started a steamy affair. Let’s face it: some pretty powerful feelings caused Violet to hit him with the tray. Maybe the relationship had started to sour. Maybe he decided to stick with Melinda. Maybe Gigi got in the way of her father’s new romance. Whatever the case, I’d taken to calling him Rol-Ex, which I think is screamingly hilarious but other people seem to find lame. Violet sure does.
Sometimes I think I’m the last person left on the planet with a real sense of humor.
So, whether she cops to it or not, I believe Violet and Rol-Ex were hitting the sheets together. It’s almost a given. There’s just something ripe, luscious and ready to pick about Violet that can’t be missed. And she’s not the type of woman to spend time mourning the death of a previous relationship, such as the one she was working on with Dwayne. Nope. More likely, Violet would simply zero in on the next opportunity and head that direction. I admire her ability to get over bad stuff. She says there’s no time to dwell, regret, rue or wallow. She’s supercharged in a sultry, throbbing way that reminds me of Mae West or Marilyn Monroe.
And she’s nobody’s fool.
I come by my paranoia over Violet’s chances with Dwayne for good reason. I don’t care that she’s ten to fifteen years older. It didn’t stop Demi Moore, and it would never stop Violet.
And I’ve grown pretty sick of her evasions, to tell the truth. No “amethyst” gown is going to change my feelings. After I talk with Sean I plan to have a serious tête-à-tête with my client and hopefully an exchange of information. I’ll offer up what I learn from Sean, and she’d better come completely clean with a full account of what went on between her and Rol-Ex before she hit him with the platter.
I got ready for the evening early, more out of boredom than an urge to be ahead of the game. I opted for a pair of expensive brown pants—something my friend Cynthia had made me buy in a weak moment—a white, silky shell and a black leather jacket. The weather was unpredictable. Hail one minute, followed by surprisingly warm wintry sun the next, followed further by gale winds that shook the windows and rattled the branches. Whatever the case, Oregon nights in November require layering. It was going to be cold, cold, cold once that sun went down.
I threw a longing glance toward my sneakers; I like to be ready to move, if need be. The Binkster was curled up in her little bed in the corner of my bedroom watching me as I pulled items from the closet, tried them on, discarded them, then put them back. When I was finally dressed to my satisfaction I turned around and looked at her, splaying my palms up to ask for her opinion. Her little tail whipped into a curl, the only movement I could discern apart from her eyes. I’ve come to recognize this as “Hi, there.”
“So, what do you think?” Her tail jerked into a speedy wag. “I have to go out tonight, so you need to head outside and take care of business.” I moved to the kitchen door of my cottage, which leads to a back deck. Stairs descend to the backyard and a body of water known as West Bay. At the eastern end of the bay is a bridge, and once beneath the bridge you enter Lake Chinook itself.
Binks’s toenails clicked against my hardwood floor. I opened the back door, then followed her down the steps, waiting patiently while she nosed around the yard. She can let herself out through her doggy-door cut into the wall, but I wanted to get the job done and lock her inside for the rest of the night. She looked up at me once, her wrinkly black face comically quizzical. I motioned for her to get at it and she got right down to business. I cleaned up after her as I can’t stand dog doo-doo littering my yard and flushed the remains down the toilet.
Binkster looked at me expectantly. She seems to think everything she does requires a reward. Have I created this expectation? Undoubtedly. Do I regret it? Well, yeah, some. Did anyone tell me how to train a dog that was dumped on me unceremoniously? Hell no. I figure Binks is lucky to be alive, at this point.
I reached over and grabbed her face and leaned down and let her half jump up to lick my lips. These kisses used to gross me out. The idea of dog germs is a very real thing. But now I don’t know…I just sort of go with it, which is surprising because I have real Seinfeld-ish problems with that kind of thing.
My cell phone started singing. I dug in my purse for it. Why are those things so damn hard to find? When I finally corralled it and looked down at its brightly lit LCD and recognized the name and number, my brows lifted in surprise. It was my landlord, Mr. Ogilvy. This is not a man who calls me up. Our communication is by mail. I write him a rent check and send it to him. He responds by cashing the check.
“Hi,” I answered.
“Jane?”
“Yes.”
He didn’t waste time. “I’ve decided to sell the place. I’m putting a sign up tomorrow.”
My legs sagged beneath me and I had to sit down. Selling? My cottage? I’d been renting from Ogilvy for over four years. I couldn’t imagine living anywhere else. I can afford the rent. The house is on the water. There’s nothing like it anywhere in my price range. I don’t want to leave. Ever. “Selling?” I repeated faintly.
“You don’t have to move till it’s in escrow,” he said magnanimously.
Well, la-di-da. My mind immediately searched for a way to buy the property myself, but it wasn’t possible. It was too much money. The property’s value had to be in the stratosphere by virtue of the lakefront land beneath the cottage. The one-bedroom building itself wasn’t much, but it was my home. I was horrified.
“You’re going to have to take your stuff out of the garage,” I said in a voice I barely recognized as my own. I couldn’t think of anything else to say. I’d never been able to use the garage because of all of Ogilvy’s junk that was padlocked inside. I guess I hoped this might deter him, but apart from an unhappy grunt of acknowledgment, he didn’t react.
I left the cottage with that bad feeling that comes from unresolved issues, the kind that stays in your head, never quite put aside, remembered with a jarring lurch and a pit in your gut. I couldn’t think about moving. I couldn’t. I was pissed off at Ogilvy for even suggesting I should.
In a funk, I drove to my friend Cynthia’s art gallery, the Black Swan, located in Portland’s chichi Pearl District, and hung around until she closed at nine, and then even later, sharing a glass of red wine with her in her office. She looked sharp in a short forest-green skirt, a matching double-breasted jacket and a pair of silver heels. I asked her to go with me to the Crock.
“Can’t,” she declined. “Got to get to bed early. Much to do tomorrow. And I’m short-staffed, as ever, since Ernst left, which isn’t a bad thing because the last thing I needed was to look at his ugly face every day.”
Ernst was an ex-lover and ex-employee.
I walked her to her car, then climbed back in mine, heading east toward the Willamette River which feeds into the Columbia River, the dividing line between Oregon and Washington. The Willamette bisects Portland whose city center lies on the west side. The Crock, short for Crocodile, is located on the east side, not far from Twin Peaks, the two bluish glass towers that are perched atop the Convention Center. I crossed the Morrison Bridge and began a kind of haphazard journey down narrow streets in search of the bar. I’d never been to the Crock and I wasn’t all that familiar with this area. It’s a part of Portland that was once, and is largely still, industrial, this close to the river, but there are cubbyholes of trendy restaurants and nightclubs tucked here and there. In a few years it will probably be blocks of urban hot spots. I’d been to several of the clubs around town to see up-and-coming bands at a number of these joints: they were, to a one, dark, bare, crammed with young people and loud noises.
