Girl With a Past (21 page)

“Do you know their names?”

“Na. Hell, I wasn’t there that much. I
worked, remember.”

“How would we find this place?” Steven
asked.

Dave’s cell chirped an incoming text. He
picked it up, studied the screen. “Damn. Fucking idiots.” He looked
at the sideboard. “Maria” he screamed, “I want a damn piece of
paper.” He stomped his foot. “Maria. Goddamn! Where the fuck are
you?”

My theory of Dave was that he thought of
other humans as worthless annoyances. He made no pretense otherwise
with his servants.

A pale Maria scurried through the swinging
kitchen door, pen and tablet in hand. She placed the items on the
table and shook while awaiting further instructions.

“Get outa here,” Dave snapped at her.

Steven frowned as though he were about to
chastise Dave.

With a look I reminded my brother about
Uncle Dave’s hypersensitivity to anything that he could construe as
criticism. I remembered Dave bitching to Dad that he thought Mother
had insinuated that he was nouveau riche when he complained about a
scratch on the dining table. In fact, my mother never criticized
anyone. But I knew from her reaction to being told about Dave’s
complaint that she does not, in fact, think too highly of him, and
his new money has nothing to do with her low opinion.

Steven got the message. We wouldn’t get
anything out of him if we pissed him off.

Dave scribbled on the paper. “I don’t have a
clue as to the address, but I can draw you a map of how to get
there.” He tossed the scribbles at us as he stood up.

“Were you home when Lexi left that night?” I
wasn’t through with my questions.

“No. I was at work.” Dave turned his back to
me and walked toward the entry hall.

I knew he wasn’t at work, unless he’d gone
back to the city after being home in the early afternoon. I
followed him into the hall. “What was the name of that place, the
bar on San Pablo?”

Dave picked up his briefcase. He didn’t
answer, but I saw red creep up his neck past the cravat.

“Was it something like the Monk?” I
pressed.

“The Monkey Inn.” Dave turned to glare at
me, then softened the look. “I really gotta get to the office.” He
forced a smile. “I am sorry I can’t help you kids, if I think of
anything that might be . . . useful, I will definitely be in
touch.”

“Did you stop there on the way home from the
city?”

“Sometimes,” Dave threw a Burberry trench
over his arm.

“That night?”

He shook his head.

“The day before?”

“I don’t remember.” He walked out the
door.

One of those events you never forget, he had
said. Did you forget what you were doing right before it
happened?

Steven and I exchanged shrugs as we got in
the car. He turned to look at me as he pushed the power button.
“Wow. Dave has serious money. That was a Jasper John in the entry
hall, a Renoir on the staircase wall. Did his . . . hmm . . .
intensity
earn a fortune?”

“You know Steven, he always was weird.”

Dave was intense even when we were still in
school. Intense just wasn’t cool then. Laid-back, like Jamie’s
insouciance. That was the way to hang.

Maybe it was because he grew up poor. Many
in that generation grew up with enough financial security to give
more attention to saving the world, or creating great art, or
changing the social structure, or bringing peace to earth,
something other than making money. Not Dave. He’d parlayed a
waterbed company into a chain of waterbed stores, then into
furniture stores, and then into an enormous import company that
brought in furniture from all over the Orient. When the China
market opened up, he became a billionaire. But all that success,
all that money sure hadn’t made him happy.

41

The drive to Marin would have been
beautiful, had we been in the mood to enjoy the Golden Gate Bridge,
the rich yellow, rolling hills dotted with dark coast oaks. Not
this time. After we got off the freeway in Novato and passed the
usual new shopping centers that look the same everywhere these
days, we drove on a two-lane road that wound among giant oaks and
golden pastures.

We found the farmhouse set in the midst of
an apple orchard. It looked just as I had imagined it––or, rather,
as I remembered it. I had been there before; that is Lexi had.

White clapboard siding, covered front
porch––style elements known among architectural historians as
farmhouse Victorian. The decorations are much simpler and more
functional than on the fancy painted ladies of San Francisco.

The house, barn, and some orchard were still
intact, but instead of being set in fifty acres, a single acre was
surrounded by a housing development of McMansions. A sedan and an
old Land Rover were parked in front of the barn. We found the front
door and knocked.

