The Café, Santa Barbara, 2000
It was almost eleven o’clock at night, and the Café was dim and relatively silent. Only a few late diners lingered at the tables, and the waiters were cleaning off tables and setting them for tomorrow’s lunch. James sat alone at the bar, nursing some good bourbon. Jack Ward was washing glasses and watching his staff prepare to close the restaurant.
“My brother died,” announced James, lifting his glass and watching the ice tumble about.
“I know. There was an obituary in the paper last month. I’m sorry,” replied Jack. He paused in his chores to stand and talk with James for a moment. “I understand that the services were held in San Francisco.”
“Yup. Old Geoff refused to return to Santa Barbara even in death. They scattered his ashes in the bay somewhere. I went to the funeral. I even spoke—and said that I was sorry that Geoff and I were too stupid to put aside our problems and be brothers. But everybody glared at me.”
Jack wisely said nothing, merely nodding in understanding.
James smiled sourly. “My sister, Katie, says that he forgave me before he died. He forgave me for being an unthinking bigot. Did he ask if I ever forgave him for being less than the brother I wanted? Did I ever forgive him for being too dumb-assed stubborn to come back to Santa Barbara? Nope, nobody worries about what good ole James thinks.” He drained his glass. “Here, give me one more, and then I’ll be out of your hair.”
Jack Ward put a lot of ice and a small amount of bourbon into a fresh glass for him. “On the house,” he said, his hazel eyes wise and weary. “Not much that you can do when folks are dead.”
“No, I suppose not. Geoffrey blamed it all on Santa Barbara, you know. He claimed that my father helped make this city a paradise for rich bigots, that our mother didn’t give a rat’s ass about us, and that our sisters should get out of here before they were suffocated.”
Jack shrugged. “This is a good city. But it has changed—is changing. I remember when all of the very wealthy used to eat out only on Thursday nights. It was staff’s night off, so everybody knew that eating out was needed.”
James nodded. “I dimly remember. Of course, my folks never took us out to eat with them. They said we were too messy and didn’t eat our food. They were right, of course. But just once, it would have been nice …”
Jack’s manager, Alfredo, came up to the bar, still looking fresh and energetic after a very long working day. “Did you eat yet, Mr. James?” he asked in a friendly and professional tone.
“Yes, thanks, Alfredo. I did eat. Went to a banquet, in fact, out at the new resort. We’re getting together a group to build some majorly beautiful condos down here near the beach.”
“That’s nice,” commented Alfredo. “Well, have a good evening.” He moved away, and James turned back to Jack. “That fellow could run all of the restaurants at the resort single-handedly. He’s a good one …”
Jack nodded. “Yes. Sure that you wouldn’t like some coffee and cheesecake?”
“What flavor?” asked James.
“Pineapple.”
“Ugh. My least favorite flavor. No, thanks. I’m okay, Jack. Things just seem to be a bit strange tonight.”
“Sometimes, it just happens that way, James.” He looked up and smiled as he saw his pretty dark-haired wife approach. “There’s Emily—time for me to go. You take care.”
James, realizing dimly that he had been dismissed, left the restaurant and walked into the damp evening air. It was February, and Geoff had been dead for weeks. He didn’t make it to the new millennium. That was a pity, but soon there would be a Geoffrey Cobham AIDS Foundation here in Santa Barbara, funded by Aunt Bette. Soon, his sister Madeleine would probably have a movie made from the book that she wrote. Katie should marry that doctor of Geoff’s from San Francisco. Best of all, James was going to become a very rich man if he could keep the city’s Planning Commission befuddled. He might even donate a lot of his money to Geoff’s foundation. Wouldn’t that be a switch …
James took a deep breath of the evening air and pushed the button on his keypad to unlock his new BMW. As he clasped the door handle, he turned quickly to look behind him. For a moment, he thought that he saw three men, the old ancestors, lurking in the darkness and waiting for him. “I’m still alive, you bastards. Just sit on it for a while, all right! I’ve lost weight, take my medicine, and work out in the gym. I’m gonna live for a long time. Go clean up that tavern and wait for me!”
He got into the car, tuned the radio on high volume to an old rock station, and drove down the silent street.
