sycamore, live oak, and cypress. Lots of
dotted
s and
amid
s.
I found myself rhapsodizing in salespeak as I drove up the long, circular drive to the stately, secluded entranceto this classic Mediterranean home with its sweeping, panoramic views of serene mountains and sparkling ocean. I drove into the splendid flagstone courtyard and parked my used VW amid a Lincoln and a Beamer. I got out and entered a walled garden, passing along the handsome paved gallery. The entire four-acre parcel was dotted with seasonal perennials, lush ferns, and imported palms. Also, two gardeners trailing four hundred yards of hose between them.
Iâd put a call through to Simone in advance of my arrival and sheâd instructed me carefully how to reach her little cottage, which was situated on the lower terrace amid lush lawns and assorted outbuildings, like the poolhouse and the toolshed. I rounded the eastern wing of the house, which Iâd been told was designed by a well-known Santa Teresa architect whose name Iâd never heard. I crossed the Spanish tiled entertainment terrace, complete with custom-built, black-bottom swimming pool, lava rock waterfall, spa, wading pool, and koi pond surrounded by short, perfectly trimmed hedges of lantana and yew. I descended a flight of stairs and followed a flagstone path to a wooden bungalow tucked up against the hillside.
The house was tiny, built of board and batten, with a steeply pitched shingle roof and wooden decking on three sides. The exterior was Shaker blue, the trim painted white. Wood frame windows formed the upper portion of the walls on all sides. The top half of the Dutch door stood open. December in Santa Teresa can be like spring in other parts of the countryâgray days, a bit of rain, but with a lot of blue sky shining through.
I stopped in my tracks, completely smitten with the sight. I have a special weakness for small, enclosed spaces, a barely disguised longing to return to the womb. After the death of my parents, when I first went to live with my maiden aunt, I established a separate residence in an oversize cardboard box. I had just turned five and I can still remember the absolute absorption with which I furnished this small corrugated refuge. The floor was covered with bed pillows. I had a blanket and a lamp with a fat blue ceramic base and a sixty-watt bulb that heated the interior to a tropical pitch. I would lie on my back, reading endless picture books. My favorite was about a girl who discovered a tiny elf named Twig who lived in an overturned tomato-juice can. Fantasies within fantasies. I donât remember crying. For four months, I hummed and I read my library books, a little closed-circuit system designed to deal with grief. I ate cheese-and-pickle sandwiches like the ones my mother made. I fixed them myself because they had to be just right. Some days I substituted peanut butter for the cheese and that was good. My aunt went about her business, leaving me to work through my feelings without intrusion. My parents died Memorial Day. That fall, I started school. . . .
âAre you Kinsey?â
I turned to look at the woman as if waking from a sleep. âThatâs right. And youâre Simone?â
âYes. Nice to meet you.â She carried a pair of gardening scissors and a shallow wicker basket piled with cut flowers, which she set down. Her smile was brief as she held out her hand for me to shake. I judged her to be in her latethirties or very early forties. She was slightly shorter than I with wide shoulders and a stocky build, which she managed to minimize by the clothes she wore. Her hair was a reddish-blond, a fine flyaway shade much darker at the roots, cut shoulder length and crinkled from a perm. Her face was square, her mouth wide. Her eyes were an unremarkable shade of blue with mascara-darkened lashes and fine reddish brows. The outfit she wore was a black-and-white geometric print, a washable silk jacket over a long
dotted
s and
amid
s.
I found myself rhapsodizing in salespeak as I drove up the long, circular drive to the stately, secluded entranceto this classic Mediterranean home with its sweeping, panoramic views of serene mountains and sparkling ocean. I drove into the splendid flagstone courtyard and parked my used VW amid a Lincoln and a Beamer. I got out and entered a walled garden, passing along the handsome paved gallery. The entire four-acre parcel was dotted with seasonal perennials, lush ferns, and imported palms. Also, two gardeners trailing four hundred yards of hose between them.
Iâd put a call through to Simone in advance of my arrival and sheâd instructed me carefully how to reach her little cottage, which was situated on the lower terrace amid lush lawns and assorted outbuildings, like the poolhouse and the toolshed. I rounded the eastern wing of the house, which Iâd been told was designed by a well-known Santa Teresa architect whose name Iâd never heard. I crossed the Spanish tiled entertainment terrace, complete with custom-built, black-bottom swimming pool, lava rock waterfall, spa, wading pool, and koi pond surrounded by short, perfectly trimmed hedges of lantana and yew. I descended a flight of stairs and followed a flagstone path to a wooden bungalow tucked up against the hillside.
The house was tiny, built of board and batten, with a steeply pitched shingle roof and wooden decking on three sides. The exterior was Shaker blue, the trim painted white. Wood frame windows formed the upper portion of the walls on all sides. The top half of the Dutch door stood open. December in Santa Teresa can be like spring in other parts of the countryâgray days, a bit of rain, but with a lot of blue sky shining through.
I stopped in my tracks, completely smitten with the sight. I have a special weakness for small, enclosed spaces, a barely disguised longing to return to the womb. After the death of my parents, when I first went to live with my maiden aunt, I established a separate residence in an oversize cardboard box. I had just turned five and I can still remember the absolute absorption with which I furnished this small corrugated refuge. The floor was covered with bed pillows. I had a blanket and a lamp with a fat blue ceramic base and a sixty-watt bulb that heated the interior to a tropical pitch. I would lie on my back, reading endless picture books. My favorite was about a girl who discovered a tiny elf named Twig who lived in an overturned tomato-juice can. Fantasies within fantasies. I donât remember crying. For four months, I hummed and I read my library books, a little closed-circuit system designed to deal with grief. I ate cheese-and-pickle sandwiches like the ones my mother made. I fixed them myself because they had to be just right. Some days I substituted peanut butter for the cheese and that was good. My aunt went about her business, leaving me to work through my feelings without intrusion. My parents died Memorial Day. That fall, I started school. . . .
âAre you Kinsey?â
I turned to look at the woman as if waking from a sleep. âThatâs right. And youâre Simone?â
âYes. Nice to meet you.â She carried a pair of gardening scissors and a shallow wicker basket piled with cut flowers, which she set down. Her smile was brief as she held out her hand for me to shake. I judged her to be in her latethirties or very early forties. She was slightly shorter than I with wide shoulders and a stocky build, which she managed to minimize by the clothes she wore. Her hair was a reddish-blond, a fine flyaway shade much darker at the roots, cut shoulder length and crinkled from a perm. Her face was square, her mouth wide. Her eyes were an unremarkable shade of blue with mascara-darkened lashes and fine reddish brows. The outfit she wore was a black-and-white geometric print, a washable silk jacket over a long
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