The Alpine Journey (7 page)

“No,” Molly answered quickly. “Portland. Or Seattle.”

“She didn't want to be redundant,” Stacie said, finally sounding more like an adult than a sulky teen. “Mom told me she'd grown up in Cannon Beach, and once was enough. She wished she'd never come back. She wasn't going to make the same mistake twice by moving back to San Francisco.”

“And your father?” Vida prodded. “Did he want to move, too?”

The Imhoff children exchanged wary glances. “No,” Derek finally replied. “He liked it here. Dad hates cities.”

“I see,” Vida said as we heard the back door open. Everyone turned as a pretty, dark-haired young woman in a waitress's uniform came into the living room.

“Hey, Dolly,” Derek said, brightening. “What's up?”

“Not much,” the young woman responded, eyeing Vida and me with curiosity. “It's slow this afternoon. They let me off early.”

“Cool,” Derek said. “Want to chill on the beach?”

“Maybe.” She started to leave the room, but Vida spoke up.

“I don't believe we've met,” she said with unmistaken authority. “Is this Dolores?”

Derek looked pained, no doubt at the necessity of making introductions. “Yeah, right. Dolly, this is Aunt Vida, and Mrs.… Sorry, I didn't catch it.”

“Lord,” I said, getting off the love-seat to shake hands. “Emma Lord. Dolly, is it?”

The young woman had a steady gaze that was penetrating and yet detached. “Dolores Cerrillo. Derek calls me Dolly. Nobody else does.”

The implication was that nobody else would dare. On closer inspection, Dolores was younger than I'd first guessed. Seventeen, eighteen at most, I decided. It was her eyes that were old. Wherever she'd been and whatever she'd seen in her short life lent her a haunted look beyond her years.

“I'm going to change,” Dolores said, and left the room.

“So,” Vida said, attempting to pick up the conversational thread, “your parents quarreled over the decision to move from Cannon Beach. Is that what caused the breakup?”

“I guess.” Hands stuffed into his jeans, Derek looked belligerent. “Mom said she'd leave without him if she had to.”

“Bull,” said Stacie. “That wasn't all of it. Dad was being a prick about a lot of things.”

“Shut up, butthead,” Derek shouted, leaping to his feet. “You don't know dick!”

Stacie had also risen, standing chest to chest with Derek. “I know Dad was screwing that real-estate bitch! I saw them on the beach one night, going at it!”

Vida, who is usually appalled by vulgar language, appeared spellbound. I, however, felt awkward and embarrassed. I glanced at Vida, in the vain hope that she would consider this an appropriate point of departure. Naturally, she remained glued to her chair. Stacie and Derek continued hurling insults at each other.

“Why are you picking on Dad? You didn't want to leave Cannon Beach, either,” Derek yelled.

“Neither do you!” Stacie snapped. “You wouldn't leave your precious girlfriend for ten minutes!”

“Guys!” Molly was now standing beside her brother and sister, small, plump hands waving. “Don't! Mom and Dad had a … a midlife crisis, that's all! It would have been okay! They just needed space.”

Stacie, who was at least three inches taller than Molly, stared down at her little sister. “Moll, you must be on crack. Mom and Dad were a done deal, Mom was out of here, Dad didn't care. Wake up, bratfinger. They were getting a D-I-V-O-R-C-E.”

Abruptly, Molly turned away. Her round face was blotchy and she looked as if she were going to cry. “No, they weren't,” she said under her breath.

But Molly's interference had taken the steam out of Derek. “I'm gone,” he said, and headed out of the room, following in the direction that Dolores had taken.

“Perhaps,” Vida said delicately, “both your parents had found other loves. It can happen.”

Neither Stacie nor Molly fell into the trap. “I've got to do my homework,” Molly mumbled. With a nod, she went out the front door, which faced the ocean.

“So do I,” Stacie said, avoiding our eyes. “I'm a senior this year,” she added as if her class status gave weight to her excuse for leaving.

Vida deftly picked up on the cue. “Ah, yes.” She turned to me. “The girls ride the school bus every day into Seaside. Cannon Beach has only an elementary school.”

“Oh.” I nodded gravely, as if informed of a major scientific discovery.

“It would be hard,” Vida went on, now speaking again to Stacie, “to leave in your senior year, wouldn't it?”

“Yes,” Stacie replied with an air of suspicion. “Yes, it would.”

“Do you plan on going to college?” Vida inquired in a very auntlike manner.

“I don't know,” Stacie answered a bit impatiently. “Maybe.”