“April,” muttered Maddie. “The cruelest month.” She sat alone in the Café, comfortably nested in the cushioned booth by the fireplace and sipped at a cup of coffee. “Coffee!” she muttered to herself. “It is Saturday, and I’m drinking bloody coffee!” Then she shrugged. “Must be the weather.”
Spring in Santa Barbara meant gray coastal fog. It crept in during the early evenings, obscured the night sky, and hung about until late in the afternoons. Sometimes, the overcast remained all day and, occasionally, for several dreary weeks as the cooler ocean air was sucked inland by heat in the valleys. Maddie had always hated this sort of weather. She also hated people who were late, and Kate was late.
The lunch crowd at the Café was gone, and Big Band music playing softly in the background enhanced the quiet mood in the dim room. Maddie remembered most of the words to these old songs from the 1930s and ’40s. “So why can’t I remember where my damned car keys are?” she wondered. “I can’t possibly be getting old …”
Kate appeared, dressed in a gray sweat suit. Her hair was tied up in a rubber band, and she was becomingly flushed. “I am sorry, Mad. I went to the gym this morning and didn’t get your message until I was almost in the shower. You said that it was urgent that I meet you here—” She flopped down, grabbed her sister’s water glass, took a large gulp, and then a deep breath. “Okay, what’s up?”
Maddie shook her head slowly. “You’re actually exercising? Hell must have frozen over.”
Kate smiled. “Well, I’ve been trying to exercise because I’ve been gaining weight. Nick fusses at me about taking care of myself!”
“Too much contentment,” replied Maddie. “Happiness makes people fat, they say.”
“Hmmm … so you’re drinking coffee!! What’s wrong?” asked Kate suddenly.
“I’m trying to be serious today. It is the weather—and the fact that I’m a grandmother!” announced Maddie with a wry grin. “I’m actually a grandma!”
“Oh, Mad, I am so glad. Alicia’s baby—boy or girl?”
“Girl. I’m booked to fly back to New York in three days. It looks as if Alicia is finally going to marry Roger Lord after all—something instinctive, I suppose. They’re going to nest legally. His parents are really upset, or so she tells me, because Roger wants to marry a white girl.”
Kate shrugged. “There are all shades of racists, Mad.”
“Well, I’m going to meet them and assert my rights to our granddaughter.”
“Name?”
Maddie giggled. “Guess what—Alicia and Roger are going to name her Lacey Rebecca Lord. They read the book!”
“This is too much,” said Kate, taking a deep breath. “I must go shopping at once. I’m a great-aunt—or is it grandaunt? Anyway … but how did they read our book?”
“Aha, that reminds me. I have an early birthday present for you.” Maddie handed Kate a foil-wrapped package.
“My birthday isn’t for two months yet—”
“Just shut up and open it!”
Kate tore away the foil. The soft cover book was very thick, and the jacket showed a hazy watercolor of a man and woman holding hands, both wearing costumes that might have been from almost any era. They were walking down a winding forest path, into the mist beyond. “My God,” she breathed. “It is our book. You called it Come Away, My Darling.”
“I had a few copies made up at a quickie printing shop. You know, just for the family and our agent. Do you like the cover idea? Diana painted it. I think that she’s got real talent in this graphics business. By the way, you’ve got to go over those legal documents again …” She paused, realizing that Kate wasn’t listening to her.
Kate still couldn’t believe her eyes. She opened the book and flipped through the thick pages reverently. “By Katherine Cobham, with Madeleine and Geoffrey Cobham,” she read aloud.
“So, how does it feel, little sister? I think that we’ve got a chance to get it published.”
“I’m numb,” she said. “This can’t be real.”
“Well, it is. Old William and Rebecca and Juba and all of those folks are right there in the page. They’ll never be dead again, even if we just send our own copies to genealogy libraries!”
“Oh Maddie—” Kate sniffed, wiped at her eyes, and the sisters hugged each other for a long time. “Oh, dear Lord, I’m an author and you’re a grandma. This is too much!”
“Let’s have champagne,” said Maddie, dabbing at her eyes with a napkin. “Enoch! Come over here and see your name in print! There’s Jack Ward—let’s show him our book. Maybe it’s gonna make this place as famous as the Algonquin Hotel!”
“I don’t think that the Algonquin is very famous anymore, Mad,” laughed Kate. “We’re getting old and may never get published.”
“Oh, stop it, Katie. I’m not old, and I’m still ordering that champagne!”