A Summer in Sonoma (10 page)

Funny, Ryan and Joe didn't have any of the same flaws. Joe was incredibly married; he didn't even flirt. In the looks department, they were pretty equal, though completely different. Ryan had a dimpled smile and twinkling eyes that could just make a girl wet herself. Joe was a damn fine-looking man when he was cleaned up, but Ryan took impeccable and fashionable to the next level;
he could be a model. Joe had an incredible, strong, toned body—pecs, biceps, a narrow waist and six-pack such that when he wore that F.D. T-shirt pulled tight across his chest and shoulders, women went weak in the knees. Ryan was so adorable and good-natured; of course, he could look you in the eye, smile that heart-splitting smile and lie through his beautiful, straight, white teeth. Joe had darker good looks, almost black eyes, a shorter fuse, but he was the most honest man she knew.

They talked for about forty-five minutes before Marty ordered a couple of medium pizzas to go and Ryan ordered a second beer. Then he opened his wallet and pulled out one of his business cards. He was with the local cable company, having started at the bottom right after college. He was already a director—good income, a shirt-and-tie position. He slid his card across the bar. “That's my office and cell number,” he said. “It's okay to call me if you want to talk. I get the feeling you have things on your mind. Worries.”

“Listen,” she said, “running into you is one thing, calling you is another. I'm married.”

“I know that,” he said. “And I'm a good friend. Kidding aside, Marty. We might have had our romantic troubles, but one thing about us—we were always good friends. We could count on each other when things weren't going great.”

“Yeah, but…” Her words trailed off because there was no way to politely put it—she had always been tempted by him, even when it was insane. If there was anything she had wished for even more than being able
to reach Joe, straighten him out so they could be in love again, it was that Ryan hadn't been such a damn playboy. And right now, feeling so unloved and vulnerable, this was not a good idea.

He put his hand over hers. “Marty, you mean a lot to me. You always have, you know that. You'll never know how often I wished I'd met you when I was a little more mature and not such a kid, a jerk. We wouldn't have kept getting back together if we hadn't had something pretty special. Maybe I can make it up to you now by being a friend. If you ever want to talk…”

“I don't think that would be smart,” she said, but she slid the card off the bar and into her purse. “But thanks for the gesture. And good luck in finding whatever it is you've been looking for.”

Her pizzas came soon after that exchange. She paid her bill, and when she was slipping off her stool, he pulled on her hand, brought her close and kissed her cheek. A jolt of desire passed through her. Oh, God, she wanted to feel loved again.

“If I don't talk to you again for a while, it was really great seeing you,” he said. “You look fantastic, by the way. I don't know how you do it. The rest of us get older and you get younger.”

Liar, she wanted to say. He was a knockout in high school and he was at least four knockouts now. “Thanks,” she said. “Take care.”

She left him there and drove home. It wasn't yet six o'clock when she pulled into the garage. She'd been gone more than an hour and a half, but her cell phone had
never tweeted in her purse. The house was caught in the late-afternoon summer shadows. She soon realized the reason there were no lights on inside was because Joe and Jason were sprawled on the couch, asleep. Joe was on his back—not showered, shaved or dressed in human clothes—and Jason was lying on his chest.

She flipped on the kitchen light. Not one single thing had been moved. She put the pizzas on the breakfast bar, dropped her purse on the dining room chair with her purchases and began cleaning up. The dishwasher she'd run before leaving for lunch was full of clean dishes that Joe hadn't bothered to put away. She put everything away and began reloading, wiping counters, tossing garbage, frustrated tears falling on her hands.

 

Beth wasn't on call. She had an appointment in San Francisco with Dr. Jerod Paterson, a very well-known and highly respected oncologist. She hadn't been on call two weeks ago, either, when her girlfriends had gone to the party at Marty and Joe's. She'd been recovering from a breast lumpectomy. And it was malignant.

It wasn't the first malignancy—that had come at the age of twenty-five in her right breast, and a lumpectomy wouldn't do the trick because there were three masses that seemed to appear overnight, along with some lymph node involvement. So first she had three substantial lumpectomies and finally a radical mastectomy. That was when Mark left her. Well, he was nice enough to wait for her to get through her radiation and chemo and get on her feet before he left. She would never be en
tirely sure if it was the cancer, the sickness, the fear or maybe the mangled body that listed to the left. It's not as though she had big breasts to start with—they were just little things.

