Killing Julia

By Stephen Bruce

Must the beautiful Julia Die? Of course she must; you wouldn't have it any other way...
Bestselling San Francisco novelist Jonathan Sova, struggling with a wicked case of writer's block, joins his wealthy mother and his aunt at an enigmatic ocean-side resort on Northern California's Lost Coast. There he meets the lovely Dr. Julia Desort; a woman who is not at all what she appears to be. A highly desired but ill-fated romance spins Jonathan and his family into a dangerous conflict, which leads him to find the love his life, while trying to survive the trial of his life.
In the end, he learns a lesson we all should heed: If you meet a monster one day, never lie with it—they take it personally...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Steven B. Frybarger
• Release date: Apr 23, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386585107

Stephen Bruce

Stephen Bruce was born in Oakland, CA and raised, in and around, the Greater San Francisco Bay Area. He considers himself an intellectual, but also believes he’s handsome. To his face no one disputes either of these claims, past that, neither is true. He resides in the NorthernCalifornia Foothills. He may be reached at [e-mail].

Book preview

Emily

Relaxation, Love, Lust ...An unpleasant death?

A few amenities you might expect when you choose to check-in at the exclusive Bethel Cove Inn Resort.

Just ask Emily.

§§§§

Emily Tamblyn, seventy-six years old and shrinking into old age, had for three glorious weeks been a guest at the Bethel Cove Inn.

Located high above the sea, on the headlands of Northern California's mystical Lost Coast, it was her once-in-a-lifetime dream vacation. Item number one on the old woman's bucket list.

So far, her stay had met all expectations, well worth every penny. That was until this evening. This evening she felt ill; could not finish the dinner Cedric, the resort's gourmet chef, had prepared exclusively for her. It had been delivered to her room for her convenience. Tomorrow morning, she was scheduled to fly home.

Dr. Julia Desort, the resort's owner, had taken unusual care these past three weeks to see that Emily had been properly prepared.

A soft knock at Emily's door, followed by the familiar voice of the good Doctor, inquired, Emily, it's Julia. Are you all right?

I'm resting dear.

Emily watched as the doorknob turned and the door opened. Julia stepped through, closed it, then reached up to the dead bolt and locked it.

Emily noted the locking of the door. She thought it peculiar and was about to ask why but was put off as Julia spoke first.

You're not feeling well Emily?

Emily was reclining on a green-velvet parlor lounge. She looked more like an overplayed leading-lady in the final scene of an old dramatic movie, than the modest Midwestern, middle class old gal she was.

I'm afraid I may have upset our Cedric. When he came and took my plate I had hardly touched it. It was a marvelous meal. He must have worked so hard to prepare it for me. Oh, Julia, he looked so sad, poor dear Cedric.

Yes, he is still sensitive.

Oh, he is, yes he is. So sensitive. And you Julia, you have been so good to me and now I must fly home tomorrow morning. Who will take care of me? None as well as you have.

It's not as big a problem as you think Emily. In fact, I have a solution. Now, tell me exactly how you feel?

Oh, always looking out for me. I have always felt you were treating me, well, how should I say, better than the other guests. Like I was special. I—

Julia interrupted, her voice suddenly impatient, insisting. She stressed each word: Tell - me - exactly - how - you - feel, Emily?

Surprised by Julia's sudden exasperated tone, Emily unsettled responded, Oh, uh, well, let me see: I have no appetite, I can't even think about food. I am tired, dizzy sort of, and, it is so strange Julia, I feel like I am drifting, my mind is swimming. Lying here, well, it's like I am rising away from my body, then I'm falling back, back into my body, and when I fall back, it is so deep. I keep falling. It is frightening really. It's like my body is a chasm and I'm falling into it.

Excellent! Julia eagerly exclaimed with a big smile. Not the usual caring smile of the noble doctor. An ugly smile. A smile at odds with Julia's appealing face.

This sudden aggressive conduct of the gentle doctor was not lost on the old woman. Julia was always kind and caring. Emily had always felt safe when Julia was there. But not now, something had changed. The old lady felt uncomfortable, vulnerable.

The air in the room seemed to change, now more like a damp, moldy old house, it stung Emily's nostrils.

