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Chapter 1
Blame Napa's Friday commute. She did.
Amelie Harris looked down from the overpass at the jammed freeway. She hummed a little and took a peek in the rear view at the traffic crowded in behind her; winding its way like a funky metal serpent up Jamison Canyon and all the way back into Napa. Hah. Well, she was a terrible person of course, but there was some consolation in knowing she wasn’t alone in going nowhere fast.
She gazed hungrily at the off ramp a couple hundred yards ahead. If she could just get there she would be able to take the back roads through Rockville and Fairfield and sail into Vacaville with the wind in her hair. Finally! Jamming Queen into the CD player Amelie gave a whoop of freedom, rolled down the windows and cranked open the little Volkswagen Rabbit's sunroof.
As she raced over and around the rolling hills and shops and farm houses that ranged from shabby chic to just shabby, she thought about how much she loved California. Northern Cal was the best part and she dared anyone to say otherwise. Living in Vacaville was good too. Her tiny, tree-embowered bungalow infused her entire life with a sense of home and security. The girls and The Fams were nearby, but not too close. 'Let's meet at your place in fifteen and walk to Gazpacho's for lunch'? Awesome. 'Knock. Knock. 'Can I borrow some coffee'? Not so good.
She lived alone, slept alone and helped her friends take care of their lives. Her own life consisted of her cat, her car, her job whichever kind of classes struck her fancy (these days, the mambo) and no complications. She didn’t ask her self whether she was settling for safety in lieu of something richer...often. She had peace and no intention of fiddling with it. One other thing she had. Friday evenings on the patio of Merchant and Main for some of the best California cuisine around.
As visions of garlic fries danced in her head, a flick of her wrist sent the Rabbit sweeping into the parking lot. Amelie cut the engine but her hand stalled on the door handle, stopped by a tickling at the back of her brain.
Two men stood talking in front of the slightly seedy office building which stood catty corner to the restaurant. Just a few offices leased space in that building; a Red Cross and a couple of real estate and insurance types. All had been there at least a million years and neither man belonged to any of them. The tall one was all expensively styled hair and a leather coat which screamed, 'I'm cool and you're not'. Leather Coat was certainly not a resident real estate agent. Agents ran more to paunchiness and grey edges than fit bodies and salon styled hair.
The other guy, shorter, in cargo shorts, Birks and buttoned-down shirt. Preppie Guy was no lifeguard. They seemed innocuous but . . .Ammy looked away before they felt her gaze; the tickle taking on a new rhythm. . .the a light throb at the back of her head. She sat for second working over a couple of--okay, well inventing possible scenarios.
The tinny tunes of Brave Scotland rent the air. “Yes,” she said into her phone. It was Hosh. “What are you doing? Get your butt over here.”
Ammy grinned and disconnected the call, left the car and waved to her friends. Hoshi stood on the right tall, thin and riotously gorgeous; her brown-black hair cascading down her back, in curl after wild curl. She had honey brown skin and a deadly beautiful mouth; with the wit to match. Ammy never saw Hoshi without feeling compelled to stamp her with a seal reading, 'Made In California'. She was black, Mexican and Japanese. Her dad Fletcher was black, her mother, Cora was half Mexican and half Japanese. Family dinners were a riot, with people fighting for control of the kitchen in English, Japanese and Spanish.
Next to Hoshi, stood Colette; shorter, rounder and paler. She had the milk white complexion you read about in books, waist-length wavy auburn hair and green eyes. Ammy’s lips quirked in a smile, there wasn’t a man alive who could walk by without doing a double take for that hair and those eyes. As they were shown their favorite patio table, she could see that even with Hosh’s presence, Colly did not go unnoticed.
Their corner table afforded them great views of both the patio and the restaurant's entrance; along with a smidge of privacy for piquancy. Collette and Ammy exchanged glances. People-watching nirvana would not have distracted either of them from the tale written across Hosh's face; the shadowed eyes, the tightness around her mouth,were distressingly familiar.
