Well, that was her fault as much as his. He’d been a workaholic most of his adult life and so had she. Long hours at Bates and Carpenter as a copywriter, even longer ones after last year’s promotion to vice president. The advertising business, like the detective business, put demands on a person that had more to do with passion and dedication than a striving for financial security. Ad woman wasn’t what she did for a living; it was who she was, what she’d been born to be. Same with Bill in the detective profession-the reason he’d been having so much trouble following through on his vow of semiretirement.
But there came a time when you had to back off at least a little, take some time for yourself before you burned out physically, mentally, or both. Start seeing what else life had to offer while you were still young enough and healthy enough to enjoy the experiences. The breast cancer had taught her that. She’d been fortunate to survive the months of surgery and chemotherapy and psychic drain, even more fortunate that there had been no recurrence (knock wood) and the cancer seemed to be in permanent remission. Still, she hadn’t learned the slow-down lesson as well as she should have. Continued to work too hard, still didn’t treat herself to enough TLC. Bill’s decision to limit his agency time to two days a week had been something of a wake-up call for her. She hadn’t thought he would stick to it this time, any more than he had on his previous pledge, but so far he had. And if he could, so could she.
A second home in Green Valley would be a good start. Quiet, stress-free environment, a place to relax, recharge your batteries whenever you felt the need. It would be good for Emily, too, in smaller doses. Thirteen-almost-fourteen-year-old girls were tightly wedded to their home turf and their circle of friends, but exposure to country life now and then ought to provide some perspective. Emily was extremely bright and well-grounded, but nonetheless impressionable and edging into a difficult period of adolescence. Kerry remembered her own early teens, the peer influences and the raging hormones, the silly choices and mistakes she’d made. Oh, yes, difficult and worrisome both.
Having a second home didn’t mean that you couldn’t or shouldn’t go anywhere else. She’d always had a mild yen to travel, visit England, western Europe, parts of Canada, but she and Bill had been such urban-dwelling, work-driven homebodies that they’d never made any plans that went beyond the casual discussion stage. Talk herself into spending a couple of weeks on foreign soil and she’d be able to talk him into it, too. At least one trip before Emily left the nest in another four or five years.
First things first, though. Make an offer on this cabin, and establish themselves here. The rest would take care of itself in due course. There was plenty of time (knock wood again).
Bill was still asleep when she got up. Good for him; he didn’t get enough sleep at home. Even when he wasn’t working, he was up early and rattling around looking for something to occupy his time. Definite Type A when she first met him; that and the long hours and job stress and his less-than-sensible eating habits had made him a heart attack or stroke candidate. He’d slowed down some in recent years, after Emily had come into their lives and then her long struggle with the breast cancer, but she still worried about him. Another reason, the main one, for owning a place like this.
Thinking about Bill’s health led her to start worrying again about Cybil’s. Her mother was in her late eighties, still mentally sharp, at least most of the time, but frail and too stubborn and independent to move into an assisted living facililty. Redwood Village, the retirement community in Larkspur, was her home now she said, and she fully intended to live there until she died. She had close neighbors, including one in the other half of her duplex, and they all watched out for each other. That was fine in theory. So was the fact that Redwood Village had a small clinic with a physician and nurse on twenty-four-hour call. But she’d had two falls in the past five months, and on the second, she’d banged her head on a table leg, blacked out, and lain on the floor for God knew how long-Cybil wouldn’t say-before coming around. Cybil made light of the episode because that was her way, but the fact remained that she could have hurt herself a lot more seriously than she had. Could have died there on her living room floor.
Kerry had called her Thursday night to tell her about the trip to Green Valley, and she’d been all right then. A little vague in her responses, though, as if what she was hearing didn’t fully compute. Call her again this morning? Two things Cybil didn’t like (well, two among several): being a burden to anyone and being checked up on. Any more than one call a week, unless she was the one who initiated it, fell into the checking-up category. But under the circumstances…
When she finished making coffee, Kerry took a cup and her cell phone out onto the front deck. Another glorious morning, already very warm. Too warm to sit in the sun, she moved her chair over into a patch of shade. Her excuse for calling, she thought, would be to report that their second home search was finally over. It wasn’t strictly true yet, but a little while lie was better than incurring her mother’s wrath by saying, “I just called to see how you’re doing.”
She made the call, waited through six, seven, eight rings. No answer. That didn’t have to mean anything ominous-Cybil might be out shopping or for a walk with a friend, or puttering in her small garden-but it was a little nervous-making just the same. Kerry let the line buzz emptily four more times before she disconnected, telling herself not to worry, if anything had happened, she would have had emergency notification. But she couldn’t help thinking about those two falls, Cybil lying unconscious on the floor…
Bill was up; she could hear him singing inside. Singing… my God, it sounded more like a rooster being strangled. He was a wonderful man in most ways and he genuinely loved music, especially jazz, but he couldn’t carry a tune in a bucket.
She finished her coffee and tried Cybil’s number again. Still no answer. She had numbers for two of her mother’s neighbors; maybe she should call one of them-No, that was a panic reaction. Cybil was all right, just out somewhere. She’d be furious if Kerry started contacting neighbors without definite cause. Just keep trying until she answered.
Bill was in high spirits when he appeared and Kerry didn’t want to dampen them by voicing her concerns about Cybil. He was wearing old clothes, his hiking boots, and that godawful droopy green hat with the moldy feather he’d dredged up out of the trunk of the car-his standard fishing outfit.
“I’m ready to head out,” he said, “do battle with some trout. Sure you won’t come along?”
“I’m sure.”
“It’ll be cooler down in the valley.”
“I don’t mind the heat as much as you do,” she said. “I made you a couple of sandwiches. They’re in the fridge.”
“ Grazie. What would I do without you?”
“Make your own sandwiches and load them up with too much butter and mayonnaise.”
He laughed. “So what’re you going to do with yourself here alone?”
“Read, relax. Maybe take a walk in the woods.”
“Watch out for bears.”
“Uh-huh. Bears. If I see one, I’ll imitate one of your growls and scare the wits out of it.”
As soon as he was gone, she tried Cybil’s number again. Still no answer. Oh, Cybil, come on! she thought. Then chided herself for being such a worrywart. But when you had an elderly, fiercely headstrong, frail, and fall-prone mother that you loved dearly, it was increasingly difficult not to worry.
She read for a while, stretched out on one of the deck chairs, but she couldn’t seem to concentrate. Another unanswered call. An unbidden image of Cybil sprawled out on the duplex floor flashed across her mind; immediately, she blanked it out. Too much imagination, dammit, inherited from Cybil-one of the 1940’s most accomplished pulp fiction writers and the author of two well-received mystery novels written in her late seventies. The Writing Wades, mother and daughter. Although in Cybil’s not-so-humble opinion, a series of stories and two books about a tough-talking private eye named Samuel Leatherman was superior work to the creation of advertising slogans and campaigns. “We both write fiction,” she’d said once, “but when you get right down to it, my kind’s more honest.” Well, maybe she had a point. A debatable one, anyway.