She watched perplexed, as Julia's striking blue eyes changed. No longer the eyes of a beguilingly beautiful woman, they were darting tormentors searching for weakness. Now they were black orbs, unsympathetic, inhuman. They pierced through the old woman as sure as a sharp knife would. Emily winced as Julia stared at her.

Emily felt the security she had known here at Bethel Cove dissolve away as an indulged, hand-fed beast must feel when the day of slaughter has arrived.

Only a moment had passed as this terror crept into the room, it gripped Emily. Her breathing had become rapid, her heartbeat accelerated. She was deafened by the roar of her own blood racing through her veins.

Julia advanced, moving across the short distance between them. She was upon Emily now. Julia's hands clutched the terrified woman's shoulders and pressed her back into the soft lounge. Emily protested, tried to push her away, but there was no strength. She was paralyzed, her shoulders and arms were numbed, unmovable.

Julia's face was near now, Emily could feel Julia's breath, hot and moist, descend like a rancid cloud onto her face; it had become foul, acidic, filling the trembling woman's mouth and nose, smothering her.

Stop this, you're hurting me, Julia! What are you doing? Emily cried out. She tried to struggle, but it was too late, she was in the jaws of it now; an old gazelle pulled to the ground. Cries of protests, whimpers seeking mercy, Emily's pathetic final defense, useless. Joy to the killer's ear.

Julia's eyes and mouth had changed, they had become dark vaporous depressions, contorting, and blurring her face. Ready now, Julia struck. Her entire body instantly lost its solid form, dissolving into a shapeless flow of black mist escaping her simple blue dress. The dress collapsed to the floor. The floating dark cloud that Julia had become dropped down onto the terrified old woman. It disappeared into Emily's trembling body like smoke through a screen door.

Unable to move, Emily lay there, silent and unbelieving. What had happened? Where was Julia?

Then it began. Sensations of extreme hot & cold, flashings of blinding light overpowered her vision. Her body became taught, pain shot through her like she was being crushed, torn apart, gutted. Spasms surged within her. Her back arched high off the lounge, she had no control now. Each muscle strained against the next. Such pain. Her fragile bony frame contorting, bending, barely resisting breaking.

Now in Emily's failing mind, thousands of images, things she had known, things that had been her life, raced by like a lifetime story-board speeding past behind her wide-open eyes. Images, now unrecognizable, blending and blurring; only colors now, bright reds, blues, greens, yellows. Every color. A rainbow, mixing, exploding, twisting, and swirling into streams of static, all going dull white then brightening to a blinding white light. In her vanishing mind, a shrill scream, not a victim's protest, but a monster's rage, filled her shredding consciousness. Her mind, her soul, were being torn apart. Memory by memory, particle by particle. All she was, all that she had ever dreamed, all her yesterdays, no longer hers. Torn away, gone, all gone.

A monster's feast, takes it all.

All Emily's precious time had passed in a tick of the minute hand on the old, elegant gold watch there on her wrist. The watch, a gift from her long ago dead husband, would miss the soft fiddling fingers of Emily Tamblyn, of Bidly Corners, Nebraska.

Above, a ceiling fan rotated slowly.

§§§§

Julia, done with the cruel deed, had pulled herself together. She reanimated from dark mist, into the flesh and blood body, that had carried her into the room a short time ago.

She felt sated, as one might expect after a satisfying meal.

Sitting naked on the edge of the green lounge, next to the silent, still breathing body of the soulless old woman, she smiled.

All the terror of the past moments now gone. Not even a single, fleeting memory of it remained. Nor did Emily. Her soul had been seized and eaten, as had a hungry lion chewed and swallowed it whole.

Julia turned and looked out the window at the day's end. She was pleased, something like happy. She stood and briefly admired her naked, perfect custom-made body in the mirror over the dresser.

For ages she had researched what human physical beauty should be, so the native inhabitants of this dimension would venerate her, and in this creation, she was sure she had achieved nothing less.

She leaned down and picked up her cotton dress that lay on the floor next to the green lounge, still occupied by her quiet dinner guest. Unbuttoned it, slipped it on, and buttoned it back up, taking her time adjusting it to receive the pleasing curves of her body.