Now she was starting on the remaining breast.

She already knew a lot about Dr. Paterson, having researched him thoroughly and chosen him carefully. He was in his late forties, married, with two teenagers, and seemed to have a pleasant smile in his bio photo and a reputation in oncology that put him in such high demand it was hard to get an appointment. But not for a physician like Beth—all she had to do was call, explain who she was and she got in immediately.

When she entered his office for the very first time, she was reminded how little pictures could convey. He stood from behind his desk to a full six feet, had thick dark blond hair and, when he smiled, one dimple under his left eye. He stretched out a hand. “Dr. Halsley, it's a pleasure to meet you. Please, have a seat.” And then he waited for her to be seated before he sat back down.

“Dr. Paterson,” she said with a nod.

He folded his hands on top of what surely must be her opened chart. “I guess we come from the same undergrad program—premed at USC. That gives us a lot in common. Sacramento is your home?”

“It's where I grew up,” she said.

“If you don't object, I'd like to know a little more about you before we get into the reason for your visit.”

The reason is cancer, and it just won't stop, she thought. “Like?” she replied.

“Siblings? Partner? Living parents?”

“Only child, and yes, my parents are still living and appear to be perfectly healthy. I have one grandparent left on each side, and only one early death—at fifty-five from heart failure. My maternal grandmother is a survivor of breast cancer—over twenty years. She's eighty-eight.”

They chatted for a little while, maybe fifteen minutes, during which time he asked if she had a husband or partner and she said, “He left with the last breast.”

He wanted to know about her hobbies, what she did for fun, that sort of thing. She laughed at him. “I've been certified in OB-Gyn for one year. You think I have hobbies?”

“Your first malignant onset was very early,” he said, not looking at the chart. “But, despite the fact you're still quite young, this is another primary manifestation. The cancer doesn't appear to be spreading. Still, because of your age and history, I'd recommend aggressive treatment. Unfortunately the MRI results show some suspicious sites in the breast. Tell me how you feel about this: we can start with a round of radiotherapy, some chemo, and then reappraise and determine if more surgery is the best course.”

She shrugged and shook her head. “It really doesn't matter. I'm not desperate to hang on to the breast. It's not that much of a breast….”

“You haven't considered any reconstruction after your last surgery?”

“No. It seems pointless.”

He lifted one brow. “Do you have a good support system, Dr. Halsley?”

“You can call me Beth if you like,” she said. “Yes, sure. I work in a women's health clinic—they're very sensitive. I have friends and family. But I'm trying to look at this medically, not emotionally.”

“I understand, but try to remember—it's an emotional disease.”

“That's why I'm trying to look at it medically.”

He smiled. “Doctors. Pragmatists, almost to the last bone. Are you going to be a terrible patient?”

“Probably,” she said. “I'm pretty pissed off about this.”

“You should be. I would be. If you're comfortable with it, I'd like to have a look. Feel like putting on a gown for me?”

“Sure,” she said, standing. “Where would you like me?”

“Exam room two will be fine. I'll see you in ten minutes.”

A few minutes later she was sitting on the exam table, her left arm over her head while the doctor palpated the breast. She looked away while he studied her. “Do you have hobbies?” she heard herself ask.

“I have a sailboat,” he said.

“That would explain the tan….”

He straightened and waited for her to turn her head and make eye contact. “I originally bought it for the family.”

“A wife and two kids… I read your bio.”

“Ah, old bio. No wife. We divorced three years ago. I still have two kids, however. Two girls—fifteen and seventeen. Honestly, I can't believe I still have hair.”

She smiled, but briefly. “Am I going to have hair after this?”

He frowned. “I don't think so, Beth.”

“It's going to be hard to keep this a little secret, isn't it?”

“Is that your plan?”

She sighed deeply. “Dr. Paterson, if you had any idea what it was like going through a radical and chemo at twenty-five—so young, the high drama, the fear all around me, eventually the pity and terrified abandonment—you'd understand. I've barely made the five-year mark…”
Mark
. Maybe he was right to leave; maybe she wouldn't survive this. “Not only do I feel like I can't do it again, I'm not sure my parents can take it. They're not young—they were almost forty when I was born, though both are still healthy and working. My friends will be more devastated than I am. It's not just stubbornness, I assure you. It was almost harder dealing with my friends and family than the disease.”