“I understand your mother made friends with a young man who's attending Willamette University. A law student, I believe. What was his name?” Vida's forehead furrowed in the apparent effort of recollection.

“His name was Asshole,” Stacie retorted, and stomped outside to join her sister.

Vida and I were left alone in the living room.

“That,” I declared as we drove up the dirt driveway to the main road, “was a dirty trick, Vida.”

“Twaddle,” Vida responded, braking at the arterial. “How else are we going to learn anything? Those children spend ail their time wrangling with each other. I wish Rosalie had been there. She might exert some control over their filthy mouths.”

It took me a moment to recall that Rosalie was their grandmother, and Rett Runkel's ex-wife. “Have you met her yet?” I asked.

“No,” Vida answered, and took a right instead of a left back into town. “But we will. We're going to Manzanita.”

Resignedly, I leaned back against the Buick's deep blue upholstery. “I thought we were splitting up. Why am I paying for a rental car that's parked back at the motel collecting seagull droppings?”

“You'll have your chance after this,” Vida insisted. “It's a short drive to Manzanita.”

That much was true. The town, which sits above the curve of Nehalem Bay, is even smaller than Cannon Beach, and doesn't boast the cachet of a well-known
tourist spot. Rosalie and Walt Dobrinz lived in a small pink stucco house at the edge of town. They had no view of the ocean, but apparently tried to fill the visual void with garden statuary. Vida and I wound our way among deer, squirrels, leprechauns, bunnies, frogs, and a solitary giraffe before we reached the front door.

Rosalie wasn't expecting us, and she didn't seem pleased by our arrival. “So you're Vida,” she said, not inviting us inside. “Rett had a picture of you and Ernest. 1 think it was taken on your honeymoon.”

“I've changed,” Vida declared. “That was in fifty-one. We spent four days in Victoria, B.C. Ernest came down with shingles.”

“Men,” Rosalie murmured. She was short and stout, her curly gray hair caught in a ponytail. “I'm afraid you've come at a bad time. Walt's taking a nap in the living room.”

“What a shame!” Vida shifted her stance on the small front porch. “Is there somewhere else we could talk? A nearby café?”

Rosalie's blue eyes darted around, as if she expected someone to come up behind her and veto the outing. “Can we take your car?” she finally said.

“Of course.” Vida's manner was gracious.

“Good,” Rosalie responded. “Mine's broken. I'll get my purse.” She went inside, closing the door behind her.

I was following Vida's gaze, which led to the carport at the side of the house. An aging sport utility van was parked there, and a new green Ford Taurus was behind it in the driveway.

“That car looks like the one I rented in Portland,” I said in an idle tone.

“Cute,” Vida remarked, tapping her foot. “Rosalie's not very welcoming.”

“Maybe Walt's a pain,” I suggested. “She may not have improved her lot the second time around.”

“That's often the case,” said Vida, frowning as she attempted to peer into the windows, which were all closed up. “It's poor judgment, which is seldom overcome by experience.”

Rosalie emerged, wearing a white sweater over her flannel shirt and black slacks. “We don't have much in the way of eating places,” she apologized, “but there's a spot a couple of blocks from here. Clean, anyway.”

Clean, as well as old and small described the restaurant where we found ourselves five minutes later. Vida began by inquiring about the children. Rosalie hadn't seen them since Tuesday, though she'd talked to Molly Friday night.

“It was just before you came, I guess,” Rosalie said. “You got in late.”

“So I did.” Vida's manner had become ingratiating. “You've been a very good grandmother to the young ones. It can't be easy at their age.”

Rosalie laughed, a short bark that jarred my ear. “At my age, either. Luckily, Walt's kids and grandkids are grown and out of here. Stepchildren are no picnic.”

“You've had your share of woe,” Vida commiserated as a pigtailed waitress poured coffee for Rosalie and me. Vida was drinking tea. “I'm sure the children miss their mother. They must have been very close.”

“Audrey wasn't your usual kind of mother,” Rosalie said with a frown. “She wasn't your usual kind of daughter, either. She always listened to a different drummer. I wish …” Grimacing, she pressed her fist against her cheek. “Audrey was Audrey.”

“And of course you miss her all the same,” Vida said in a comforting tone.

“Well,” Rosalie began, taking a pack of cigarettes out of her purse, “I do. But you know, it was funny—we lived fifteen miles apart, and it might as well have been fifteen hundred. I don't think I saw her more than four, five times year.”

“The shop, I suppose,” Vida murmured. “It must have kept her and Gordon busy during the tourist season.”