She crossed the room to the nightstand where the phone sat, picked up the handset, and hearing the voice of the receptionist, she said, Teresa, Emily Tamblyn will be checking out on schedule at six AM tomorrow morning. Her flight out of San Francisco leaves at two thirty-five PM. Have Sally come to her room and prepare for her departure and have Peter prepare the limo to drive her to the airport. Once there he is to seat her in the American Terminal. Remind him, he is not to attempt to check her in.

"I understand, Teresa responded.

Julia hung up. She walked to the green lounge, reached down and placed her hand on the old woman's shoulder one more time, and, sincerity in her voice, said, Wonderful Emily, wonderful.

Emily Tamblyn's living remains instinctively turned and looked in Julia's direction, ears hearing, eyes seeing, but no one home to appreciate the sentiment.

Julia smiled, 'How amazing these vessels, these human bodies are,' she thought. She knew how fond she was of her own.

She adjusted her dress, unlocked the door, and exited into the hallway.

Two new guests who had met her at check in earlier in the day, were passing as she closed the door behind her.

Oh, hello Dr. Desort. We've had a chance to tour your property: very nice, one of them offered.

Ladies, I'm so glad you like it. If there is anything I, or any of the staff, can do while you're here, please don't hesitate to ask, anything at all. Oh, and please, call me Julia. We're a small family, and while you're here, you're part of it.

Facing the new guests, who stood side by side, Julia put a hand on the outside shoulder of each. Squeezing their flesh like a chef at market, she smiled, turned, and went off down the hall and onto the staircase that would take her to her office in the lobby.

Descending the staircase Julia paused, looked to her left at the two women, smiled again and then was out of sight.

Not bad for a doctor, hey sister?

Mm-hmm, pretty. My shoulder tingles where she squeezed it; like it's asleep or something.

Mine too. What's that about?

Digital Wonders

Roused from sleep, nationally acclaimed author, Jonathan Sova, cursed the trespass into his morning dream.

His antagonist: one of those little wireless digital wonders, ringing and vibrating around on the hardwood floor under his bed.

Dropping a long muscular arm over the bed's edge, he searched by touch for the small phone, upon retrieving it he put it to his ear and said nothing. He never said hello first, always waited for the caller to say it. If the caller did not at once recognize that the call had been answered and speak up, Jonathan generally hung up. If you planned to communicate with him via remote techniques, such as phones you needed to know the ground rules.

Kathryn Besler knew the rules. She had to, she was his literary agent.

Hello, Jonathan. Kathryn waited for his reply and their conversation to begin.

He answered, Kathryn, could you call back in an hour, two maybe?

Why?

Well, I'm asleep now.

Of course, you are. You're on Jonathan time up there in your misty city. Jonathan, listen to me. I spent twenty minutes on the phone with our publisher.

No response.

Jonathan, they want the chapters you promised. You do remember how this writer-agent-publisher thing works, right?

Sure, they send me an advance, and I spend it on women and whiskey? Jonathan smiled at himself.

Oh right, comedy, Kathryn said, getting loud. Decided you're a comedian now, huh? I don't represent comedians unless they write books, Jonathan.

Jesus, calm down Kathryn, the books under way.

You're lucky I'm not Jesus. The books under way?

Yes, yes, the research is under way, got some more research to do yet, and when I'm comfortable with that, I'll begin writing. You know how this writer thing works?

Anything I can send them now?

Umm, no.

Jonathan, you promised! Goddammit Jonathan, you make me so angry! When we spoke last week, you promised the first two chapters.

We spoke last week?

Goddammit Jonathan.

It was not unusual for God to enter conversations with Jonathan in this way.

He knew he was late on his book commitment. He also knew Kathryn's anger was in part fueled by an unwise romantic dalliance, he and she gave into when she visited him last month.

He almost felt guilty that he had not initiated contact with her since then.

He changed the subject, Kathryn, don't you have a birthday this week sometime? His voice gone all smiley, like a tickle.

For a moment, the little transistors in the small phone had not a thing to do, a dark silence had them by their tiny electrons.

Then the noise arrived.

