“Hey Beck, you’re up early!” I said. Becky was my best friend for all intents and purposes. She was the first person I met here in Pismo and we hit it off instantly. She and her brother had taken me hostage and unofficially adopted me, which was nice since I didn’t have a family of my own.
“Coffee, twenty minutes,” she mumbled and hung up.
I laughed and returned my phone to my pocket. Becky really had a flare for the dramatic sometimes. I tossed my bags into the basket on the front of my bike and leisurely made my way to our favorite coffee shop just a couple miles away.
It was around nine o’clock when I pulled up to the Java Beach Café and Becky was already anxiously waiting for me outside. The family-owned café was a cozy place to come and enjoy a good book or just sit on the patio and people watch, which just so happened to be one of my favorite past-times.
Becky ordered a croissant with her coffee and I ordered a fresh donut and a bottle of water. Their glazed donuts were decadent and even though I had just stuffed my face at the farmers market, I couldn’t pass up my favorite pastry. We both started eating and made small talk by the counter while waiting for our drinks.
"So what’s so earth-shattering that you’re out of bed before noon?” I asked, nibbling on a warm and deliciously gooey piece of donut.
She gave me a heavy sigh and said, “I needed an excuse to get away from my date.”
I gave her a sideways glance. “I’m assuming he wanted to make you breakfast or perform some other heinous act of kindness the morning after.”
“Pancakes.” She shook her head, mocking me.
“You know, some women would love to find a man who wanted to cook her breakfast in the morning.”
“Yeah well, I’m not some women. Besides, I did want to ask you something. Do you know a David Ainsworth?”
“No, I don’t think so, why?” I asked, puzzled.
“I was telling David a story last night, and when I mentioned your name he got a little weird and…” she wouldn’t meet my eye, which was never a good sign. “He knew your parents. He said he went to college with your mother.”
“My parents?” I wasn’t expecting that. They died when I was just a kid and I moved to Pismo, California after college in the hopes of having a fresh start. “David Ainsworth you said.” I rolled the name around in my head but nothing clicked.
“Medium latte,” the barista called out Becky’s drink.
She grabbed her paper cup from the counter and walked out of the café. We strolled along the sidewalk in silence for a few moments. I wondered if I could connect David to my parents, but I had never heard his name before. I took a sip of my water and closed my eyes, willing myself to remember David in some way.
“Did he say anything else?” A million questions zipped through my head before it dawned on me that Becky had just spent the night with this man. “Wait, back up. I’m assuming David is who you were trying to escape this morning after spending the night with him.”
“Yes,” she said and narrowed her eyes at me, puzzled.
“And David went to college with my mother.” I raised my eyebrows.
“Hey, I don’t discriminate. He’s damn good looking and to be honest he was very persistent.” She said the last part under her breath.
“Right.” I laughed and shook my head. “So did he say anything else about my parents?”
“No, not really. He sends his condolences. Do you want me to introduce you? Maybe he can tell you some stories or something.” Her half smile was sincere but anxiety rolled off her as she fidgeted with the lid of her coffee.
“No,” I said and took a deep breath. It was tempting, but I didn’t want to open old wounds and I didn’t want to put Becky in the middle of my past. “No, I think I’m okay. Thanks though.”
“Phew, I wasn’t really planning on seeing him again, if you catch my drift.” It was as though Becky had flipped an internal switch and turned to humor, instantly lightening the mood.
We both laughed as we walked around the corner and headed in the direction of the bookstore.
“Another book?” She asked as she noticed the direction we were walking in.
“I just want to pick up a collection of Walt Whitman’s poems, for a project,” I noted.
I’d always loved poetry and Walt Whitman was one of my absolute favorites. For as long as I could remember I’d wanted to put together a portfolio that paired pictures of my own work with Whitman’s poems.
“I don’t know why you need to have a book with all his poems when you can just look them up online,” Becky remarked.
Becky lived for the digital age. I didn’t think I’d ever seen her without her computer. Even now it was in the satchel hanging at her side. And don’t get me wrong, I updated my camera gear and software fairly often, but I also had an appreciation for the way life was before technology took over our lives.
“You know that I like having the actual book. There’s just something about the smell of the paper and having the pages in your hands that just makes the reading experience so much more exhilarating.”
“I guess.” Becky rolled her eyes. “Sometimes I worry about your sanity when you have your nose shoved in a book sniffing the pages like a Bloodhound.” She laughed and put her arm over my shoulders.
“Oh, please! I put up with you on a daily basis,” I said with a laugh of my own and nudged her in the ribs. Her arm dropped from my shoulders and rubbed at her side.
“Don’t you already have a copy you can use?”
“Yeah, but it was my dad’s.” I took a long gulp from my water bottle and tossed the empty container as we passed a trash can.
“Enough said,” Becky replied. “Are you still in for the Yosemite trip at the end of August?” She asked changing the subject.
“Of course, you know I love going on that trip every year.”
“Just making sure, I was planning on booking the same cabin we had last year.”
“That’d be perfect,” I said pushing open the door to the bookstore.
A familiar jingle welcomed us as we entered.
“Good morning, ladies,” Frank welcomed us from behind the counter. “How are you today Miss Evans?”
Frank Murphy was an older man who owned the bookstore and the bait shop down by the pier. He stood slightly taller than my five foot five inches and his hair had more salt than pepper. Every time I saw him wore a knitted vest over his shirt and khaki slacks that were just a little too big on him.
“Morning Frank. How many times do I have to tell you to call me Violet?” I said with a smile.
“Oh I know, but a lady should be addressed properly,” he said with a good-old fashioned nod, his manners reminiscent of an older time.
“Even so, I prefer Violet. So how’ve you been?”
“Oh, can’t complain. How about you? You ready for the big wedding?”
“You know I could shoot that wedding with one hand tied behind my back.” I shrugged my shoulders confidently.
“That’s true, you’re very talented with a camera. But this is a Maxwell wedding. That’s big doings you know. Everyone’s been buzzing that it’ll be the event of the decade.”
“Well I don’t know about that. I shrugged. Everyone seemed to care so much about the Maxwells, personally I didn’t get it. "I’m sure it’ll be predictably over the top though.”
“Now, now Violet, you behave yourself. The Maxwell family has a long history here. They’re good people,” Frank insisted. His tone was reminiscent of a parent reprimanding a misbehaving child.
“I’ll be on my best behavior, Scout’s honor,” I said, raising three fingers in salute.
Frank laughed and waved me off.
Knowing the shop by heart, I made my way back to the poetry section with Becky right behind me.