Free Wildwood by Drusilla Campbell Page A

You’d probably die if you drank the water.”
    Talk, talk, talk. Saying nothing, nothing, nothing.
    Remember Bluegang?
    “Gail’s always after me to join the group she’s organized to clean it up, but I just don’t have the time. You know? I give her a big check every year but there’s only so much a person can do.” Hannah braked and turned into a parking lot.
    Liz read the sign painted on the building in front of them: Bacci’s Italian Market. In cement planters between parking places, purple and gold lantana drooped under the midday sun. The fragrance of salami, briny olives and baking bread came through the car window.
    Hannah switched off the ignition and reached into the backseat for her straw purse. “You want to come in? It’d tickle Mario to see you. He and Gail are coming to dinner Saturday if you’d rather not.”
    “I’ll stay.”
    Liz put her head back and closed her eyes. Fatigue and apprehension lay on her eyelids like iron coins.
     
     
    “Were you asleep?” Hannah asked as she opened the door fifteen minutes later. “Do you feel okay?”
    “I’m fine.” Liz poked in the brown paper bags. “What did you buy me?”
    “Salami. Biscotti with walnuts and anise dipped in chocolate. Mindy Ryder makes it.”
    “What’s she doing with herself?”
    “That’s probably not a good question to ask.” They laughed. “She’s coming on Saturday too so you can ask her yourself.” Hannah pulled out onto Rinconada’s main street lined with specialty shops and boutiques with clever names: Bearly Yours, Heavenly Heels.
    Liz said, “I was in love with him once. Mario.”
    “When’s the last time you saw him?”
    “Fifteenth reunion, I think. It was before I met Gerard.”
    “Well, let me prepare you. The Italian stallion has eaten a bit too much of his own spaghetti.” The car in front stopped suddenly. “Shit.”
    Liz double-checked her seat belt.
    “Gail’s made a fortune selling real estate to half of Silicon Valley and they all drive down Santa Cruz Avenue cruising the shops. Jeanne says when Judgment Day comes, Gail’s going to burn in hell for what she’s done to this town.”
    “How is Jeanne anyway? Her letters don’t give much away.”
    Hannah drummed her fingers on the steering wheel as they waited for traffic to clear. “She’d say the same of yours.”
    “Lord, Hannah, I’m an open book.”
    Hannah’s gaze snapped. “Don’t forget who you’re talking to, Lizzie. I’m the girl who knew you when.”
    And I you.
    Liz asked, “How’s the abominable spouse?”
    “Still abominable.” At a stoplight Hannah signaled right and turned up Casabella Road.
    By contrast to Santa Cruz Avenue, Casabella Road had changed little in the years since Liz and her two friends walked it to and from school every day. It began at the Corner Drug Store and, staying level for a while, curved around the little town cemetery before it turned again and ran parallel to Santa Cruz Avenue for several blocks. Beyond St. Margaret’s Episcopal Church where Hannah’s father was rector for more than twenty years, it veered left and up the long grade old-timers in town still called Queen Victoria’s Hill. On either side, restored Victorian homes faced each other like a dowager standoff.
    “Stop a second,” Liz said. “Pull over.”
    It had been her intention to fix her gaze directly ahead when the car reached the corner of Casabella and Manzanita. But the wind was blowing hard again, stirring up the grit of memory. The two-storied Victorian stood in the middle of its half-acre lot and called her name.
    Hannah said, “It belongs to some people from Rhode Island now. Big computer bucks.” The verge board, the bracketed eaves, and the arch of rosettes crowning every window: all had been scrupulously restored and, like the rest of the house, sparkled achingly white in the sunlight. On the porch there was a swing with a bright blue canvas awning.
    “If you want to see inside I can call the owner.