What! My birthday? My birthday! My birthday is not the issue here you, you, son of a bitch. I take that back; I like your mother. You bastard! A lot you care. My birthday was last week!

Calm down Kathy, he said, the mother of all blunders irretrievable.

Jonathan put his hand over his eyes, he did not want to see the ceiling come crashing down on him as he was sure it must.

Silence again, then Kathryn quieter, more in control now.

"About my birthday, I don't care that you didn't remember. You're my client, not my father. Write the damn book! Come up with something I can send to these unlucky assholes I hoodwinked into trusting us!

Calm down Kath—

Clickety, click. Silence...

§§§§

Three hundred miles south, Kathryn slammed the phone into its carriage, her face was as red as fire, and her eyes misted in regret.

Last Wednesday Kathryn turned twenty-eight years old, and on that Wednesday, she did not miss that the phone did not ring, and the flowers did not arrive. The mail, e-mail or otherwise, contained no card or letter. That she didn't look-up to see Jonathan Sova at her door, there to surprise her with a visit. She also did not miss that Sova was a rich, spoiled youth of thirty, who, unfair as it might be, was a talented writer, and who, unfortunately for her, was also blessed with charm and leading-man good looks.

All this aside, she was angry because she had developed feelings beyond their business relationship and was ashamed she had let it get out of hand. She had broken rule number one.

Kathryn Besler, at five feet, seven inches, was attractive and shapely; dark hair over dark almond-shaped eyes made her look exotic. Her Armani suit made her look like she belonged among the high earning literary agents, of the posh SoCal agency, of Benhurst, Bentan, and Braylee. From their Hollywood office, they handled some of the most famous writers in the country. Their proximity to the movie studios was no accident. New movies often resulted from the efforts of these BB&B agents.

Kathryn was a rising star. She worked hard, represented her clients well, fiercely if needed, and many, particularly Jonathan Sova, would not be a BB&B client without her.

Kathryn sat staring at the top of her desk, anger and misery competing to control her face.

Wow, you look bad. The tabloids finally printed that picture of you and that donkey? Or was that Jonathan Sova on the other end of that poor phone, you embedded into the top of your desk?

The words came through her open office door from a tall, sandy-haired man in his mid-forties, who was looking at her from the hallway.

Kathryn did not look up at Harlan Grouper, fellow BB&B agent, and ardent admirer of Kathryn's body. She sat, eyes on the phone holstered in its cradle, then resolutely replied, you're right, that damn donkey.

Horses ass, I'd say.

Depends on which end you're facing, Kathryn said. So, Harlan, why are you standing in my doorway?

You looked like you needed a friend, you know, someone to talk to, a shoulder to cry on.

She knew how friendly Harlan wanted to be. Looking up, her frown turned upside down and became a sour smile.

Right again. I'll call Susan after lunch and tell her all about the tricky men in my life."

Susan was Harlan's wife.

He backed out the doorway and walked off down the hallway.

Kathryn could hear him whistle as his footsteps faded away.

Benny's Jazz Club

Jonathan lay looking at the ceiling. He was disappointed in himself over his conversation with Kathryn, but that wouldn't last.

He knew how to deal with personal disappointments: forget about them.

Besides, he wanted her out of his head. She was too intimidating to rummage around in there.

Out of bed, naked and cold, nature appeased, he walked a few circles around the big loft apartment. Finally settling into an oversized fabric armchair in front of the large windows, that looked beyond the piers to the bay. It was a comforting gray, damp morning, and he had decisions to make: should he try to write again today, join his mother and aunt up north, or go to Benny's?

§§§§

On the sidewalk outside of his waterfront warehouse home, he turned and looked at the broad arched facade of the stalwart building. He was glad he lived there, could not have chosen a better spot to call home. Considering his family owned it, the minimal rent, no rent really, made it the best deal in town.

He pulled the collar up on his overcoat to deflect the foggy drizzle, crossed Embarcadero, turned west onto Washington and walked the six blocks to Hotaling.

There on the corner of Hotaling and Washington, in the shadow of the city's tall tree they call the Transamerica Building, beneath a black awning, was the big blue door of Benny's Jazz Club.

A few moments later, midway down a line of empty stools, sitting before a wood and brass bar, with black, time worn leather elbow padding, sat Jonathan Sova.