He pulled the gown over her shoulder to cover her and took her hand, holding it briefly. “I can imagine. And please—I'm Jerod.”

“Well, Jerod, this is a disaster. And if I don't somehow hold it together, I'm going to go berserk.”

“Beth, I want you to remember a couple of things. The most important thing is that there doesn't seem to be any cancer anywhere but in the breast. Lightning has struck twice, but only twice—and in the same general place. I'm very optimistic. I think I can get you through this. Give me a chance. And don't go it alone.”

“I'm not going it alone, Jerod. I'm going with you. I'm sure you'll be very supportive.”

C
assie wasn't sure where she'd made her mistakes with men, always betting on the wrong ones. One look at her closest friends—Billy, for example—didn't reveal her to have rotten taste or not recognize a good man when she saw one. Whatever it was, she was determined to change the pattern, maybe think more like Beth, a woman who didn't have expectations at all. Cassie was twenty-nine. She had time to pick up her threads at thirty, thirty-one. Reevaluate. Maybe there were only so many Billys in the world and she'd have to go the route Beth was considering—reconcile to living as a single woman, possibly have her family that way.

But she was lonesome. Beth was busy, Marty was annoyed with her husband, Julie was completely stressed out and distracted by a couple of sick kids. There was one person, however, who had been very nice to her, and proved easy to both talk to and listen to. And as far as
she could tell, he had no secret agenda—he was just pleasant and helpful. After all, she didn't look like his type any more than he was hers. For him, she envisioned a bleached blonde with tattoos, wearing leather pants.

She surprised herself by staring for a long time at that business card with just the cell phone number on it. A person would have to be desperate to actually call a guy like this to suggest meeting for anything more than coffee. The truth was, Cassie
was
a little desperate. Not for Mr. Right but for someone to fill up an hour or two. This might be exactly the person to call during her moratorium on dating, since she'd never go out with a man like Walt.

But he'd been so congenial to have coffee with, his brother was a police officer and, not least of all, he'd rescued her from a bad guy and offered to help back her up if she had further problems or needed a witness. Despite his hard, scary looks, he'd turned out to be one of the most docile and polite men she'd been around in a long time. She couldn't deny she enjoyed his company. There was something about Walt that was more than just sincere; he had an almost nurturing quality. The word
guileless
came to mind. And
genuine.

Still, she would pick a crowded place with a well-lit parking lot.

She called the cell phone number and left a message. “Hi. This is Cassie. I got off work at three and I have to be back on duty at seven in the morning, so it's going to be an early night for me, but I would sort of like to
have a glass of wine and a salad or something. If you're interested, give me a call. Here's my cell phone number.”

She immediately felt ridiculous. Why was she calling this biker in grave need of a decent haircut and a shave? She had nothing in common with him. Men who had that crisp and polished look appealed to her—khakis with starched creases, even their casual shirts professionally laundered. Walt wasn't very well put together—a tightly fitted T-shirt, denim or leather vest, jeans and that ponytail. So retro. He looked road worn. Then she thought, Well, that's
perfect
. There was no way she'd find herself falling for someone like him, hoping he could turn into more than a friend. She was perfectly safe from another disappointment.

A half hour later her cell phone rang and she actually felt a lift, a grin spread across her face. She wasn't sure if it was because she'd left way too many messages in her day and far too few of them had been returned or if it was because she actually liked Walt.

But there it was, on the window of her cell—
Walt Arneson.
Oops, that would mean Cassie
Rasmussen
would be showing up on his; he now knew more than she intended him to know. She hadn't given him her last name before.

“Hey,” she answered.

“Cassie?”

“Yeah, hi, Walt. How are you?”

“Good, thanks. So, you feel like an early dinner?”

“I do. How about you? But I don't know your hours—are you off work yet?”

“Don't worry about that, it's no problem,” he said. “You have a place in mind? Something convenient to you? I'm all over the valley, so it makes no difference.”

