Chapter Twenty-Three 9 page

She hesitated at the door, drawn to Paula’s beauty and the desire to please her—to be pleased by her, but her mind reverted to the last image she had—the two of them cuddling in the kitchen, their lips igniting their passion and the look on Eric’s face when she realized he was watching. She quickly went inside, unable to look at Paula again.

Chapter Sixteen

The sound of the screen door smacking shut between them reverberated in Paula’s ears as she drove out of Eugene. Steph had promised to help her with Francine’s ashes, but at the sight of her husband, she’d abandoned her. At least that was how it felt.

Steph’s choice probably was an indicator of what she’d do about her life—return to Arizona with Lawrence and Eric. The strong Steph that scurried up the cheerleading pyramid and thrust out her pom-poms twenty feet in the air was gone, replaced by a woman whose entire adult life revolved around serving two males. Paula felt terrible that she’d missed out on Steph’s life for so long. They’d supported each other in childhood and her heart hurt imagining Steph’s confidence whittled away year after year, stuck in that upper-crust Scottsdale life.

“And you’re such a great catch,” she muttered, thinking about her own unemployment and potential disinheritance.

How could she ever compete with a rich plastic surgeon? She turned the Malibu down Spruce Street toward the university. She was suddenly grateful that she hadn’t yet mentioned to Steph that she’d been fired. Based on the events of the last few hours, she decided to visit her mother’s other holdings before going up to Tillamook. If a life with Steph was impossible, would endless one-night stands be so bad? At least she’d have sex and money.

The rental property Francine owned was a three-bedroom bungalow south of the U of O. She pulled up on the other side of the street and was surprised by the curbside appeal. Most of the houses near the university were often in disrepair since the tenants were usually students who didn’t make time for upkeep. This one seemed to be the exception. The lawn was mowed, the hedge trimmed and bright flowers lined the front porch in colorful pots. The tenants were definitely neat freaks and she could picture her mother personally reviewing the applications and choosing whom to interview to ensure only quality people inhabited her property.

The house was quaint and sat on a small lot, necessitating that it be built up and not out. She imagined the rooms were tiny but served their purpose to students. She remembered how little time she spent in her dorm room and later her college apartment. There was always a study group meeting or a party happening. She’d loved college. And you certainly enjoyed your share of women, too. She blushed even though she was alone. Her roommates referred to her as Casanova’s sister because she’d bedded so many co-eds.

Steph had missed almost the entire collegiate experience. She pictured her sleepless nights after Eric was born. Instead of dancing until two in the morning, she would’ve been nursing her newborn son or tending to his colic. While Paula pulled all-nighters studying for finals, she would have been planning Junior League events and acting as the perfect wife for Lawrence. Her life revolved around other people and she’d never had any time for herself as an adult. She imagined the thought of being alone scared Steph immensely.

She stared at the house and wondered how long her mother had owned it. She picked up Ted’s file and thumbed through the property details. It had been built in 1946 and Francine bought it in 1990, after Paula was done with school. It pleased her to know that her mother hadn’t owned it when Paula was still in Eugene. Somehow it made her deception bearable.

She headed downtown toward the heart of old Eugene and the commercial building that was her mother’s next investment. It sat on a corner at a prime location. The other three corners had already received major face-lifts, the buildings newly painted and parking lots repaved. There were no chain stores and the area seemed dedicated to the local businesspeople making a play for loyal customers or clients who might actually walk or ride a bike.

She immediately liked the sturdy old red brick building and large windows that faced the street. Three brown doors indicated a place for three tenants. Paula noticed the largest space was unoccupied. She peered through the window at what was once some sort of eating establishment. She could see a kitchen area and service counter and a few discarded pieces of furniture sat in the corner. She guessed her mother had been without a tenant for a while.

Maude’s Closet, a vintage collectible and antique store, occupied the middle space. A bell tinkled when she pushed open the door and she automatically smiled at the old hobby horse that greeted her. She’d had one when she was very young, a gift from her father. Somewhere in the old family photo album was a picture of her riding the horse—Bart. Every inch of floor space was packed with memorabilia and display cases. She could imagine her mother sifting through the treasures for hours.