No one answered. We peeked in windows,
pounded on another door. There was no sign of anyone yet the house
was furnished and a bowl of fruit was visible in the kitchen.

Steven checked out the barn. I walked
through elderly, gnarled apple trees. I saw Birkenstock clad feet
and worn denim-covered legs at the top of a wood ladder.

“Hello, hi.” I stood near the bottom of the
ladder. There was no response to my greeting. “Hello,” I repeated.
“Hi.”

“I hear ya. Wadda want?” asked a gruff
voice.

“Can we talk?” I still couldn’t see a head
and didn’t know if I was addressing a man or a woman.

“We’re talkin’, aren’t we?”

“My name is Alexandra Nichols. I’m looking
for some people who used to live here. A couple, the caretakers,
and some friends of my father’s.”

“Can’t help ya.”

“Do you live here?” I asked.

“Sometimes.”

“How long have you lived here?”

“Why is that any of your business?”

“I would very much appreciate your help,” I
said.

“I’m busy.”

“Could I come back later?” I figured he or
she would have to come down that ladder eventually. Maybe I’d just
wait.

“No.”

“Are you the owner?”

“Get the hell out of here.”

Steven joined me. “Who are you talking
to?”

I shrugged, pointed up to the legs.

“Hello,” Steven said to the legs. “Sorry to
bother you. Could we just ask a few questions?”

“Oh for godsakes.” The feet started down the
ladder and a head swathed in netting over a hat emerged from the
branches. “Are you friends of my son?”

“Who’s your son?” I asked.

Steven gave me a look that said ‘you are
going about this all wrong’. “Our father used to visit here some
decades back when he was in college. His friend Jamie’s parents
owned the place then. We’re trying to locate the couple who acted
as caretakers at that time.”

Hands covered in leather work gloves
unwrapped the netting and removed the hat uncovering the
attractive, wrinkled face of an older woman. “You have any idea how
long it took me to get all this crap on and finally do something
about trimming these damn trees?” She walked toward the house. We
followed. “Wait here,” she said when we got to the front porch. A
few minutes later she emerged from the house, handed us a piece of
paper, and walked back to the orchard.

I looked at the paper. At the top it said,
“Caretakers” followed by “Susan and Mac McAller” and an address in
Novato. Now it came back to me. We had called them Mr. and Mrs.
Mac.

“Who was that?” I asked Steven.

He shrugged.

42

The address turned out to be a rest home.
Mac and Mrs. Mac sat in wheelchairs in the sun of the atrium. I was
determined to do a better job of interviewing these two.

“Hello, Mr. and Mrs. McAller. I’m Alexandra
Nichols. This is my brother Steven. Our father, Jeff, used to stay
at the Gregg’s farmhouse back in the late ‘60’s and early ‘70’s.
Would it be alright if we asked you a few questions?” I pulled the
photo of the gang out of my pocket thinking I could use it to jog
their memories.

“What’s she saying? Can’t hear her,” Mr.
McAller yelled at his wife.

Mrs. Mac reached over to readjust her
husband’s hearing aid, smiled at us, and said, “Please have a seat.
Presumably Mrs. Gregg told you where to find us. I’m Mrs. Mac,
that’s what the young people like you always called me.” She
offered her hand, pulling her housecoat closed on her legs.

I shook her hand. So that was Mrs. Gregg at
the farmhouse, Jamie’s mother.

“We’d be happy ta talk. What would ya like
ta know?” Mrs. Mac continued.

“When you took care of the place, who all
lived there?”

“There was just one year, 1969, when anyone
actually lived at the farm. Rest'a the time, it was just weekends
when they’d come. ‘Course we never knew when they was comin’.
They’d just show up which made shoppin’ complicated, but Mr. Gregg
insisted we always be prepared for company, and he footed the
bills, so who were we ta complain?”

“Who lived there in 1969?”

“Jamie Gregg and three of his friends
mostly. Others would show up. Most we ever had at once was about
thirty, I’d say. Lord. Had bodies everywhere. Every bed, every
sofa––even the hammocks and chaises on the porch. Some even slept
in the orchard. They helped with the cookin’, wanted me ta teach
'em how to cook everything, apple pies, apple butter, stews. They
was a real nice bunch ya know. Good kids.”

