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Authors: James Calder
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We really appreciate it.”
“Jill,” she corrected. She gave me a small smile. “Here’s my card. Call me as soon as you find out more.”
I started out the door. Papers shuffled on the desk. Jill’s voice called from behind me. “Sheila was… special. Life should have been kinder to her.”
» » » » »
I drove over Twin Peaks on the way home, just to get the view. The road carved a figure eight between the hills, and the city scrolled before my eyes, water on three sides. The line of the coast to the west was smudged by ocean haze. The towers of downtown sprouted to the northeast. Telegraph Hill and the Marina stood green to their left, the warehouses of South of Market, former home of the Web frenzy, to their right. To the east, beyond the flatlands of the Mission, a bump rose beside the bay. It was Potrero Hill, lit by the last of the day’s sunlight. My flat was on the far side, the top floor of a peeling two-story Edwardian.
It took me fifteen minutes to cross the Mission and get home. As I clomped up the stairs, lugging the rented film gear, Jenny’s voice called from above, “Bill, I’m here.”
She met me on the landing and buried her face in my shoulder. A long sigh left her body. “I called to say I was coming. But your machine kept answering. I just—I didn’t want to be alone.”
“It’s all right.” I kissed her, held her some more, and put aside my reservations. Under normal circumstances I wouldn’t be thrilled about Jenny letting herself into my flat without checking with me first. We had different ideas about boundaries—I thought they existed. But this was different. I had to admit it felt good to have her waiting here and pressing into me so hard.I stroked her hair, kissed her again, and agreed that a beer was just what we needed.
My apartment was a railroad flat, four rooms off of a corridor of wide-planked floors and chipped moldings. I went into a small middle room that served as my office and pressed the play button on my answering machine. Between Jenny’s messages was one from my new friend Gregory. Apparently he felt he hadn’t come on strong enough the first time.
“Bill-boy, we need to talk. Rita’s not returning my calls. There’s something you need to know. I wanted to tell you in person, but—you’re at serious legal risk if you proceed with the Kumar shoot. Call me back immediately. For your own benefit. You’re on my dashboard and the light is blinking.”
Jenny stood with a beer in one hand and a glass of wine in the other. She tugged at my belt loop. “Don’t call him back right now.”
“Don’t worry.”
We went to the living room at the front of the flat. A sofa just fit inside the cove of a bay window. Shelves with too much camera gear and too many books took up two walls.
Jenny and I sat on the sofa. She said Perkins had called to tell her that he expected to reach Sheila’s parents soon. They were travelling in northern Africa. At noon she had met Marion for lunch near the small office Jenny leased in downtown Palo Alto.
“She’d already heard about Sheila,” Jenny said. “She seemed, I don’t know, kind of distracted, until I told her about going into Sheila’s apartment. Suddenly she was all over me. She tried to get me to tell her where the keys were.”
“Why?”
“She didn’t say. I told her about the hard drive, too. That really set her off.”
“I imagine Fay was snooping around because of Simon—but why Marion?”
“I don’t know.” Jenny’s voice was soft and sleepy. Her head rested on my shoulder. Her finger traced a wandering pattern on my shirt. “You have the diary, right?”
“It’s with the film gear. I’ll get it.”
She pulled me back. “Not yet.”
“Did you talk to Fay?” I asked, staying put.
Jenny’s head went back to my shoulder. She answered absently. “She called, asked about Sheila’s parents…” Her hand strayed over my buttons, undid one, then went under the shirt. “Acted
“Jill,” she corrected. She gave me a small smile. “Here’s my card. Call me as soon as you find out more.”
I started out the door. Papers shuffled on the desk. Jill’s voice called from behind me. “Sheila was… special. Life should have been kinder to her.”
» » » » »
I drove over Twin Peaks on the way home, just to get the view. The road carved a figure eight between the hills, and the city scrolled before my eyes, water on three sides. The line of the coast to the west was smudged by ocean haze. The towers of downtown sprouted to the northeast. Telegraph Hill and the Marina stood green to their left, the warehouses of South of Market, former home of the Web frenzy, to their right. To the east, beyond the flatlands of the Mission, a bump rose beside the bay. It was Potrero Hill, lit by the last of the day’s sunlight. My flat was on the far side, the top floor of a peeling two-story Edwardian.
It took me fifteen minutes to cross the Mission and get home. As I clomped up the stairs, lugging the rented film gear, Jenny’s voice called from above, “Bill, I’m here.”
She met me on the landing and buried her face in my shoulder. A long sigh left her body. “I called to say I was coming. But your machine kept answering. I just—I didn’t want to be alone.”
“It’s all right.” I kissed her, held her some more, and put aside my reservations. Under normal circumstances I wouldn’t be thrilled about Jenny letting herself into my flat without checking with me first. We had different ideas about boundaries—I thought they existed. But this was different. I had to admit it felt good to have her waiting here and pressing into me so hard.I stroked her hair, kissed her again, and agreed that a beer was just what we needed.
My apartment was a railroad flat, four rooms off of a corridor of wide-planked floors and chipped moldings. I went into a small middle room that served as my office and pressed the play button on my answering machine. Between Jenny’s messages was one from my new friend Gregory. Apparently he felt he hadn’t come on strong enough the first time.
“Bill-boy, we need to talk. Rita’s not returning my calls. There’s something you need to know. I wanted to tell you in person, but—you’re at serious legal risk if you proceed with the Kumar shoot. Call me back immediately. For your own benefit. You’re on my dashboard and the light is blinking.”
Jenny stood with a beer in one hand and a glass of wine in the other. She tugged at my belt loop. “Don’t call him back right now.”
“Don’t worry.”
We went to the living room at the front of the flat. A sofa just fit inside the cove of a bay window. Shelves with too much camera gear and too many books took up two walls.
Jenny and I sat on the sofa. She said Perkins had called to tell her that he expected to reach Sheila’s parents soon. They were travelling in northern Africa. At noon she had met Marion for lunch near the small office Jenny leased in downtown Palo Alto.
“She’d already heard about Sheila,” Jenny said. “She seemed, I don’t know, kind of distracted, until I told her about going into Sheila’s apartment. Suddenly she was all over me. She tried to get me to tell her where the keys were.”
“Why?”
“She didn’t say. I told her about the hard drive, too. That really set her off.”
“I imagine Fay was snooping around because of Simon—but why Marion?”
“I don’t know.” Jenny’s voice was soft and sleepy. Her head rested on my shoulder. Her finger traced a wandering pattern on my shirt. “You have the diary, right?”
“It’s with the film gear. I’ll get it.”
She pulled me back. “Not yet.”
“Did you talk to Fay?” I asked, staying put.
Jenny’s head went back to my shoulder. She answered absently. “She called, asked about Sheila’s parents…” Her hand strayed over my buttons, undid one, then went under the shirt. “Acted
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