An elderly lady emerged from one of the aisles carrying an antique vase. “May I help you?”

She wore a lavender pantsuit and Paula thought of a nearly identical outfit that she’d tossed into the bonfire. Perhaps this lady and Francine shopped together.

“Um, well, I’m Paula, Francine Kemper’s daughter?”

She stuck her hand out and the lady met it hesitantly. “It’s nice to meet you. I’m Geraldine Appleton, the owner of Maude’s Closet. I’m sorry for your loss. It’s always difficult to lose a parent, regardless of what kind of person he or she was.”

Paula blinked, taken aback by her forwardness. “I guess you didn’t get along with my mother?”

“Nope,” she said on her way to the register. “Francine wasn’t what I would call an excellent landlord.”

“What do you mean?”

She smiled sympathetically. “Sweetie, I don’t want to be telling stories on the dead. It’s not right.”

Paula picked up a spinning top that could’ve belonged to her great-grandfather. “No, I’d really like to know. This building may be part of my inheritance so if you didn’t view my mother as a good landlord, I’d like to know why. It could help me.”

Geraldine seemed to weigh her request against her understanding of good manners. “Well, considering you may become the boss and you are her daughter, if you want to know I’ll tell you.”

Paula nodded. “I want to know.”

She stared at her icily. “Your mother was a cheapskate. She did as little as possible to keep this building operational. Last summer we went almost a week without air conditioning. Drea, that’s the owner next door, had to threaten Francine’s attorney with another attorney.”

Paula was shocked. “Really? People thought my mother was the epitome of kindness and I can’t imagine she’d let you suffer in the heat and humidity.”

“Oh, she made a point of telling us that we’d brought it on ourselves.”

“How?”

“One day she came by and saw that I’d set the thermostat a little lower than she liked and she gave me this lecture about conserving energy and watching costs. So when the compressor blew the next week, she blamed us for overworking the unit. Can you believe it?”

She rubbed her eyes. She could believe it. She was reminded of the many days during her teen years when her mother wouldn’t turn on the A/C. “We live in Oregon,” Francine argued. “We don’t need air conditioning.” And sometimes that was true, but at the peak of summer it was helpful.

“I’m sorry that it hasn’t been easy for you. I’m not sure if I’ll inherit the store but if I do I’ll try to always be considerate.”

Geraldine smiled at her sincerity. “So why wouldn’t you inherit? Is there some sort of long-lost relative who’s trying to take it from you? I thought Francine only had one child.”

“Yeah, I’m it.” She toyed with a cute figurine on the counter and avoided her gaze. “There are some provisions in the will and I’m not sure I want to follow them.”

Geraldine narrowed her eyes and gave a slight nod. “I hear you. I imagine my life with Francine was only a slice of the pie that you had to eat.”

Paula said nothing but headed toward the door. “Oh, who was Maude?”

She grinned. “Maude was my old dog, bless her soul. She used to sleep in the closet. I saw her there one day and I thought it would be a good name for the store. I’d picked my brain for months and then I saw her and I liked it. That’s Maude right there,” she said, pointing behind Paula.

When she turned, she nearly jumped out of her sneakers at the sight of the stuffed Greyhound standing at attention. “Oh, what a beautiful dog. Well, I should be going. I’ll let you know what happens.” She offered a slight wave and headed out, trying not to giggle.

A neon fluorescent sign hung over the door at the last storefront. She assumed it was a hair salon since the name was Cut Upz. Sitar music greeted her and the smell of incense was heavy. The shop was small with only three cutting stations. A punker sat in the waiting area reading a guitar magazine, his head bopping to the music of his iPod while he quietly sang along.

The furniture was eclectic. A row of movie theatre seats faced two chairs that had obviously been part of an airplane at one point. She chuckled when she saw the oxygen masks dangling from the ceiling above them. Across the room a woman in a tiny miniskirt that barely covered her bottom hunched over a large man at a sink. The tattoos on her arms wiggled as she scrubbed his hair.

“Be with you in a minute,” she said flatly without looking up.