With his overcoat slumped across the empty stool to his right, he sipped on a cold Miller Draft. It was ten forty-five in the morning.

Across from Sova on the business side the bar, on his own stool, sat Benny Wise. Benny was the bartender, club owner and Jonathan's close friend and confidant.

It was not an unusual alliance, writer and bartender. Hemingway, Fitzgerald, Frybarger, all had unquestionably befriended these artistes of the boozy crafts. The infamous talents of these mavens of beverage enchantment aside, they, like writers, were people watchers, fascinated by the real people they met each day.

Police officer, Sargent Martin Hayes, another people watcher, though one of a more precise purpose, sat drinking from a coffee cup, his back to the wall, at the far end of the bar.

One of San Francisco's finest watchers; this morning like most, he appeared to watch Barcelona Wise.

Barcelona was Benny's wife and business partner. She stood across the bar from the cop, cleaning glassware. She did not appear to notice Hayes, though a hungry policeman the size of Hayes, was hard to miss.

The only other customer in the club, this late in the morning, sat across the room. Mr. Chu, a regular, could be found in the most distant chair, at the most distant table, in the most remote corner from the bar, each weekday morning at seven AM, sharp.

He sipped his whiskey, seldom, if ever did he speak to anyone, and was only approached by staff to serve the single, double shot glass of well-grade whiskey he would sip on until he left some time before noon. He would leave a crisp ten-dollar bill under the empty glass, that would cover the whiskey and a tip.

On weekday mornings, Benny opened at seven, to catch a few customers on their way to work, who wanted a morning cup of joe with a little backbone. The local coffee houses offered no beverage that woke you up, and helped you not give a shit. If you wanted, you could get a gut grenade for a couple bucks. Benny's name for the fresh donuts Barcelona picked up each morning at the Krispy Crème, a few blocks away.

Benny could depend on a brisk business up till around nine. On weekends Benny opened around noon.

This morning, the rush over, Jonathan and Benny, as usual were engaged in conversation. Benny was chatting Jonathan up with small talk about current events.

Today, Jonathan did not seem interested.

"Yesterday morning the piano tuner, Mr. Horwitz, and his kid were in tuning the Steinway. After the old man was through, the kid played the piano, about twelve, maybe thirteen, I would guess. Played Monk's Round Midnight, his version of course, but you should've heard him. Not bad at all for a young kid, I gotta-tell-ya."

Goddamn twelve-year-old who plays Monk. Well, why the hell not. Fat-fuck'n deal.

Benny's brow furrowed, he looked skeptically at Jonathan. "Maybe we should switch over to a Mac 18 a little early today, you need a little mood swing my man."

Jonathan frowned, sat up straight and looked to his right. Barcelona and Hayes looked at him, he imagined they disapproved of his negative comment. So, did he. I apologize.

From her corner, Barcelona spoke up. What you apologizing for? You, famous rich man come here to our house, (the Wises lived upstairs), use the Lord's name, to blaspheme some little Jewish boy, who want to play jazz piano like the great piano man. Some little boy you don't know, never heard play the piano.

She moved to the service panel in the bar a step away and lifted it with the pinky on her left hand. She walked out past the smiling policeman, who loved to see this cat growl.

Her hands on her hips, she walked past the cowering barstools. Slow and deliberate, each step profiting from an exaggerated swing of an abundant womanly hip. On toward Jonathan she went, her chin high and lips pursed.

Seeing Barcelona, a woman who stands five feet ten inches without the purple and pink platform sandals, who weighs in at an athletic one hundred and fifty pounds of precious female; with blood red, two-inch long fingernails, curved like the Reaper's scythe at the tips of long, slender ebony fingers, was quite something to behold.

To see her approaching with malice in her large dark eyes, it has been reliably told, will turn black men white, and white men transparent.

Jonathan stayed white. He had known Barcelona for a long time, had seen her in action before. He knew how she felt about him.

He turned on his barstool, the little ball bearings under the seat squeaking like rusty hinges on an old casket. His back to the bar now, his head lowered, he looked resigned. He knew what he was about to receive, knew he deserved it. He could hardly wait.

