Chapter 14
Carlos and Serena send us off the following day with warm hugs and two bottles of wine made from grapes grown in their private vineyard.
Beau must have told them about my dad, because Serena pulled me aside after breakfast and slipped a book into my purse.
“This helped me when I lost my mom last year.”
I was touched by her thoughtfulness, but I’m not a self-help-book type of gal. Dad put me into therapy as soon as I got my period—as if puberty might trigger the latent feelings of motherless longing. My therapist recommended a slew of books based on quackery of all stripes. I never finished them.
I pull the book from my purse when we’re on the road, curious about Serena’s brand of pop psychology, turning it to the front cover and creaking the binding. But it’s not an encyclopedia of motivational hogwash.
Beau casts a glance at the white cover. “What’s that?”
“Poetry.” I flip to the first page.
“Mary Oliver,” Beau says. “Wouldn’t have guessed you’d be a fan.”
Our ceasefires are so brief that the white flag may go on strike. “Contrary to what you assume, I can read.”
Beau lowers the music, and his tone grows serious. “Mary Oliver cuts right to the soul, and you have never been comfortable going there.”
I shake my head. “Relax. I don’t understand poetry anyway.”
Beau sighs. “You belittle yourself far more than I ever could.”
I fan through some pages and land on a poem—it seems benign enough. It’s about moths, of all things. I read through it, surprised at its simplicity, its clarity. But then the message sneaks in, and I suck in a breath. It’s about pain. About avoidance.
A ball forms in my throat, dry and burning, and I swallow several times to clear it, looking out the window before closing the book with a thud.
“Not your thing?” Beau asks.
I shake my head but don’t look at him. He reaches his hand to my shoulder and squeezes once but lets me be.
After our Paso Robles interview, where a middle-aged woman named Shauna confesses to stealing money from her employer, we have another three hours of driving before we’re able to settle in for a few days in the Bay Area.
Tomorrow, we have an interview in Berkeley, near Beau’s house.
The plan is to stay there and knock out several interviews before heading up north, with a possible detour to Fort Bragg to chase my mom’s shadow.
But I kick that decision down the metaphorical road.
I turn on our compromise playlist—acoustic covers. It’s random enough to keep me entertained, and mellow enough to match Beau’s morose disposition. I work for a few hours as Beau lapses into an introvert coma. It suits us both.
“Are you sure you don’t mind me staying at your house?” I ask once we’ve pulled off the freeway.
“Why would I mind?”
“Aren’t you worried I might find your hidden porn?
Or see your Netflix queue and learn you’re a fan of trashy reality TV?
Maybe you still sleep with Snuffy, or don’t know how to fold a fitted sheet and the contents of your linen closet will bury me as soon as I open it.
” I gasp. “I bet you have a Monica closet like in Friends .”
He doesn’t respond. My powers of irritation are waning.
“Your entire place is decked out in mahogany bookcases with leather-bound volumes of Chaucer, Shakespeare, and Dante. You have Tiffany lamps and leather chesterfield sofas. You wear a smoking jacket and sit in the parlor puffing on a pipe in front of a roaring fire. You don’t even own a television because it’s too plebeian. ”
He shakes his head. “Plebeian?”
“Did I use that wrong?”
He rolls his eyes.
“I know. It’s worse than that. You’re worried I’m going to push on the wrong bookcase and find your secret room, filled with your old Star Wars figurines. You still play with them and have a fetish for Ewoks.”
“Gross,” he groans. “There is something wrong with you.”
“Probably. But you’re officially my friend again, so what does it say about you?” I grin at him with all my teeth.
“That I’m charitable.” He offers me the crumbs of a smile.
“You are a closeted bro and have a pool table instead of a dining room table, Budweiser signs, and one of those paintings of dogs playing poker. And pinups of Sports Illustrated swimsuit models,” I guess.
He ignores me. “You’re a secret hoarder.
Your house is jammed with boxes of ‘As Seen on TV’ deals.
You order them too fast to open the boxes, so you’ve yet to use your Ove Glove, Snuggie, or ShamWow. ”
He chuckles at this one. Finally.
“Okay, Professor, which is it?”
“I guess you’ll have to wait and see.”
Alas, it is none of those. Beau lives in North Oakland near the Berkeley campus in a classic Craftsman with gray shingle siding shrouded by two towering pine trees.