Paula sat down across from the iPod guy in another empty barber chair and noticed the wall behind him, which contained rows of shelves displaying vintage lunchboxes. There was Snoopy on a lunchbox shaped like his doghouse but most were the traditional rectangles with the plastic handles. Scooby Doo, Six Million Dollar Man, E.T.—even soccer great Pele had been memorialized in tin. Most were used and very old.

“Did you have one as a kid?” the woman asked as she approached.

Paula pointed. “Third one from the top. Donny and Marie.”

“Poor you,” she said dramatically. “Somebody gave me that box. I never actually had to carry it.”

Paula chuckled. “My mother was into wholesomeness.” She held out her hand. “I’m Paula and my mother was Francine Kemper.”

“Drea.”

Her perfect lips formed a slight smile and Paula could tell she rebelled against traditional good looks. Purple streaks raced through her white-blond hair and thick black eyeliner hid the rich gold of her irises. It was more important to be punk than pretty but her physical beauty was evident despite her attempt to hide it behind excessive makeup.

“I heard about your mother. That sucks.”

“Thanks. So what did you think of my mom?” she asked, prepared for a tongue-thrashing.

Drea laughed. “Well, if you’ve already been over to Geraldine’s shop then you know your mother wasn’t easy to get along with. I had all sorts of ideas for this place, how to really liven up the atmosphere, but if it involved painting the walls, adding lights or anything permanent, Francine said no. I had to beg for the lunchbox collection.” Her eyes twinkled. “Now that I’ve met you, I wonder if she agreed just to preserve Donny and Marie’s memory.”

Paula grimaced. “It wouldn’t surprise me.”

She gazed at the many plants scattered throughout and the various simple touches. The unblemished white walls detracted from the look Drea wanted to achieve and no amount of flora or cute displays could erase the hospital-like environment. She smirked at her mother’s stubbornness. Why would she object to a little action? She immediately rolled her eyes. C’mon, Paula, this is your mother.

“I think this is an awesome place,” Paula said and Drea beamed at the compliment.

“Too bad you’re not the landlord, or are you my landlord now?” she asked as an afterthought. “I suppose somebody’s got to inherit. Please tell me it’s you!”

She instantly liked the idea of being Drea’s landlord—and knowing Drea. And if it weren’t for Steph, she’d definitely make a pass at the lunchbox lady who she was rather certain swung both ways.

Paula took a deep breath. It was too difficult to explain and it would cast Francine in an awful light.

“Maybe,” she said. “There’s still some stuff to work out.”

Drea stepped closer and Paula noticed her tiny nose stud. “Well, I really hope it works out.”

She smiled seductively and Paula stared at her black lined lips. She knew women who paid thousands for collagen injections to achieve the sculpted little pout that naturally formed on her face. Suddenly feeling as though she were sucking the air out of the room, Paula nodded and quickly left.

She stood on the sidewalk and breathed deeply. An image of Steph wiped Drea away and she smiled.

She returned to her car and started up I-5 toward Tillamook. The weather was fabulous and she longed for her convertible Mercedes, the open road and the wind blowing through her hair. The cramped quarters of the enclosed Malibu did little for her growing restlessness. She’d had a day to comprehend the implications of the codicil and she now appreciated Ted’s advice. She was glad she didn’t immediately sign a document to give away her inheritance, particularly after the little drama with Lawrence and Eric. She knew Steph hated Lawrence but she’d do anything for Eric. She’d lived her life for her son and if he couldn’t handle his mother being with a woman, Paula grudgingly acknowledged that Steph would again give up any chance of happiness to secure his love.

She popped a CD mix into the slot and smooth jazz calmed her nerves. She was assuming the worst. She’d shared some amazing moments with Steph this week so maybe she needed to give their past a little credit. But when she thought of the intervening seventeen years and how long they’d been apart, she held little hope she’d win in the competition for her love.

And if Steph went back to Arizona would Paula ever want anyone else? She frowned at the truth. Other than Steph and Nia, Paula had never been with any woman for longer than six months and usually her mini-relationships were littered with one-night stands or quickie affairs designed to doom any long-term liaisons. At least that’s what her shrink said.

So if Steph went back to Lawrence there really wasn’t anything keeping her from accepting the inheritance, other than her principles, which desperately wanted to tell Ted Ruth where her mother could shove it. But her principles didn’t have to buy groceries or find a job in a tight market. How hard would it be to sign some sort of legal paper promising never to fall in love?