Barcelona in front of him now, looking down at him said, Jonathan.

He looked up, saw the big dark eyes glisten.

She reached out, the long red nails brushed by his ears, her long arms, athletic and caring, encircled him, pulling his head to her large breasts, gently resting her cheek on the top of his head. What's the matter Johnny Sugar, you got the blues? the luxurious big cat purred.

The smile slipped from Sargent Hayes's face. He shook his head, gulped down the remaining fortified dark liquid from his coffee cup, picked his policeman's hat off the bar, and then, looking disappointed, maybe jealous, strode past the threesome and headed out the door.

Over Barcelona's left breast, Jonathan glimpsed the policeman leaving.

Benny waved goodbye, knowing Hayes would not see the gesture. More good riddance, than friendly salutation. Benny pushed Jonathan's beer aside, replacing it with a stiff one. Magic amber in a little jigger glass, medicine to clear away those blues, JD.

In a voice muffled by high-quality mammary, Jonathan said, I'm sorry. I've got writer's block the size of Hayes's big ass. My writing career is over. I'll take that job you offered.

Barcelona looked up over Jonathan's head at Benny sitting on his stool.

Benny looking down, shaking his head and smiling.

You offered this useless white boy here a job? It better we pay him to sit home in that fancy loft apartment, overlooking that cozy view of my bay, then have him draping his bright skinny ass across our bar-stools. Him bothering our good customers and us all day. You know he won't work! The reason he tolerated now, is he pay for all these expensive drinks he orders. He paying, isn't he? He is paying, isn't he?

Benny looked up with a big smile, Yes, sweet woman, I charge him double, and I would never offer him a job. My dad did that, remember?

Jonathan lifted his head from the comfort of Barcelona's breast and turned toward Benny with earnest questions in his eyes.

Ha - Ha, Benny laughed out loud.

Jonathan returned his head to the safe place.

Barcelona's eyes wide, What? Don't you go back in there, what you thinking, I breastfeeding you? Get off me!

Jonathan hastily pulled his head out, a little fear showing now.

Barcelona saw the tiny glint of fear. She liked it. She wrapped her arms around Jonathan again and pulled him back in.

Jonathan smiled.

Benny put his hands in the air, closed his eyes and shook his head. After a short moment, Benny says, Let the man go Barcelona before he gets an erection.

Barcelona pushed back, grabbed Jonathan by the ears and held his head straight out like it was detached. You aren't getting a little erection are you honey? Even her eyes were smiling.

With Benny at his back, and Barcelona with trash on her mind, and a firm grip on his ears, facing him, he smiled that tell all, come on smile at Barcelona, and for Benny he said, No.

Barcelona released him, smiling like a naughty diva. She walked back behind the bar. Benny shook his head again.

Jonathan turned on his stool, the little ball bearings squeaking like the gates of redemption.

Asian eyes missed nothing.

Jonathan felt better; his friends to his aid, curing his streak of bleak.

Seeing the new expression on Jonathan's face, Benny said, I do not appreciate you being so happy after spending time with your head inside my wife's blouse.

The jigger of amber scotch approaching his lips, Jonathan said, When I die, I want you to bury me there.

I don't think there's enough room for the both of us.

Not enough room? It's a wonderland, the scotch still warm in Jonathan's throat.

OK, enough about my wife's motherly attempts to make your pathetic ass feel good.

Motherly? Jonathan said smiling, though he knew from Benny's stare it was time to stop. He glanced at Barcelona who he saw, was smiling at the two men.

Changing the subject to his problems, he began, I don't know Benny, my agent wants either some overdue chapters she can send to the publisher, or a paper clipping from the Chronicle reporting my untimely death.

This that woman from LA you brought in here last month?

Um, Hollywood.

She's mad at you? I thought she had a wild thing for you. Didn't you and her, I mean, didn't you two stain a few sheets at your place after you left here?

God, I was so stupid. She is the best agent on the West Coast. Shit, I even forgot her birthday, it was last week.

Hmm, forgot her birthday... There's a felony; and romance and business, not good bed partners eh? Well, if I recall it takes two to sleep together. You didn't drug her, did you?

A disapproving look from Jonathan.

