LJ Maas - Rebecca’s Cove

“Let me guess. Flute or clarinet.” “Flute, smarty. How did you know?”

“It figures. I knew it had to be some kind of girly instrument.”

“Girly? Were you even in band?”

“High school class of 1977. Actually, I played in school bands for eight years. You just try marching in Chicago. I froze my ass off during the winter and practically collapsed from heat exhaustion every summer. I seriously hold marching band responsible for the aversion I developed to seasonal celebrations. It’s probably why Halloween is my favorite holiday...no parades.”

“And what was this butch instrument you played—the tuba?”

“Oh, you’re such a comedian. No, it was the trumpet.”

“Geez, how hard can the trumpet be? You only have three keys on the thing and you can see them!”

“It’s a lot of work when you hate it.” “Why’d you play if you hated it?”

“Some rat bastard told me that being in band was an easy way to get girls. That theory turned out to be a major disappointment. I can’t begin to tell you how sorry I made Joey Bruder throughout the rest of junior high and high school.”

“So you spent eight years playing an instrument you hated? How miserable.”

“You’re telling me. Actually, I liked the thing when I first got it. I had the usual ‘bright shiny object’infatuation, but that lasted for about two months. Once I realized they wanted me to practice for thirty minutes a day, the party was over.”

“It’s funny what educators learned from our generation, isn’t it? Kids who take an instrument now have band or orchestra practice every day, just like math or English. That way, they don’t end up being forced to practice at home.”

“Really? Little rat bastards don’t know how good they have it. How do you know that?” BJ asked.

“Oh...um...I see a lot of the kids in my office with their pets. So you hated it, yet you kept on with it.”

BJ shrugged. “My mother made me. She locked me in my bedroom for half an hour after school every day. As I got older, I figured it would look good on a college application. What?” she asked when Hobie shook her head.

“I’ve just never known anyone to go about something with such a generous helping of apathy before.” BJ laughed at the remark, and Hobie breathed a sigh of relief.

“Apathetic and proud of it. There were four trumpets in the middle school band. I was fourth seat trumpet until high school. Always last, but being last is highly underrated. When you’re on the bottom rung of the ladder, people don’t expect so much from you. My freshman year, I moved up to third chair. The only reason was because the kid ahead of me moved away.”

“I would have thought you were the kind of person with more ambition than that.”

“Why?” BJ hurried on to explain, “Ambition is decidedly overvalued. Besides, it only serves to disappoint.”

“You sound more like a bitter woman than a philosopher.” BJ smiled briefly. “None of the above. Simply a realist.”

The conversation lagged suddenly and both women looked as though they were revisiting their own memories of youth. The sounds of JoJo delivering their breakfast pulled them from their thoughts. Once she had moved away from the table, BJ continued.

“I’ve found that having little or no ambition lends to a more spontaneous way of life. I don’t know if I’ll always be successful. It’s not that I don’t care, it’s just that it takes more energy than I want to expend to ensure that I’ll remain on top. Perhaps it’s that I haven’t found the one thing in life worthy of all that work. On the other hand, maybe it’s just that I’ve never been able to put off my own self-indulgences.”

Hobie was only slightly surprised at the hedonistic attitude with which BJ lived her life. She was curious as to how much of BJ’s way of thinking was truth and how much was a cover-up for her own insecurities. Neither woman appeared anxious to continue the conversation. They concentrated on their food, but in the back of their minds, they had a nagging feeling that there was more to say.

The art deco style of the restaurant made BJ feel at home. It reminded her of all the diners she had gone to, growing up on Chicago’s South Side, the kinds of places that served breakfast twenty-four hours a day. The décor included lots of stainless steel and colorful plastic. She had sobered up from many a night on the town in those establishments.

Once she’d finished her meal, BJ spent the next hour keeping up her end of the conversation. They stuck to safe subjects like sports and computers, realizing that other topics touched on too many controversial points. BJ thought it odd that the one person in town who could manage to get on her nerves at the drop of a hat was the same person with whom she suddenly found it so easy to converse.

She found herself people-watching most of the time. Rebecca’s Cove certainly seemed to be the hub of operations for the island. People not only came there to eat, but to meet, hear news, and catch a tidbit of gossip or two. There always seemed to be enough room, even though the diner appeared full.

Hobie had been right when she said everyone knew everyone else in Ana Lia. Nearly all of the patrons stopped to say hello and exchange pleasantries with Hobie. She had a smile and a good word for every person she met, which annoyed BJ. People who were too friendly had always annoyed her.

“I said, are you about ready to go?”

BJ realized that her own thoughts had so thoroughly captured her attention that she hadn’t heard a word Hobie had said. “Oh, yeah, sorry. I’ll just—” She reached for her wallet, which she carried in the back pocket of her jeans, quickly realizing that her wallet wasn’t there because her jeans weren’t there. She was still wearing Mack’s sweatpants. “Shit!”

“What?”

“I forgot my billfold.”

“Oh, is that all? Don’t worry, I’ve got it.” Hobie reached for the check that JoJo had placed on the table.

“I’ll pay you back,” BJ said in embarrassment. “I’m not worried about it.”

“Yeah, but the clothes I wanted to pick up. I just don’t want to—”

“Owe me?” Hobie finished BJ’s thought.

“Nothing personal. I don’t like being indebted to anyone. It makes me feel...I don’t know, obligated.”

“Heaven forbid,” Hobie said. “Look, let’s not make a big deal out of it. It’s not as if you plan to buy Versace sweatpants, right?”

