“Great,” Wendy said with her mom’s sparkle—her usual answer, whether she was or not. “And you?”
“I came over to see how you were doing,” Doris said, a neat figure with short graying hair. “Godiva asked me to look in on you, and I was hoping to invite you to tea.”
“I would love that, but right now my life is packed, between caretaking Godiva’s house, and working here,” Wendy said.
“Joey went over to meet Godiva’s son,” Doris said. “Getting along all right?”
Wendy could not prevent the blush that seemed to start from her toes. But Doris said nothing embarrassing. Just smiled. “Nice man? I’d expect Godiva’s son to be a nice man.”
“He is,” Wendy said on an outward breath. And continued to clean up the prep table, and lay things out for the bread-making. “Can I take a rain-check for that tea?”
“Of course you can,” Doris said comfortably. “In the meantime, I’ll pass the word to Godiva that you are alive and thriving.”
They chatted for a couple more minutes as Wendy finished up, then tossed her apron into the laundry bag, and then each took their leave.
While driving home, she was thinking about her screenplay. The urge to write kept poking at her, but every time she thought about that plot, and the struggle to be witty and clever, her sense of fun withered. “That robot scene,” she said to a red light, “is probably not just one scene’s worth of bad, it’s the whole stinking thing.”
She was going to have to read the entire script through yet again, though she was beginning to be thoroughly sick of it. There had to be some clue to how to bring it to life. Wittily. Meanwhile, what to cook for dinner? What would Alejo like—
She caught herself, and firmly tried to redirect her thoughts to the likes and dislikes of Godiva’s guests and Sam. She was so busy trying not to think of Alejo that she didn’t notice the unfamiliar cars at the end of Godiva’s driveway until she almost bumped into one.
She wrenched the wheel, pulling her car to the side of the driveway, almost clipping the line of eucalyptus. The sudden braking made the engine stutter and stop. She peered ahead. There was what looked like a utility truck, though she was very sure that no one had contacted her from the town’s utility branches.
As soon as she opened her car door, Eve’s voice reached her, a voice that was usually mellow, though naturally low. Eve’d had a rough early life somewhere else before ending up in Playa del Encanto. Somewhere along the way she had become a talented violinist—or fiddler, as she called herself. She’d mentioned once that, after she ran away from a textbook case of Terrible Homes, she’d ended up in a biker gang, who were a step up from her early life. Hard to equate bikers and musicians, but Eve had never talked about her life since, and Wendy was careful not to trespass. She knew Godiva’s guests had no homes to go to. How that had happened was theirs to share or not.
When Eve wanted to, she had a voice like a foghorn. “I don’t care who you say you are. You dickweasels are NOT getting in here without permission from the owner, and she ain’t here!”
“We’re not carrying out any excavations,” said a man in bright yellow coveralls, carrying a tablet. “If you will just read these request letters from the Concerned Citizens’ Watchgroup, and from the Coastal Protection Society, as well as this invitation from this local real estate firm—” He tapped the screen and held the tablet out as he stepped toward Eve.
She didn’t even glance at the tablet, but fended him off with a sweep of one of her well-worn Doc Martens. “I don’t want to read that crap. I’m saying in plain language you better contact the owner, or I’m calling 911.”
“Look, ma’am, there’s no need for threats. This is merely a friendly visit of community concern.”
As the man went on about community concerns and neighborly responsibility, Wendy was distracted by a familiar sound: the school bus, down at the other end of the driveway. Sam came skipping up the driveway, his backpack flapping on his back.
He slowed down when he reached Wendy, and he looked curiously at the truck. As they walked past the big truck, she glanced in the windshield, and saw shady figures waiting inside. But she couldn’t make out details, except that one had vaguely feminine lines, and blond hair. Would that be the mysterious Ms. Nobett? She shouldn’t jump to conclusions. There were plenty of blond women in the world—starting with her own image in the mirror.
Still. She didn’t want Sam getting alarmed at all these strange adults.
“Why don’t you go ahead into the house,” Wendy said to him. “Looks like there’s grownup stuff going on.”
Sam did not linger. He bolted for the door as Wendy marched up to join Eve on the porch. “Excuse me,” she said. “What is the problem here?”
The man in the overalls turned to her with one of those big smiles that indicated he’d been taught to sparkle, too, except that there was no hint of smile in his watchful eyes. “Are you the owner?”
“I’m the caretaker,” she said.
“What I was trying to tell this lady is that there have been various reports of an infestation of dangerous, disease-carrying rodents on this property. We represent the county in such cases. No need for official action, as we’d all rather not have to deal with citations and fines and the police, right? We can check fast. Be in and out in ten minutes. You won’t even know my team and I were here.”
“I’m sorry, but for any kind of questions like that, you’ll have to contact the owner. I can’t let anyone onto the property—”
“Ma’am,” the man said coaxingly, taking another step toward Wendy and Eve. “If I don’t do my job, then they send out the hardnoses. We can be out of here in ten, and everybody is happy. We could have been gone by now, if this lady here had just let us through.”
Wendy began to speak, her instinct to placate honed by years of Bill, but Eve cut across her. “You don’t need a drill to look for rodents, and I saw a drill in the back there. Go ahead with the citations. I’ll explain to the judge why we’re not paying them.”
“I don’t think it will be all that comfortable if the city is required to shut down gas and electric,” the man began. “There are also concerns about soil levels—”
Then a new voice interrupted from the terrace. “I believe I can speak for the owner.”