“What did they do besides cook?” Steven
asked.

“Played a lot of cards. Liked ta play with
maybe ten people, lots of decks. Mostly hearts.”

“Cooked, ate, played cards, slept. Does that
cover it?” I asked.

“Oh, no! They used ta crank up the sound on
the hi-fi so loud it ‘bout shook the house down. Could hear it all
through the orchard. They’d dance through the trees, even on the
roof.” In a sweet but cracking voice she sang, “
All ya need is
love, love, love: love is all ya need
.’ Those songs and the
like. Of course they’d be smokin’ that mary-juana all the time. And
drank up the good wine from the cellar, Mr. Gregg wasn’t too happy
bout that but he didn’t care about the maryjane.”

“The three friends, male?” Steven asked.

“Oh yes. Course they had girls around, too.
Sister of one of the boys come pretty often and she’d bring her
friends.” Mrs. Mac leaned over to whisper, “We’d always find it
interestin’ ta see who would end up in what beds. Plenty of that
going on too, ya know.”

I returned her smile and nodded. “What names
do you remember?”

“Jamie, of course.”

“What girls did he have around?”

“Not many, really. Which was surprisin’ ‘cuz
even as a young man, he was a charmer. Very much a gentleman.”

Mrs. Mac hesitated in thought for only a
second. “One girl named Nancy that came with Elliott’s sister the
first time and then he’d go pick her up sometimes. I’m pretty sure
she ended up with Elliott, ya know in the end when they was all
grown ups and started gettin’ married.”

“Who else?” I asked.

“Tom. Now he was a handsome Irish boy. Liked
ta cook. Had a different girl every week until that Linda come
along. Then it was just her. They’re still married ya know, I read
about them in the papers, society pages.”

“Elliott came there?” I asked “Before
Nancy?”

“Yeah, he were one of ‘em. That poor boy got
his heart broke so often. He would go for the kinda plain ones,
too. But they never lasted more than a week or so. Now that Ron. He
practically had ta beat’em off with a stick. Weren’t just ‘cuz of
his looks either, he was kinda a rugged blonde. ‘Course he was so
much fun. Always laughin’, smilin’, jokin’ around. Sure did enjoy
him. Smile that lit up the room.”

“Those were the three that lived there with
Jamie in 1969?” I asked. “Elliott . . . Tom . . . Ron.”

Mrs. Mac nodded after each name.

I continued, “and then Linda, Nancy, and
what was Elliott’s sister’s name?”

“Lucy,” she said.

“Boy, what a memory. Do you remember any
other names, Mrs. Mac?” I asked.

“There was Lexi that come sometimes. She
brought her friend Carol once when they’d had some car trouble.
Lexi would go ta the orchard and paint the most lovely landscapes.
She gave me one. Still have it. Hung it in our suite here.” She
smiled at me. “And your father. He and Lexi were close, but just
friends I think. Later he’d bring Lauren with him. She was such a
nice girl, so polite and helpful. Your mother right?”

I nodded. “Anyone else?’

She looked away for a moment, then shook her
head. “No, not that I recall, not regular like.”

“How wild would it get? When the music was
cranked up. Did the parties ever turn violent?” I asked.

“Oh heaven’s no.”

“No fist fights or brawls?”

“They was all good friends. Nothing bad like
that. They had the right idea.”

I looked at her questioningly.

“All peace and love, ya know.”

“Was there ever any yelling? Did the couples
fight?” I persisted.

“A little bickering, but no yelling ever.
Not when they was at the farm. Or when we was there, anyways. We
did take off every Wednesday, but they wouldn’ta been different
then, I don’t guess.”

“So no violence, no fighting, nothing ever
like that?”

“Definitely not.” She smiled, patted her
quiet husband’s hand. “I sure did love all those kids.”

“They loved you too, Mrs. Mac,” I said as I
gave her a gentle hug.

43

We climbed back into the car. “Sounds pretty
idyllic, huh?” Steven said.

“Can you imagine Mom and Dad never yelled?”
I said.