of that resort you went to in Big Sur? Where you met the Blackwells?” Alma Gordon walked with Sarah into the building later that same night. She noted how Sarah slowed to match her gait. The girl was so conscientious.

“Gosh, it seems like such a long time ago, but I was there the last week of May. It’s called Paradise Cove. And it truly is a paradise. The rooms are huge, and they’re all suites, I think because it’s family oriented. The food is pretty good, considering they’ve got a captive audience. And the setting is spectacular. Gardens and a pool and the cliffs and the ocean. I don’t know how they do it for the prices.”

“It sounds wonderful,” Mrs. Gordon said.

“Just thinking about it makes me want to go back. It was a pretty easy weekend trip.”

“I was thinking of going myself. It sounds like it would be appropriate for Baby Owen, and Mr. Glenn and I were thinking of taking a trip together.” Mrs. Gordon peeked up at Sarah to gauge her response.

Sarah didn’t miss a beat, bless her heart. She just smiled at Mrs. Gordon and said, “I think you both would love it.”

Sarah told her it was a small resort and she might have to leave a message to make her reservation, and it did take a few calls to get through. Sarah also asked her to see if there were two rooms available. Mrs. Gordon was surprised when Sarah suggested that they all go together, but it made perfect sense. Sarah wanted to go back. Mrs. Gordon didn’t drive, and Mr. Glenn had not been looking forward to driving on those twisty roads. He said his reflexes weren’t up to it. Sarah had borrowed Frances Noonan’s car when she went the first time, and she said she’d feel better about taking the car again if it wasn’t just for herself. Mr. Glenn offered his car, but Sarah couldn’t drive a stick shift. She said she was on an easy rotation that month and any weekend would work. The resort had room for them the last weekend of July, which sounded perfect.

Frances Noonan arrived with oatmeal cookies as Mrs. Gordon finished her packing. Her horoscope that morning read, “Food plays a role today,” and she eyed the cookies hungrily.

“Hope I made enough. I know what an appetite Mr. Glenn has. He ate an entire blueberry pie himself last week, kept shaving off another piece, another piece. That man sure can eat,” Mrs. Noonan said with a smile.

As she spoke, Mr. Glenn stepped out of Alma’s bathroom, her various pill bottles in his hand. Mrs. Noonan’s back was to him as she set the cookie plate on the counter. Mrs. Gordon stood helplessly between them as Mrs. Noonan continued talking.

“He ate that leftover roasted chicken I was saving for Sarah, just kept picking at it until it was gone. And the last time the ladies came, he ate all the apple muffins himself, six of them, before the ladies even arrived. I had to serve coffee cake instead, remember?”

Mrs. Noonan turned around. Mrs. Gordon saw her smile evaporate. Mr. Glenn stood there, his portly shape on full display in his undershirt.

“Oh, oh. Sorry,” said Mrs. Noonan.

“Oh, dear. Oh, dear,” said Mrs. Gordon.

Mr. Glenn, bless him, was unabashed. “You are absolutely right, Frances. I hope you have more because those cookies look delicious.”

Frances Noonan smiled and said she did, and she’d be happy to send them with another plate. “It gives me no end of pleasure to bake for someone who appreciates it so.”

Mrs. Gordon thought this should smooth things over. She piped up anyway to change the subject. “And I appreciate you, too, Albert, for helping with my pills.” She turned to Mrs. Noonan. “I can’t open the bottles myself, so he’s putting all my pills in this little box for our trip.” She held up a yellow plastic daily pill container.

But Frances didn’t look at it. She was already at the door, and her voice sounded flat when she said, “I’ll get those cookies.” She didn’t look at Alma when she handed them over a few minutes later. Oh, dear. Had they offended her somehow? Shouldn’t it be Albert who was offended?

They packed the cookies in the car along with all the baby gear. Mrs. Gordon thought Mrs. Noonan might come out to say good-bye, but she did not.

The weather was agreeably perfect as they left San Francisco. The sun was shining and it was almost seventy degrees by ten o’clock, very warm for the city. Mrs. Gordon rolled down the back windows of the old car, and Baby Owen turned his head to the wind and cried out with glee.