“I'm thinking…something casual. There's a Claim Jumper's on Harding, not far off I-80. They have big meals and good salads, so we could both get what we want.”

He laughed into the phone. “Yeah, I guess it's pretty obvious—I don't mind a big meal. I know the place. What time?”

“Six?”

“Great. I'll meet you there.”

And he hung up. No goodbye, no
I'm glad you called
—just hung up. Well, she thought, this wasn't a date. Just someone to talk to, keep her from being completely alone for an hour.

She got there at ten to six. When she asked for a booth in the bar and told the hostess she was expecting a big guy with a ponytail who looked like a biker, the young girl asked, “Is that him?” pointing to a table.

“Well, I'll be…” she muttered, amazed.

When he saw her coming, he stood. “Hey,” he said, smiling.

“Are you starving, Walt?” she asked with a laugh. “You're here early.”

“I'm always hungry, but that's not why I got here early. I didn't want to be late and the traffic overcooperated.”

She slid in across from him. She noticed, not for the first time, right in that hairy face which longed for a shave, that too-long hair pulled back in a messy ponytail, he had the bluest eyes. They somehow seemed even bluer tonight.

“Tell me about your day,” he said.

“Two motorcycle accidents,” she reported.

“Oh, jeez. Not bad ones, I hope,” he said.

“Actually, not too bad,” she said, a little embarrassed at baiting him like that. “One was a teenager, some scrapes. And a highway patrolman versus car—messed up his knee and cracked his pelvis, but he'll be fine.”

“Phew, that's a relief. Always hate to hear about those. Otherwise, your day was pretty good?”

“Always busy, which is one thing I like about E.R.—the time flies. Hard work, but interesting and fast. You?”

He grinned. “Absolutely nothing new about what I do. I did get out for a great ride through the foothills last weekend. What else? Besides work, what have you been doing with yourself?”

“Not so much. If I'm off work, I walk with Steve in the morning, and if I work, I take him out in the afternoon. I keep my little garden going. And I already told you a few days ago, I got together with my girlfriends from high school for lunch. The four of us have stayed close.”

“Yeah, but you didn't really tell me about them.” He grinned.

“We were cheerleaders together. I was lots thinner then….”

“Cassie,” he said, laughing and shaking his head. “You look perfect.”

“That's nice,” she said. “Well, one's a hairdresser, one's a stay-at-home mom with three kids—both of them are married to firemen. And get this—one's a doctor. It's because of the doctor we can't all get together
that often. Her schedule is tight. But I see my best friend Julie all the time.”

“That would be the one with the three kids….”

“You remembered.”

He lifted his eyebrows. “I might remember that night almost as well as you do,” he said. “You still okay on that score?”

“Yes, thanks. And the hand?” she asked.” You still have the cast.”

He lifted the hand with the cast. “They have to get an X-ray before taking off the cast. Every time I see the doc, another X-ray. It's just a little crack, really. Maybe next week.”

The waitress came to their table. He ordered a Coke, she ordered a glass of pinot noir and they decided to take a few minutes to decide on dinner.

“Nothing to drink for you?” she asked. “No beer or anything?”

“I've had enough,” he said.

“Really? You get an early start or something?”

“No,” he said. “I mean, in earlier days. When I was much younger, I hit it pretty hard—got myself in some trouble, disappointed my family. My parents. I was just a kid, but it was time to hang up the mug. No fanfare, no big pronouncements, no meetings. I just decided enough was enough.”

“Oh,” she said.

“Alcohol and motorcycles are a bad combination. And my job depends on me being at my best when I'm on the bike.”

“Then what were you doing at the bar that night? If you don't drink?” she asked.

“I usually look for the bikes. I run into customers, talk awhile, hand out cards, invite them to the store to look around, bring in their mechanical problems, that kind of stuff. Plus I like bikers. A lot of them are cops, by the way. I just want to be friendly,” he said, shrugging. “Except that night you were having some trouble—I wasn't feeling friendly. I'd have gladly decked that guy, but my first concern was if you were all right.”

“You did a very good job with that.” She laughed. “You look like the kind of guy a person should duck away from. I mean, you have all the warning signs—the tattoo, the biker clothes, your size alone….”