But what if Steph changed her mind?

That wouldn’t happen.

If Steph returned to Lawrence it would be like stepping into a time capsule and sealing the door shut. There would be no turning back and she doubted Steph would even want to remain friends. It would be as if the last few days had never occurred.

She needed some type of assurance immediately. She flipped open her phone and called Steph. When her cell went to voice mail, she called the B and B and got Caroline.

“She’s not here, Paula. She went out.”

Paula heard the hesitation in her voice. She was hiding something. “Oh, she told me to call her this afternoon. She was going to take the safe in and we wanted to do it before five.”

“I see.” Caroline’s guard came down and she sighed. “Well, she should be back from Ted’s office in just a little while.”

She was seeing Ted Ruth, probably asking about her court case, wondering if her new affection for girls was going to ruin her divorce settlement.

“Okay, well, I’ll catch her on her cell,” she said casually, hoping her voice wasn’t cracking. “Um, has Lawrence called? I’ve been really worried all day. He and Steph had a big argument this morning.”

She made it sound like she was privy to the entire discussion and Caroline sighed in frustration. “He’s called at least five times. I finally gave the phone to Rick who had a few choice words for him. What happened?”

“Just divorce details. I’ll call her cell,” she said and quickly hung up.

She glanced down at the speedometer and realized she was cruising at ninety miles an hour, passing every car in her path. Oregonians were some of the most law-abiding, patient people who never hurried to get anywhere. She let up on the pedal and watched the road before her. An idea gnawed at her brain and she focused on the blacktop in front of her.

Like a word jumble, her epiphanies often needed reordering. She waited patiently until the idea came into a logical formation. She should take the inheritance. Doing so would keep the status quo of her life. She’d forsaken Steph, refused to fight for Nia and extinguished any possibility of other relationships because it would’ve meant standing up to Francine. She wouldn’t stand up to her in life so why would she bother now? She glanced at the tin box sitting on the seat, containing Francine’s ashes. Her mother had controlled her personal life for the last twenty-five years and it looked as though it would continue if Paula wanted any semblance of a rich life.

She laughed out loud. “You win, Mom! I get it now!”

With a new sense of freedom she turned onto the 101 and drove the last stretch of highway to Tillamook. It was already three o’clock so she doubted she’d be able to see the lighthouse today. She needed to check into a motel and take a shower.

She’d be thanking Ted Ruth for his sage advice. She’d already thought about ways to help Geraldine and especially Drea, who’d be thrilled to know she could paint the walls any damn color she wanted, and she couldn’t wait to see the lighthouse. A small pebble of regret lodged in her heart that she couldn’t shake. To forsake true love in writing was difficult to absorb. She thought of Mr. Darcy and Elizabeth—and Steph.

She pulled out a map she’d found in her mother’s desk and began to search for the Terrible Tilly Motel. Her mother had made pencil notes in the margins and Paula remembered she’d mentioned it once to Debbie. She turned onto Main Street and found the simple motel, a Sixties-style two-story where all the doors faced the pool. The office was attached to a house but when she went inside it was vacant. A curtained doorway behind the desk suggested a connecting point between the house and the office and she was rather certain she heard the theme song to the Andy Griffith Show. She politely dinged the bell but no one appeared. She waited for the final bars of Andy’s whistling and dinged again.

“Just a moment,” a woman’s voice called.

The canned laughter disappeared and a petite, ancient woman emerged from between the curtains. She smiled brightly and in an incredibly articulate voice said, “Hello. Welcome to the Terrible Tilly Motel. My name is Estelle and I’m one of the proprietors. Will you be staying with us this evening?”

Paula was reminded of her mother and a level of courtesy and politeness only found in older generations. She swallowed hard and returned the woman’s pleasant smile. “Yes, I’d like a room, please, and directions to the Tillamook lighthouse.”

The woman held up a finger and reached for an old-fashioned guest book. “First things first. Let’s get you registered. Will you please sign?”

Paula signed her name on a thin line at the bottom of a page. “It looks as though you have a lot of people staying here right now.”