They stopped for a short visit with Mrs. Gordon’s daughter, Sylvia, and her husband, Harold, in Sunnyvale. The top of Mr. Glenn’s head glistened in the heat, and he had to mop his brow with one of Baby Owen’s spit up cloths. Poor man wasn’t meant for this kind of heat.

Sylvia and Harold had been married less than two years, but you’d never know it. Mrs. Gordon admired their easy, comfortable relationship. You’d think they’d known each other their whole lives. They even looked alike, with dark hair and glasses and big, toothy smiles. Constant smiles.

Sylvia produced some water toys for Baby Owen, a beach ball and a blow-up turtle for him to ride in at the swimming pool.

“That turtle took me all morning to blow up. It was impossible. Treat it with care.” Harold said it with a smile, of course.

“I had no problem at all with the beach ball.” Sylvia grinned at him. “I think you’d better head to the gym more often, build up those lungs.”

“But can you do this?” Harold hoisted Baby Owen onto his shoulders.

“Nope,” Sylvia said. “Can’t do that. But watch out, he’s spitting up into your hair.”

“Oh, dear, she’s right.” Mrs. Gordon hurried over to him. “And Mr. Glenn has the spit up cloth. Oh, dear.”

Harold just laughed. He brought the baby around front and swiped his wet hair with his hand.

“Here you go, honey.” Sylvia handed him a wet towel. They stood there beaming like newlyweds. Ah, youth.

Although Sylvia and Harold weren’t young. They were both in their forties. Sylvia had waited to get married. “I’m waiting for the right man, not just any man,” she’d always said. And she seemed to have gotten him.

They lived in a 1950s era Eichler house, all sliding glass doors and natural wood. The house had belonged to Alma’s older sister and her husband, and Sylvia moved in when they died. The house was perfect for children, with an inner courtyard as well as a front and back yard, but Baby Owen was the only child other than Sylvia to play there. Radiant heat warmed the floor for Owen’s crawling legs. All the homes were surrounded by tall fences, left over from the original design of the neighborhood. Even so, Sylvia and Harold knew their neighbors well.

Sylvia was a landscape designer and her front yard was immaculate, with orange and lemon trees and bougainvillea that spilled over the fence. Harold was a junior high science teacher. They met when Sylvia’s twelve-year-old neighbor asked her to give a talk for his class on edible plants. Sylvia suspected the boy’s mother, Kate, of setting the whole thing up, but Kate claimed innocence. They married six months after they met, and the young neighbor had a special place in the ceremony.

Mrs. Gordon looked at the two of them now, with Baby Owen swinging on Harold’s bent arm. How sad they wouldn’t have children of their own. Sylvia had wanted children, but she gave up on that idea years ago. She was very practical, her Sylvia.

Sylvia sent them on their way with glass bottles of iced tea. The good weather held until they finished the drinks. Then, as they came over the summit on Highway 17, the skies turned gray, and by the time they got to Monterey they could barely see the ocean because of the fog. Thank goodness Sarah was driving. The curves and the cliffs would be treacherous enough in good weather, let alone the poor visibility they had today. Mr. Glenn could never have done it. He looked a little pale even in the passenger seat.

And poor Baby Owen. It was a long trip for him, and thankfully he slept through most of it, nestled into his car seat, his head lolling to the side like a wilted flower. But toward the end, and it was her own fault for giving him apple juice instead of milk, he threw up, all of a sudden with no warning.

With no place to pull over on the narrow, twisty road, they drove on. Mrs. Gordon tried her best to sop up the sour fluid with their beach towel. She rolled the windows down again, even though the air was now cold.

An actual drizzle greeted them when they pulled into the resort in the midafternoon. They all opened their doors and climbed out at once, breathing in the fresh, wet, vomitless air. Sarah somehow still seemed composed, and she actually apologized for the weather, saying she hoped she hadn’t oversold the place, especially if they were going to be indoors the whole weekend.

“That’s what I planned anyway,” Mr. Glenn said. “This is my first trip with Alma, after all.” He gave her a little squeeze on the arm.

Mrs. Gordon was mortified. What would Sarah think?

But there was Sarah, smiling as always, rolling up the car windows and acting like there was nothing wrong with two people in their seventies planning to spend their weekend canoodling. With a baby, of course. What a dear she was.