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Authors: Leslie Karst
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exertion. Maybe it would help clear my mind for a while, quiet the continual thoughts of Letta, and still the anxiety that had descended upon learning I was the new owner of her restaurant.
I changed into my cycling shorts and jersey emblazoned with the Tour of California logo, performed a few cursory stretches, clipped into my red-and-white Specialized Roubaix, and wheeled off. I had a hankering for the salt spray and tang of the ocean, so I decided to ride the length of West Cliff Drive and then up to Wilder Ranch, north of town.
But first, I had to stop by my dad’s house. I needed to tell him about Letta’s will.
Dad also lives on the Westside of town—it seems like all my relatives live within just a few blocks of each other—in a small beach-style bungalow. Since my apartment building is near the yacht harbor on the Eastside, to get across town, I took the walkway over the river at the railroad trestle; rode the length of the Boardwalk, its famous roller coaster silent on this weekday morning; and then pumped up the short hill past the entrance to the wharf.
I cruised down Laguna Street and turned into my dad’s driveway. Unlike most of their neighbors, my folks neverremodeled their home to add a second story or punch out a master bedroom, so the building is virtually unchanged from when it was built back in the early 1960s: two bedrooms, one-and-a-half baths, a kitchen with avocado-green appliances and a Formica countertop, and a living room decked out with shag carpet, an overstuffed couch, and a Naugahyde recliner.
His truck was there, which meant he was home. Good. I unclipped and wheeled my bike through the gate next to the garage. Dad was out back, atop a ladder leaning against the side fence. He was attacking a peach-colored climbing rose with a pair of large shears.
“What are you doing pruning now?” I asked, leaning my bike against the fence and removing my helmet. “Isn’t it kinda late in the season for that?” I stepped back out of the way as a huge branch came crashing down, its stems covered in vicious-looking thorns.
“My damn neighbor. Wanda ,” he added, as if the name produced a sour taste in his mouth. “She’s been complaining about this beautiful Westerland rose. Can you imagine anyone not loving it? Just look at the color!”
“What’s her beef?”
“She says her grandson plays in the yard and that my plants along the fence line are dangerous.”
I gingerly picked up one of the spiky branches. “Well, I guess I can see why she’d think that.”
He just snorted and then pointed with the shears at a trumpet vine farther back along the fence. “And the Brugmansia , too. She insists I prune it back so none of the flowers hang over onto her property.” Shaking his head, Dad climbeddown the ladder and gave me a kiss. “So what brings you by, hon? You want some coffee?”
I clomped into the kitchen with him, still wearing my cycling cleats. “I just stopped by to tell you what I learned about Letta’s will.” Dad handed me a mug, and we went into the living room. He leaned back in the recliner, and I plopped down onto the couch.
“So,” I said once we were both settled, “she gave you her house, which still has a bit of a mortgage, I gather, and its contents, as well as her car. Oh, and that property she owns in Hawai‘i, too. It’s just a vacant lot as far as I can tell.”
Dad nodded, but his teeth were clenched. “I gotta say, it gives me the willies thinking about benefitting from what happened.”
“Yeah. I hear you.” I sipped from my steaming mug. He hadn’t asked about Gauguin. Maybe he didn’t think of it as being one of Letta’s possessions, since she didn’t own the actual building.
I cleared my throat. Dad had been staring out the window at a woman and a Yorkie terrier, the latter pulling vigorously on its leash, but now looked back at me. “And here’s the weird part,” I went on. “She gave me one thing too: her restaurant.”
He
I changed into my cycling shorts and jersey emblazoned with the Tour of California logo, performed a few cursory stretches, clipped into my red-and-white Specialized Roubaix, and wheeled off. I had a hankering for the salt spray and tang of the ocean, so I decided to ride the length of West Cliff Drive and then up to Wilder Ranch, north of town.
But first, I had to stop by my dad’s house. I needed to tell him about Letta’s will.
Dad also lives on the Westside of town—it seems like all my relatives live within just a few blocks of each other—in a small beach-style bungalow. Since my apartment building is near the yacht harbor on the Eastside, to get across town, I took the walkway over the river at the railroad trestle; rode the length of the Boardwalk, its famous roller coaster silent on this weekday morning; and then pumped up the short hill past the entrance to the wharf.
I cruised down Laguna Street and turned into my dad’s driveway. Unlike most of their neighbors, my folks neverremodeled their home to add a second story or punch out a master bedroom, so the building is virtually unchanged from when it was built back in the early 1960s: two bedrooms, one-and-a-half baths, a kitchen with avocado-green appliances and a Formica countertop, and a living room decked out with shag carpet, an overstuffed couch, and a Naugahyde recliner.
His truck was there, which meant he was home. Good. I unclipped and wheeled my bike through the gate next to the garage. Dad was out back, atop a ladder leaning against the side fence. He was attacking a peach-colored climbing rose with a pair of large shears.
“What are you doing pruning now?” I asked, leaning my bike against the fence and removing my helmet. “Isn’t it kinda late in the season for that?” I stepped back out of the way as a huge branch came crashing down, its stems covered in vicious-looking thorns.
“My damn neighbor. Wanda ,” he added, as if the name produced a sour taste in his mouth. “She’s been complaining about this beautiful Westerland rose. Can you imagine anyone not loving it? Just look at the color!”
“What’s her beef?”
“She says her grandson plays in the yard and that my plants along the fence line are dangerous.”
I gingerly picked up one of the spiky branches. “Well, I guess I can see why she’d think that.”
He just snorted and then pointed with the shears at a trumpet vine farther back along the fence. “And the Brugmansia , too. She insists I prune it back so none of the flowers hang over onto her property.” Shaking his head, Dad climbeddown the ladder and gave me a kiss. “So what brings you by, hon? You want some coffee?”
I clomped into the kitchen with him, still wearing my cycling cleats. “I just stopped by to tell you what I learned about Letta’s will.” Dad handed me a mug, and we went into the living room. He leaned back in the recliner, and I plopped down onto the couch.
“So,” I said once we were both settled, “she gave you her house, which still has a bit of a mortgage, I gather, and its contents, as well as her car. Oh, and that property she owns in Hawai‘i, too. It’s just a vacant lot as far as I can tell.”
Dad nodded, but his teeth were clenched. “I gotta say, it gives me the willies thinking about benefitting from what happened.”
“Yeah. I hear you.” I sipped from my steaming mug. He hadn’t asked about Gauguin. Maybe he didn’t think of it as being one of Letta’s possessions, since she didn’t own the actual building.
I cleared my throat. Dad had been staring out the window at a woman and a Yorkie terrier, the latter pulling vigorously on its leash, but now looked back at me. “And here’s the weird part,” I went on. “She gave me one thing too: her restaurant.”
He
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