“That's gotten me into trouble a time or two,” he said. “I look like a fighter. I don't mind looking strong—it can come in handy. But I'll do anything I can not to fight, honest. Fighting just complicates things.”

“But if you had to?” she asked just as their drinks arrived.

“I could probably hold my own,” he said with a self-effacing shrug.

“Ya think?” she asked with a laugh. “Let's decide what we're eating, then you can tell me about this place where you work.”

She already knew Walt grew up in Roseville, the second of four boys. But over dinner she learned he was thirty-two, had only completed high school and by the time he was twenty-two had been arrested three times
and had two DUIs, not to mention a variety of trouble he caused or got caught up in for which there were no permanent records. A self-described idiot and badass. At that time he was mad at everyone, everyone was mad at him, so he took off on his bike. He wasn't going to put up with anyone's crap anymore. He took his hiatus on the road, that cross-country ride.

“I went through a transformation, don't ask me how. I'm probably too thickheaded to have been looking for something like that, but I'd lie on the ground, look up at a dark sky full of stars and it would come to me— I'm a speck. In the grand scheme of things, I make almost no difference in the world. On the road, in the mountains, valleys, beaches, I kept thinking, This is such a huge, amazing, beautiful place and I'm just a meaningless dot. Nothing. So should I be a speck, a dot, whose single contribution is making people like my mom and dad embarrassed and miserable? Or should I try to do something better than that? Nothing profound, heroic or amazing, but how about just not humiliating my family.”

She reached across the table and put a couple of fingers lightly on the tattoo. “This come before, or after?”

“One of my little pretransformation sprees,” he said, grinning. “Serves as a very good reminder. Besides, I've gotten kind of attached to her.”

“You could dress her,” Cassie suggested.

“It just wouldn't be the same.”

When he got back to California after his sabbatical, looking for something productive, he got a job in a
small bike shop, and it was a good fit. After his experience on the road, keeping his bike running and learning from other groups of bikers, he knew a lot about the machine, about the people who gravitated to those machines. It was a perfect match for him; he could converse about every model, fix them, sell them, give advice. Much to the shop owner's consternation, he did a lot of things for customers at no charge—referrals to other stores, a mechanical tweak, inexpensive part thrown in. He was just acting the way bikers out on the road acted toward one another, but the result was a growing clientele. Bikers trusted Walt.

“Since then that little shop has grown into a chain, a franchise, but the philosophy is the same—we cater to bikers' needs. They think of the store as a clubhouse—they like to hang out a lot, talking to other bikers, so we stock up on trade magazines, give 'em free coffee, set up plenty of comfortable chairs. We've started organizing group rides on weekends—no charge, of course—and people sign up. Works great,” he said. “Since I've been doing this for more than eight years now, I know just about everything about the business. There are four stores in four corners of the valley. Great little business. Because I love bikes, it's kind of like getting paid for your hobby. The best day I have is when someone comes in with a bike I can fix, and I know it's fixed perfectly and at least what I did won't give 'em any more trouble. I know that doesn't sound like such a big deal, but it sure feels good.”

He talked about his brothers—his eldest brother was
an accountant, the one just younger was still in school, studying entomology. “Bugs. Guess he's gonna be an Orkin man,” he laughed. “And you already know about Kevin, the cop.”

Dishes were taken away, coffee arrived. Walt had a huge slice of chocolate cake that she automatically dipped her fork into and sampled, as though they'd been friends for years. Then she glanced at her watch and said, “God, it's eight-thirty! I have an early shift!” She lifted her hand toward the waitress for the check, but when she brought it, Walt snatched it.

“Come on,” Cassie said. “I invited you!”

“Let me,” he said. “Please. I haven't enjoyed myself this much in a long time.”

“Aw, Walt…I didn't mean to let you grab the check! At least let's split it.” She thought, He's a bike mechanic, a grease monkey who spends a lot of time visiting with his customers—he must be totally broke.

“Come on, you're going to have to let me do this. I want to.”

“Well, if you're sure, but…” She didn't finish. She was thinking, but this isn't a date. You can't get the idea we're ever going to date! How do you tell someone as nice as this, whose company you've enjoyed so much that two and a half hours have disappeared like seconds, that you're not even slightly attracted to him?