“Yep,” Rosalie replied, lighting up. “That—and other things.”

“Hobbies?” Vida was wearing her owlish expression.

The short bark again jolted my ear. “I guess you could call it that.”

“Call it what?” Vida seemed genuinely perplexed.

Rosalie shot Vida a sly look. “Audrey was a sexy girl, even if she was my daughter. Hey,” she went on, sitting back in her chair and showing off her stubby figure, “I used to be kind of sexy myself, though you wouldn't know it to look at me now. Anyways, men liked Audrey, especially young men. She had to beat them off with a bat—when she'd wanted to.”

“Which, we're told, she usually didn't,” I put in, feeling as if I'd been playing the stooge for Vida too long. “We hear the most recent was a college student, Something-or-Other Damon.”

“Was that it?” Rosalie flicked ash into a clamshell. “I wouldn't know. I hadn't seen Audrey since the Fourth of July.”

A group of leather-clad bikers came into the restaurant and sat down at the table next to ours. They were middle-aged couples, probably off on a weekend round of excitement, a break from the office routine. Vida, whose straw hat looked incongruous in this homely setting, glanced at the new arrivals before turning back to Rosalie.

“We understand that Gordon sought comfort elsewhere,” she said, lowering her voice.

“Well, why not?” Rosalie retorted. “You couldn't blame him. What's a man going to do when his wife is playing around? Gordon's human.”

“Where is Gordon?” I asked.

Rosalie bridled at the question. “How should I know? Looking for a job, maybe. The shop doesn't bring much money in during the off-season.”

“I wouldn't think,” I said in a musing voice, “that he'd leave the children for such a long time right after their mother's death.”

“He wasn't living at home.” Rosalie sounded defensive. “He'll show up.”

Vida was ostensibly studying the bikers who had ordered pie and coffee. “So unusual,” she murmured, then eyed Rosalie. “Your kindly feelings toward Gordon, that is. Mothers-in-law aren't generally so open-minded.”

Rosalie shrugged. “Gordon's an okay guy. Nobody knows better than I do what he had to put up with in Audrey. At least the last few years. Maybe they should have stayed in San Francisco.”

Vida and I both let that remark pass. “I would imagine,” Vida said, “that Gordon's lady friend is worried about him.”

“Could be.” Rosalie seemed indifferent.

“She's in real estate?” There was an edge in Vida's words as her deferential manner began to fray.

“Right,” Rosalie concurred. “Stina, I think her name is. She and her husband have an office in Cannon Beach and one in Lincoln City.”

There was a lull during which the bikers exchanged good-natured ribbing among themselves, a pair of teenage
lovebirds came into the restaurant with their hands all over each other, and an older man in coveralls followed almost upon their heels. To our surprise, Rosalie let out a little gasp.

“Walt!” she exclaimed. “What are you doing here?”

Walt Dobrinz peered through thick glasses, then walked over to our table with a pigeon-toed step. “Rosie? Where you been? I just got—”

“Walt, meet Rett's sister-in-law, Vida, and her friend Emmy.” Rosalie had risen to her feet in such a hasty fashion that she dropped her cigarette. “Damn! Now where'd that go?”

“Another Runkel, huh?” Walt put out a callused hand. “Nice to meet you. You, too, Emmy.”

“It's Emma,” I said, then noticed that Walt wore hearing aids in his glasses.

“Walt, honey,” Rosalie said, stubbing out her cigarette and putting a hand on her husband's shoulder, “can you give me a lift home? These nice ladies want to be on their way.”

Walt's weathered face clouded over. “Gee, Rosie, I was going to get a piece of that marionberry pie,” he said, pointing to a display case that held several selections, from banana cream to pecan. “What's the rush? Can you wait ten minutes? Or is—”

“I can wait.” Rosalie gave Walt a toothy smile, then shook our hands. “Thanks for the coffee, gals. I'll wait with Walt. He likes to sit at the counter.”

Vida and I were dismissed. With a scowl, she picked up the check and stamped over to the register. “Nap indeed,” she scoffed as we went out into the unpaved parking lot where the big, sleek motorcycles were parked two by two. “What's Rosalie hiding?”

“Maybe she's just a lousy housekeeper,” I suggested, getting into the Buick.

“I don't doubt that,” Vida said, giving the ignition key a vicious turn. “Her garden needed weeding in the worst way. You can't hide untended flower beds with ugly garden statuary. It doesn't work for Darla Puckett, either. Have you seen her ceramic Bo-Peep and the six walleyed sheep?”