“We do. In Tillamook it’s all about the cheese.” She said this in a whisper, as if it were a well-kept secret. Paula doubted that anyone who visited a grocery store didn’t know about Tillamook cheese.

Estelle gave her a key on a homemade wooden key fob. The number four was burned into the side and Paula guessed she’d just been handed somebody’s seventh grade shop project.

“Room four is our last vacancy tonight. Just out the door and to the left.”

Paula looked at her quizzically. “Don’t you need to take my credit card information or write down my license plate number?”

Estelle scoffed. “Oh, sweetie, you look trustworthy. Besides I don’t understand all of the new fangled machines like computers and faxes. I’ve never sent an e-mail in my life and I’m proud of it.”

“You’re not missing much.”

“I didn’t think so. I do enjoy those funny dog and cat pictures that my niece gets on her e-mail. You know, the ones that show a bird pecking at a dog’s head or some such nonsense. And there’s always a humorous caption? Have you seen those?”

“Oh, yes. Many times.”

She laughed heartily. “They’re a hoot.” She caught her breath and added, “My niece is the one who understands how to run the computer.” Estelle flipped her thumb toward the small desk and Paula noticed a very old machine. “When you check out in the morning, she’ll take care of you.” She put on her reading glasses and looked at the entry in the guest book. “Ms. Paula Kemper.” She looked up, curiously. “Now why does that name sound so familiar?”

“My mother was Francine Kemper. I think she probably stayed here before. She owns the Tillamook lighthouse.”

Recognition flooded Estelle’s face. “Of course! You’re the spitting image of her. How is your mother?”

Paula had prepared herself for that question. “Unfortunately, she passed away recently.”

Estelle’s face dropped. “I’m so sorry, dear. She was a wonderful woman and an excellent guest. We had some lovely conversations about Tillamook and lighthouses…” Her voice faded away as her memories filled her mind. She took a deep breath and gazed at Paula again. “You’ll have to excuse me, sweetie. When you’re older, it’s difficult to hear of death. It’s like someone sending you a reminder notice, you know?”

“I understand. You said you spoke to my mother about Tillamook?”

Estelle seemed relieved to change subjects. “Oh, yes. I remember when your mother was considering the purchase. They’d come up here several times and couldn’t decide whether to do it. It was risky, you know?”

Paula narrowed her eyes. “Why?”

Estelle gestured to an array of pictures on the wall behind Paula. “She isn’t called Terrible Tilly for nothing. She’s a tough nut.”

Paula realized that the Tillamook Rock Lighthouse sat on a treacherous rock away from the shore. Several of the pictures depicted the waves battering the rock and the lighthouse. The dangerous rock stair-stepped two hundred feet to a plateau where Tilly sat. Paula imagined it had been extraordinarily difficult to build.

“So my mother obviously decided to purchase it. What’s the story behind it?”

Estelle stepped to the end photo of the rock without the lighthouse and gestured as if she were a tour guide. “Some say Tilly is shaped like a sea monster. It’s the place where sailors go to die. In the late eighteen hundreds, surveyors decided the rock would be a good place for a lighthouse. The locals disagreed and threatened to sabotage the project. They refused to help and workers who were unfamiliar with the area were acquired.”

Paula could tell from the dramatic quality of Estelle’s voice that she’d given this tour before. She stepped to the next picture, one of Tillamook under construction. “It took two hundred and twenty-four days to level the rock for the lighthouse to be built. The only transportation was by boat and at one point a nor’easter hit and nearly killed them all. They were found clinging to the rocks by a ship that was nearby. But Tilly wasn’t done. She would claim what was hers.”

The next photo depicted the finished Tilly in all her glory. “Five hundred and twenty days later Tillamook Rock was completed but it came with a price—the death of the foreman. The lamp was lit and over the years she earned the name Terrible Tilly. Storms got so bad that rocks would break off and pelt the lamp room, shattering the glass. Sometimes the whole place would flood, filling with seaweed and debris. Repairs became a way of life. Keepers wouldn’t stay. No one with any mental instability lasted long, and there’s one story that said a keeper went after one of his helpers during a severe bout of anxiety.”

