The Last Time I Was Me. Cathy Lamb
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Название: The Last Time I Was Me
Автор: Cathy Lamb
Издательство: Ingram
Жанр: Эротическая литература
isbn: 9780758253682
isbn:
I stopped in the small town of Weltana because I liked the trees and it was raining when I arrived.
I love rain.
I rolled my growling Bronco to a stop off the side of the highway in front of a little yellow building with green trim. It was called The Opera Man’s Café. The walls inside were made of logs. A fire burned in the brick fireplace and a chef with a white braid flipped pancakes two feet up into the air and sung along at full throttle with Bocelli on CD. Little white lights twinkled from the open rafters over long wood tables.
When my pancakes arrived I smothered them in maple syrup and butter, the way I liked them; the way I have not eaten them in twelve years because that would have driven me into a downward emotional spiral into hell.
During those years I craved pancakes so much I would sometimes dream of them in the approximately four hours of sleep I snatched each night when my caffeine fix and whacked-out stress level would soften to a dull roar in my head or when I passed out from one too many drinks.
I dreamed about those pancakes and hot syrup far more than I dreamed of sex.
Come to think of it, I rarely dreamed about sex.
Which tells you something about me.
So I poured the syrup on until it formed little lakes and started in on my pancakes in that cozy café under the fir trees in the foothills of Mount Hood made by a cozy chef with a white braid.
But if I had been able to see the future, I would have trembled in my knee-high black boots that day and headed for Kosovo or Mongolia.
But how was I to know that a naked run along a river, a raucous bar fight, a self-painting ritual to decrease my self-anger, and a court trial that exploded into a media circus, would follow?
How was I to know that I would finally be forced to do battle with my deep and abiding obsession with liquor?
Oh, and one more wee little tidbit: How was I to know that the woman in the café who looked like she’d stepped off an Italian Renaissance painting, who spoke at great length with the cook about germs and germ-killing, would decide that a certain man had polluted our earth long enough and would execute the Elimination Plan, and that the other woman in there would help hide his body?
That “other” woman?
That would be me.
How was I to know that?
Had I known, I would have choked on my pancakes.
And that would have been a shame because I love pancakes.
“Welcome to Weltana, young lady,” the chef said to me as he rang up my bill, his braid over his right shoulder. “Are you staying around town or passing through?”
I’d put him at about seventy. He reminded me of a white crane-but he was the most attractive white crane I’d ever seen. His name was Donovan and I later found out he used to be an opera singer in New York.
“I’m not sure,” I told him. “I’m not too far from the ocean, am I?”
He shook his head, handed me my change. “No, ma’am. You’re about three hours from it. Did you want to see the ocean?”
Did I want to see the ocean? I sure did. Up close. Intimately knowing my own grave site would be helpful. “Yes.”
“Well, by gum, if you take the highway outside of town toward the city you can bypass Portland and head straight on out by driving west. The sunsets are spectacular.”
I could use a spectacular sunset. I couldn’t even remember the last time I’d seen one. I had been too busy working my way into burnout and convincing myself that my faster-than-lightning life was dandy. That takes a lot of time, you know. Lying to yourself.
“’Course we have spectacular sunsets here, too. Take a drive straight up the mountain. You know, a sunset is God’s last painting of the day. It’s his last gift to all of us before he gives us the gift of a sunrise.”
I nodded. A last gift. I had given my ex a last gift and Slick Dick had called the police. It had been a particularly prodigious, poignant, and profound present to the prick that his psyche would probably be hard-pressed to forget. (I have always liked alliteration. Goes back to a favorite English teacher in eighth grade named Mrs. Gaddinni. In times of stress it comes in handy.)
“Are you on vacation?”
Vacation. “Well, I wouldn’t call it a vacation.” I needed a scotch on the rocks.
“Ahhh.” Those blue eyes looked hard at me. Like I was worth something. “So, makin’ a change in your life?”
Got me. “Yes, you could say that.”
“Changes are good sometimes. Changes keep our hearts pumpin’.”
“Sure does.” Sure as heck they do. Sometimes a change allows us to disappear, too. Disappearing for good appealed greatly to me.
“So you’re looking?”
“Looking?”
“For a place to stay, a place to settle down for a while.”
Hmmm. He was a smart one. He was peering at me closely and I knew he was paying more attention to what I wasn’t saying. “I guess you could say I am.”
“Gee whizzers. I’ve got the perfect place for you.” He looked longingly at the Italian Renaissance woman for several seconds before he said, his voice gentle, “Rosvita, this is…” he paused.
“Jeanne Stewart,” I said.
“Jeanne Stewart. Jeanne, this is Rosvita DiLorenzo.” I shook hands with the Italian Renaissance woman. Her black hair, shot through with angel-wing white hair, was wrapped in a loose bun with a red flower tucked in the back. She wore no makeup. She had one of those curving figures and was wearing a sparkling red shawl, red jeans, and cowboy boots. She wore white gloves.
I was later to admire her work with a .45.
“Nice to meet you.”
I murmured some pleasantries. I can be polite when pushed.
“Rosvita has the finest bed-and-breakfast in town, Ms. Stewart. Rosvita, this young lady is looking to settle down for a while, although she wants to see the Pacific Ocean.”
I looked at the chef. He reminded me of banana bread and cinnamon.
I had not decided to settle here. Not at all. But I had to admit that I liked the tiny main street of town. I liked all the trees and Mount Hood towering behind me. I liked the pancakes and this chef who was pleasant and sung opera so well СКАЧАТЬ