41
The drive to Marin would have been beautiful, had we been in the mood to enjoy the Golden Gate Bridge, the rich yellow, rolling hills dotted with dark coast oaks. Not this time. After we got off the freeway in Novato and passed the usual new shopping centers that look the same everywhere these days, we drove on a two-lane road that wound among giant oaks and golden pastures.
We found the farmhouse set in the midst of an apple orchard. It looked just as I had imagined it––or, rather, as I remembered it. I had been there before; that is Lexi had.
White clapboard siding, covered front porch––style elements known among architectural historians as farmhouse Victorian. The decorations are much simpler and more functional than on the fancy painted ladies of San Francisco.
The house, barn, and some orchard were still intact, but instead of being set in fifty acres, a single acre was surrounded by a housing development of McMansions. A sedan and an old Land Rover were parked in front of the barn. We found the front door and knocked.
No one answered. We peeked in windows, pounded on another door. There was no sign of anyone yet the house was furnished and a bowl of fruit was visible in the kitchen.
Steven checked out the barn. I walked through elderly, gnarled apple trees. I saw Birkenstock clad feet and worn denim-covered legs at the top of a wood ladder.
“Hello, hi.” I stood near the bottom of the ladder. There was no response to my greeting. “Hello,” I repeated. “Hi.”
“I hear ya. Wadda want?” asked a gruff voice.
“Can we talk?” I still couldn’t see a head and didn’t know if I was addressing a man or a woman.
“We’re talkin’, aren’t we?”
“My name is Alexandra Nichols. I’m looking for some people who used to live here. A couple, the caretakers, and some friends of my father’s.”
“Can’t help ya.”
“Do you live here?” I asked.
“Sometimes.”
“How long have you lived here?”
“Why is that any of your business?”
“I would very much appreciate your help,” I said.
“I’m busy.”
“Could I come back later?” I figured he or she would have to come down that ladder eventually. Maybe I’d just wait.
“No.”
“Are you the owner?”
“Get the hell out of here.”
Steven joined me. “Who are you talking to?”
I shrugged, pointed up to the legs.
“Hello,” Steven said to the legs. “Sorry to bother you. Could we just ask a few questions?”
“Oh for godsakes.” The feet started down the ladder and a head swathed in netting over a hat emerged from the branches. “Are you friends of my son?”
“Who’s your son?” I asked.
Steven gave me a look that said ‘you are going about this all wrong’. “Our father used to visit here some decades back when he was in college. His friend Jamie’s parents owned the place then. We’re trying to locate the couple who acted as caretakers at that time.”
Hands covered in leather work gloves unwrapped the netting and removed the hat uncovering the attractive, wrinkled face of an older woman. “You have any idea how long it took me to get all this crap on and finally do something about trimming these damn trees?” She walked toward the house. We followed. “Wait here,” she said when we got to the front porch. A few minutes later she emerged from the house, handed us a piece of paper, and walked back to the orchard.
I looked at the paper. At the top it said, “Caretakers” followed by “Susan and Mac McAller” and an address in Novato. Now it came back to me. We had called them Mr. and Mrs. Mac.
“Who was that?” I asked Steven.
He shrugged.