Clearly, Hosh's husband Michael (or as Ammy preferred to think of him, The Hound Dog) was again sniffing around places his promiscuous snout had no business. Ammy took a sip from the Pinot set before her and kept her mouth shut. She wanted to start screaming, or crying or something. Hoshi was beautiful, smart, cultured. And in love with a liar that she wouldn’t leave.
Why wouldn’t Hoshi just...her mind backed away; refusing to take a spin on the same carousel she and Hosh had been riding for the past three years. Ammy thought with some shame that she hadn’t been a very good friend. Colly was far better at providing tea and sympathy, but then Colly had the patience of Job and a way of loving without judgement. A trick Ammy knew she herself had yet to learn. She smiled lightly as she looked at the two women and continued to drift.
Oh my, oh my,” Hosh breathed wickedly, “what I wouldn’t give for some of that.” Colly pretended to be shocked and peeked, Ammy turned in her chair to regard the two men openly. Ammy recognized the older one as Leather Jacket from the parking lot. In his early forties, he felt Eastern European to her; a beautiful face though. If you liked the rocky crag type, all planes and angles.
Colly whispered, “Amelie,” she said, “They’ll see you looking.”
“Well I wouldn’t mind if they did,” she laughed, “especially the younger one.”
Especially the younger one. He was tall broad shouldered with a wealth of rich dark hair. And eyes, she heard Colly suck in a breath, they were amazing, she noticed them as he ran his eyes over the occupants of the patio, lingering on the trio, they were clear blue, like ice water. He caught them looking and raised two fingers to his brow in mock salute. Amelie smiled impishly at him, rolled her eyes and turned back to her friends. She and Hosh exchanged arched brows as his rich chuckle drifted toward them on the summer breeze. “Well?”, Hosh said.
“He was looking at you Hoshi.”
“Tut, tut, darling. He was looking at all of us. It was a non-specific leer. Our Mr. Pretty-Eyes likes girls”. She smiled wickedly. “Either of you could have him at the bat of a lash.”
“Whatever,” said Colly.
“You know I’m right. It’s like I always say--” Colly started, "'A woman can have just about any man she wants'"
Ammy finished, "'and all of the ones she doesn't.'", Amelie groaned, "We know Hosh."
“It's not my fault men are easy!” Hoshi protested as her friends laughed at her, and murmured. “It’s loving them that’s hard.”
Yes, Amelie thought as she looked at Hosh. Loving them was hard. In the days before her marriage Amelie often joked that Hoshi could get and keep just about any man alive. Her devotion to this one man who refused to be kept...what did it do to her?
Ammy wanted to say that Hosh’s reasons for staying with Michael mystified her. But they didn’t. She wanted to say that they enraged her, but she loved Hosh too well and had seen her suffer too long to harbor anger toward her. Fear. That was it. That bold, brash, ruthlessly sensible Hoshi could be rendered vulnerable, and to such a man, terrified Ammy. 'No. I want no part of love.' But Hosh wasn’t through trying to make a match, not by a long shot.
Why was it that married women; happily or no, felt a compulsion to see their sistern coupled up, no matter how strenuous the resistance?
“Agh, you don’t mean to tell me this one isn’t your style either. I could practically hear your heart skip a beat.”
“Shut up Hosh,”Ammy said good-naturedly.
“I think I like the older one better.”
“Of course Colly darling, but then you would. After all, you know the old saying, ‘Better an old man’s darling than a young man’s slave.’”
“That is not what I meant, I’m just saying–“
She broke off at Hoshi’s knowing smile, her cheeks flushing. Hosh could be a perfect cat sometimes; and was preparing to sharpen her claws on Colette. Poor Colly, she sighed, she took everything so literally.
She half-listened to her friends as Hoshi picked at Colette and generally tied her into knots, until the poor girl wasn’t clear on what it was she was “just saying”. Witchy, witchy Hosh was in one of her moods, Amelie would need step in before any real damage was done. Colette, a bit prudish, had never felt an inappropriate emotion. It was a little personality quirk that annoyed them both. Nevertheless, tonight with a glass of Beringer’s Pinot in her hand and a couple of handsome men to please the eye, she felt determined to be mellow. At that moment, Leather Jacket's eyes met her own.
'Murder shrieks out.'
The thin slash of pain left Ammy blind and breathless.