Estelle stepped toward a framed newspaper article from the thirties. “Then in nineteen thirty-four, the greatest nor’easter imaginable came to Tillamook. The four keepers, for one would never have been enough, couldn’t control the damage. The place was flooded and the Fresnel lens was destroyed by flying debris. Bolts that anchored the lighthouse were ripped from the rock. When the storm subsided, it was decided that Tilly’s lens wouldn’t be replaced.”

Estelle bowed her head and her voice was reverent. She moved to the last photo, a modern-day color picture of Tillamook. She sighed before she began what Paula suspected was the last chapter. “Tilly’s ownership changed hands several times, like an unwanted pit bull. Rich folk would invest without ever seeing her, in love with the romantic notion of a lighthouse. Then when they visited they were sorely disappointed. A company bought Tilly and turned her into a columbarium—”

“A what?”

“A place to house urns. They thought it would be a wonderful final resting place for those who loved lighthouses, like your mother. Unfortunately they lost their license and Tilly became the victim of vandals and thieves.” Estelle looked up with a smile. “Then Francine came along and gave Tilly a new chance. She purchased Tilly and I believe her intent was to make the columbarium proper and regain the license. That’s what they always talked about.”

Paula held up a hand. “Estelle, you’ve said they a few times. Don’t you mean she?”

Estelle shook her head. “Of course, sweetheart. I know he died and it was your mother’s money.”

“What? Who died?”

Estelle looked confused. “Well, John, darling. Your mother’s beau.”

Paula froze. She only knew one John. “John who?” she asked quietly.

Estelle looked at her as if she should already know the answer. “John South, of course. He came up here with your mother all the time.”

There wasn’t anything to support Paula and she thought she might faint. She held tightly onto her purse and breathed deeply. It helped when Estelle took her arm and steadied her.

“Sweetheart, are you all right? You look pale.”

She closed her eyes as she realized the truth, the puzzle pieces coming together. It all made sense.

Please, God. There can’t be any more secrets or surprises. I may be under fifty but I’ll die of a heart attack.

John South, Steph’s father, was her mother’s lover.

Chapter Seventeen

“I very much appreciate you seeing me on such short notice, Mr. Ruth.”

“That’s not a problem, Mrs. Rollins. Eugene isn’t like big cities. We move at a slower pace and have more time on our hands.”

She smiled pleasantly at the truth. Eugene was about enjoying life, not just living it. “Please call me Stephanie. I’m in the process of getting a divorce and I won’t be Mrs. Rollins for much longer.” Even as she said the words she realized they may not be true.

He raised an eyebrow. “Oh? I didn’t realize you were separated. I’m sorry. You have an attorney in Arizona, don’t you?”

“Yes, but I’m hoping you can answer some simple questions since he’s at a conference this week and I’ve had an emergency arise.”

“Of course. Just give me a second,” he added, his eyes scanning the paperwork.

She nodded and stared out the window. Ted had a great view from the third floor. The sun clambered over the tree line and light streamed into the room. There was no need for lamps as nature provided enough for him to read the fine print of her divorce petition. It had all seemed easy to her. She hadn’t felt so good about a decision since Berkeley—and then Lawrence had showed up.

He flipped back to the first page. “It seems very standard and reasonable. I know Arizona divorce can be a little thornier because of various influences, but as a community property state you have a right to fifty percent of everything you’ve acquired during the marriage. So what is it that you’re worried about?”

She wet her lips, unsure of how to phrase the question. “I’m wondering if there are circumstances that could jeopardize that decision.”

His eyes narrowed as he pondered the question. “I’m not sure I understand. To what kind of circumstances might you be referring?”

He poised his Mont Blanc fountain pen over the legal pad, ready to take copious notes. She noticed he sat in “perfect penmanship position,” as Ms. Riley, her third-grade teacher used to say. Clearly Ted Ruth was a straight arrow who always colored inside the lines.

“What about infidelity?”

He exhaled. “Did you cheat on your husband?”

“No, he cheated on me.”

“Legally, that’s good for you. It casts you in a favorable light. You were a hardworking mother trying to make a good home for your family while your husband advanced his career…” He waved his hand, expecting she could finish the thought.

“Would his adultery be enough to counterbalance something I did?”

Date: 2015-12-18; view: 507