It’s a grown-up house with a facade that screams history professor and has three wide steps up to a generous covered porch and double-glass French doors.
When we pull up outside, I’m irritated at myself for not calling it—Arts and Crafts charmer for the academic.
He trudges up the steps and I follow, watching him fish a spare key from under a planter box beside the front door. “That’s the first place a thief would look,” I say.
“Well, if robbers did use my keys, they were more considerate than you, since they didn’t lose them.” He flashes me a wry smile.
I’m surprised when he opens the doors to an empty space, save a few boxes stacked along the far wall.
There’s an entryway with rich oak built-ins and two rooms flanking each side.
I think it’s supposed to be a living room and dining room—but there’s no furniture to confirm.
Beau’s steps echo as he heads to open the windows.
It’s cooler here than our recent stops, but the sun streams across the wood floors, creating a greenhouse effect.
“Um, were you actually robbed?” I ask.
“No.” Beau pulls my bag from my shoulder.
“I guess I lost the bet on the whole hoarder thing.” I walk over to the oversize fireplace, with a solid mantel flanked by empty bookcases in a rich dark stain. “Where’s all your furniture? Your pretentious artwork? The textbooks you read for fun?”
“I got the house. She got the stuff.”
“Wow.” I scan the emptiness and am struck again.
This is a house meant to hold a slouchy couch, overstuffed armchairs, wool rugs, and cashmere throw blankets.
I imagine a live-edge table in the dining room, oatmeal tufted side chairs, and custom art that Beau found while traveling overseas.
He needs side tables to hold warm lamps and reading glasses, a bar cart for his bourbon and lowball glasses.
“She came a few weeks ago, packed up the rest of it.”
“Geez. It looks like the Grinch was here. Not even a crumb too small for a mouse.”
He walks through a corridor flanked by columns and more empty bookcases.
“She cleaned you out.” I find him in the bright white kitchen, digging through the Shaker cabinets, leaving each open to reveal bare shelves. “Jesus. What did you do?”
He freezes and looks at me, incredulous. “What did I do?”
I hold up my hands. “She must have hated something in this house: your tacky leather recliner, or a battered desk only you could love. There’s no way she wanted every spoon, trinket, or mug, and yet”—I look around—“this is an action of a woman scorned.”
He lets the pantry door bang closed and opens another, growling when he pulls out an orange Dutch oven. It’s one of those fancy ones my friend Janna has that I covet.
“That’s something,” I say. “She hates cooking, then?”
He places it on the counter and rubs his temples. “It’s a message.”
“Let’s hope it’s not a boiled bunny.”
He exhales loudly and leans on the counter, his spine curved, shoulders near his ears.
I think of my vulnerable Beau two nights ago, mourning his lost wedding ring.
I don’t know that he’ll ever trust me enough to tell me what destroyed them.
But he doesn’t need to tell me specifics to communicate he’s in pain.
I shift around the marble island and place my palm on his back, rubbing between his shoulder blades.
He jumps at the contact, but then leans into it.
“I guess the message isn’t as sinister as that?”
“It was our first purchase as a couple. We bought it for a cooking class we took together.”
“And the message is?” I ask.
“If I had to guess, she thinks if she makes me miserable enough and leaves a trail of breadcrumbs of happy memories, I’ll find my way back to her.” He exhales the confession.
“She wants you back?” I ask, and draw my hand away.
He shrugs. “That’s her story anyway.”
I try to picture her—the Instagram doctor on his arm for all those years. I remember she was pretty. But what I recall about those photos was Beau’s smile, so genuine that the rare dimple below his eye would appear when he looked at her.
“And you don’t?” I try to hide my skepticism.
He doesn’t answer but shifts away to finish his scavenger hunt. Other than the cast-iron pot, there’s a cheap I heart New York mug (souvenir?), a couple of champagne flutes (wedding related?), and a ceramic teapot painted with freesias (daily ritual?).
“How do you feel about these breadcrumbs?” I ask once he’s scoured the space and deposited the meager contents on the island.
“Like I want to smash them and mail the pieces back to her in an envelope.”
“Whoa.” I draw back. “I understand that impulse. I recently tossed thirty years of memories to spite my lying father. But”—I glance over the sorry stash—“this is all you’ve got in the world. So I have another idea.”
“Honey, I’m home.” I push through Beau’s front door an hour later, but he doesn’t respond.