BJ smiled in spite of herself. Then she remembered that such accommodating and unpretentious behavior annoyed her. She couldn’t let herself become enamored of Hobie’s disarming smile. BJ tried to remember the last time she had to guard herself against such a thing. When had it ever been easy to like someone, especially when that someone was a woman? The thing was, she couldn’t remember a time.

“I thought we were getting clothes.” BJ looked confused. “We are.”

BJ followed Hobie’s lead and eased herself out of the vehicle. They stood before an old Victorian home. Cedar shingles on the roof, bay windows, and bright white paint made it look like the place BJ had dreamed of turning into a bookstore. Unfortunately, there weren’t many of these structures in downtown Chicago. A large bay window presented a display of best-selling books. BJ smiled to herself when she saw the latest Harriet Teasley novel out front. “This looks like a bookstore.”

“It does, doesn’t it?” Hobie grinned and continued. “Let’s just call it a private clothing store. The owners are the Dilby sisters.”

“What, those books in the window are just fakes and the whole front of the store opens up like a garage door, right? It opens up into some sort of bat cave?”

“Are you ever serious?” Hobie asked. “Let me think a minute. Hmm, no.”

“The Dilby sisters do run a small bookstore, but it’s a store within a store.”

“You mean a front.” “A private store.” “Right. A front.”

Hobie let out an audible sigh. “You make it sound like they make book on the horses in a backroom.”

“Sorry,” BJ said with a sheepish grin. She hadn’t expressed regret over her actions in years, yet this was at least the third time that day she had apologized to Hobie.

“Let me explain. If the locals bought their clothes in the same spots as the tourists did, we’d go broke. It’s either that or go to the mainland. Our answer is the Dilby sisters’ shop.” “I feel like I’m in a surreal spy novel.”

“Come on,” Hobie said as the two made their way up the stairs to the large porch.

“This house is a work of art. It’s magnificent.”

Hobie didn’t expect such a sincere tone from BJ. Everything was usually a joke to her. She turned to look up at the dreamy expression on BJ’s face.

BJ suddenly realized that Hobie was staring at her and she lowered her head. “I guess it’s just ’cause you don’t see homes like this in the city.”

“I suppose it’s just what you’re used to. It’s probably the same thing I felt when I visited Chicago. I got off the train at the Daley Center and just stood on the street corner like some hick, craning my neck to look up at the tall buildings.”

“You’ve been to Chicago?”

“Yes, I was just—” Hobie quickly shut her mouth, having forgotten to whom she was speaking. “I go there occasionally for seminars and such.”

BJ’s face took on an odd expression. “Huh” was all she said. They stood before the door with its etched glass window, and

BJ couldn’t help herself. “Is there a secret knock, maybe a Morse code signal I should use? Will I have to know the handshake?”

“Shut up,” Hobie said with a smile. She opened the door and they stepped into the air-conditioned shop.

“Hobie Lynn!” An older woman, perhaps in her seventies, waddled up to her. She was short and squat. Not exactly fat, but built in a compact fashion. She had close-cropped hair so black that it was apparent she colored it. She wore a blouse and skirt that clung around her middle a little too tightly. “What can we do for you today?”

“Hi, Helen. Actually, I’m here with—” Hobie was unable to finish the sentence. She had no idea what to call BJ Warren. What was she to Hobie? She could hardly call her a friend. Luckily, Helen Dilby saved her the embarrassment.

“Evelyn’s granddaughter. We were over to see Evie yesterday and she told us all about you, Miss Warren. It’s so good to finally meet you.” The old woman turned and shouted toward the back of the shop. “Katie, come see who’s here.”

BJ turned at the sound of a creaking door. Another woman, about the same age as Helen Dilby, walked through a set of bookshelves that parted mysteriously. BJ had to do a double take to see that what the older woman came out of was actually a strange-looking sliding door. The trompe-l’oeil design resembled an elegant library with a sitting area. It was amazing and BJ realized that because of the quality of the work, it must have cost the owners a pretty penny.

“See, I told you there was a bat cave,” BJ murmured to Hobie.

“Stop,” Hobie whispered back.

“Katie, this is Evie’s granddaughter, BJ,” Helen said. “Katherine Dilby,” the other woman said in a gravelly voice.

She grasped BJ’s hand and shook it brusquely.

Although the two older women looked to be about the same age, their physical appearance was as different as night and day. Katherine was tall and lean. Her hair looked to have been blond when she was younger. It was cropped so close to her head that it rose in even spikes. She wore a polo shirt and cotton slacks, but her clothes looked wrinkled and worn in comparison to Helen’s sharply pressed outfit.

“BJ needs to get a few things, especially some pants that she can cut one leg off,” Hobie said, nodding toward BJ’s cast.

“Oh, my. Evie didn’t say anything about that,” Helen said. “It’s a recent event. My grandmother doesn’t know about it yet.”

“I’m sure we can take care of everything you need, dear. Why don’t you follow Katie into the back? She’s the clothes expert, and she can show you where everything is.”

Katherine led the way through the sliding door. BJ looked in astonishment at the racks of clothing around her, then let out a low whistle as she looked around, taking in the selection. She spent the next thirty minutes picking out an assortment of clothes. Katherine’s no-nonsense and at times gruff attitude appealed to BJ, and the older woman was helpful in selecting the right sizes.

Hobie walked around the shelves of books. She spied the large display of romance novels and picked one up, examining the jacket. After reading the synopsis and a blurb about the book’s author, Harriet Teasley, Hobie tossed the book back onto the table. “Who buys this stuff? They call this writing?”