A Summer in Sonoma

“You’re a Mormon, aren’t you? All along, keeping it from me…”

He covered her mouth in a kiss. “I must be,” he said. “Makes me so happy, watching you round out, get big and moody. Please, Jules. Don’t be unhappy right now, because it’s going to work out. Somehow, it always works out.”

“Oh, Billy,” she said, putting her hand against his cheek. “I just don’t know if I can do it again…”

“You’ll start to feel better pretty soon. It’s just the first couple of months that are hard on you, then you feel good. And you stop being so mean.”

She sniffed. “I think I’ve been a little cranky lately.”

He laughed. “Well, no shit, honey,” he said. “Now love on me. It doesn’t cost anything…”

Cassie had trouble sleeping soundly through the night for a few nights, and then it got worse before it got better. Billy told her he checked high and low, talked to a lot of people about the guy. There was a real Ken Baxter, but he was out in northwest Sacramento and he was fifty. Billy had looked as far as Folsom, a pretty long drive from the Sacramento bar where Cassie and Ken had met, and he hadn’t turned up another one. It gave Cassie the cold willies to think he had lied about everything; he made up a name, profession, tricked her into trusting him, all for the purpose of overpowering her.

“The way I see it,” Billy said, “the guy played off you and what you said and insinuated himself into your comfort zone. Have a couple of glasses of wine, tell him you’re a nurse and several of your friends are firefighters and paramedics, and bingo—he’s practically family. If he’d met an aerobics teacher, he’d have made himself the owner of a fitness center.”

“Scary,” she said. “I wonder how much success he’s had with that modus operandi.”

That’s when she called the police and asked to speak to a detective, preferably a woman who handled rapes.

“Have you been raped, ma’am?”

“No, but I had a close call, and one of the detectives might be interested in what information I have…”

“You can come in and make a report.”

“Can I just talk to someone?” she asked impatiently. Then she was connected to voice mail; the voice was male, and she left her name, cell phone number and said the very same thing—setup, close call, barely escaped, she had information. She didn’t get a call back. After a few days, she gave up on that. She hadn’t found the police real receptive; she wasn’t about to beg. She had absolutely no charge to file.

“Here’s how I see it,” Billy said. “They’re busy, you’re okay and, under the circumstances, that guy isn’t going to show his face around that bar or that part of town again. Since he doesn’t know whether you actually talked to the police, gave a description of him and the car and all that, and since he left you with some big bruiser who broke a car window with his fist, he’s probably going to make himself real invisible.” Then he shook his head and laughed. “With his fist. Holy shit, huh? I bet he’s just glad the guy didn’t kill him.”

“Yeah, maybe…”

Her phone didn’t ring, no one bothered her—the police apparently weren’t interested in close calls—and she began to relax about that. I dodged a bullet, she said to herself. And I’m not going to be in that position again. Then she did settle down; she and Steve curled up and slept soundly.

All Cassie was left with was a need to get beyond it. Not just the assault, but the position she’d allowed herself to drift into, needing a partner so bad her judgment was impaired. She needed to clear her head. So she wasn’t going to date for a while. If anyone offered a fix-up, she’d politely decline. If she ever went to another happy hour—and definitely not at that bar—she’d buy her own drinks or leave. For the rest of the summer, at least, she’d enjoy walking Steve along the river, reading and watching movies and tending her little backyard vegetable garden, which produced tomatoes and lettuce, carrots and enough zucchini to sink a battleship. Julie lived for Cassie’s summer produce. She would work—she loved her work; it defined her. And she would think. Something was wrong with the way she’d been handling this part of her life.

So maybe her first choice was to be a wife and mother, but her second option was definitely all right—a career that felt completely right, a decent income, friends she trusted who felt like family even if they really weren’t and pastimes that relaxed and soothed her. She thought about getting a puppy in a year or two—a backup Weimaraner. She’d probably never get a dog as great as Steve, but she wasn’t going to have Steve forever. She shouldn’t be without a pet; there was no point in setting herself up to be so alone she could hear her nerves fray.

For now, she would swear off men. At least, she would give up on the notion that there was a special one out there, just waiting for her to find him.

After a couple of weeks, once she felt a little more secure, she went to that motorcycle dealership on her way home from work one day. It turned out to be a Harley Davidson franchise. There were shiny new bikes parked out front on either side of a sidewalk, twinkling in the summer sun. She walked into the pristine showroom. Behind the counter was a guy in a blue shirt, camel-colored sports coat and pink tie, looking for all the world like a used-car salesman. He grinned that carsalesman grin and said, “How can I help you?”

She stared down at the business card in her hand and said, “Um, I wonder if a man named Walt Arneson might be here?”

“Walt? Let me ask in the back.” And he turned and left her to browse among the bikes. She found herself running a hand along the chrome of a particularly big one.

“Classic Road King—touring bike,” a deep voice said behind her.

She turned and there he was. A great big guy in a T-shirt and denim vest, jeans and boots with chains around the heels. And, of course, all that hair and the naked lady on his arm. And a cast on his right hand, almost up to his elbow.

“Oh, God,” she said, her eyes fixed on the hand.

“It’s nothing,” he said. “Just a little crack.” Then he grinned. “It was worth it.”

“I’m so sorry,” she said.

“Don’t be. I wouldn’t have it any other way. Seriously. Besides, it comes off in a couple of weeks—it’s really nothing.”

“Oh, brother,” she said, shaking her head. “So. How are you? Besides, um…”

“Good. But how about you?”

“Fine. I’m doing fine. I thought I’d drop by to say thank-you. It occurred to me that after all that went on, I didn’t even thank you.” She laughed. “I thought about buying you a fruit basket or something, but what do you buy a biker?”

“I don’t have the first idea,” he said. “How about a cup of coffee? You didn’t finish the last one.”

“You have time for that?”

“I could sneak away. There’s a bookstore across the parking lot. They have a coffee shop. Good coffee.”

“You like your coffee.”

“I do.”

“Only if you let me buy,” she said.

“Why not?” He shrugged. “Been a while since a lady bought me a cup of coffee.”

He spoke to the salesman for just a second, then walked with her across a wide parking lot to a big bookstore. He let her buy them two coffees while he waited, then instead of sitting down at a small table in the coffee shop, he led her into the store. He seemed to know exactly where he was going. Tucked away in a corner were a couple of plush leather chairs with a small table separating them—a reading or study corner.

“Nice,” she said.

He cut right to the chase. “Everything going all right with you now?” he asked, sipping his coffee.

“Yeah, I’m getting by. I’ll admit, I was a little tense for a while, but I’m better now. Very grateful you stepped in. I’m very lucky nothing worse happened.”

“I take that to mean you haven’t heard from him or seen him?”

She shook her head. “Thank God. I guess you were right—he’s going to pretend nothing happened. Everything he told me was just a line, a lie.”

Walt frowned. “Somehow that wouldn’t really surprise me. You know that for sure?”

“Yeah. My friend, the paramedic, checked to see if he was with the fire department and he didn’t turn up.”

“You really ought to tell the police,” Walt said, sitting forward in his chair.

“Well, funny you should say that. I called. I left a message on a detective’s voice mail saying it was a close call, I was rescued in time, but I was clearly set up and they might want to know about the situation, the guy. They never called back.”

Walt just frowned.