She's your business agent, right?

Literary agent.

OK, literary agent. Isn't she supposed to not sleep with her clients? It was more her business to keep your little johnson holstered, and out of her female parts, I would say.

First of all, my 'johnson' has not been called little since I was pushed out a second story window, naked into a snow bank, by my cousin, Mary Ann Flanders. I was eleven.

What were you two eleven-year old's doing naked, that got you pushed out' a window?

I was eleven, she was twenty-three.

Benny looked over to Barcelona, with an exaggerated look of surprise.

Turning back to Jonathan, Uh-huh, we'll talk about Mary Anne later. Your agent, what's her name?

Kathryn.

Right, Kathryn. Don't you think maybe she's a bit more out of line than you?

Jonathan saw a way out here, demeaning though it was, and he knew his friend was trying to steer him there. "Well maybe. No, it was my fault, she was attracted to me from the first time I met her, I knew it, and I took advantage.

Kathryn's attractive you know. We had had a great evening out, here especially. Anyway, later we wanted to discuss the upcoming book, kick a few ideas around, it's why she came up, we needed a place to talk, and my apartment was close.

Barcelona cuts in: Sound to me, like the talk that evening was, would you please bend over the back of the couch, she laughed, twisting the bar towel deep inside the glass she was polishing.

She glanced over at Mr. Chu, who was looking down at his whiskey and it seemed to her, smiling. It was hard to tell.

Barcelona's laugh was a big smile now, and Benny seemed embarrassed, but forced a smile.

Jonathan looked back at Benny. That a page out of your play-book?

Never you mind my play-book. What's all this got to do with your writer's block?

"Well, like I was trying to say, I need to perform on this project. You know I've written two novels since All Quiet Underground, and they, unluckily, didn't do as well."

Unlucky? Stinkers, Benny said.

I think stinker is a bit harsh.

You read them?

I wrote them.

Yeah, you wrote them, right, but did you read them?

Jonathan knew Benny was a voracious reader; he also knew his old friend was cryptically saying, diaries were for the writer, but novels belonged to the reader, so they better be a good read.

Well, they published them. Jonathan's answer was lame; he knew it when he said it. I need to be back on the bestsellers list with this one. There has to be a beginning to this book or I'll lose the publisher, maybe the agent.

What's stopping you?

Can't get started. Can't get past 'It was a dark stormy night.'

That's what it's about?

No, no, that's an old cliché, purple prose, a fiction writer's worst lead sentence. Irving or Bulwer-Lytton, I think, I don't remember. Anyway, you know what it's about: a Russian sailor, turn of the century, who jumps ship and starts a new life here in the city.

Yeah, you told me, your Russian great-grandfather, your Russian family and all, but maybe this isn't a book you're ready to write.

My dad was Russian, mom's Irish.

Your mom's a sweetheart, Barcelona spoke from her corner, I just love her, and Auntie Lilly too. They're so cute, they were here, what, three weeks ago?

Benny nods in agreement.

Jonathan's wealthy mother, Muriel Sova, and her sister, Lilly O'Sullivan, lived together in Muriel's big house in the exclusive Sea Cliff district. Both women in their mid-sixties. Muriel, the widowed wife of the San Francisco shipping tycoon, Vincent Dimitri Sova, who passed away some years back, at sixty-two. Died of worry and drink it was whispered.

His aunt, Lilly, was the widowed wife of Terrance O'Sullivan, a US Navy pilot who died at age twenty-three in the last days of the Vietnam War.

That handsome old driver, Mr. Fukasawa, parked that big old black limo on the street, escorted them in, saw they got settled like he always does, then goes back out and sits in that old car.

He reads, Jonathan said, you know he's been with my family since before my father died. Absolutely dedicated to those ladies. I'm ashamed to say it, but he makes it easy for me; I don't worry much about them with him there.

Say, how old is Mr. Fukasawa? Known him all these years and never knew how old he was, Barcelona says.

Little younger than the ladies, sixty-three, I think. They made him a birthday-cake last year, tried to throw him a little party. He hates it when they do that. They'll do it again next year, poor guy. They're relentless.

That old car's something. I remember it from when I was a kid, Benny says.

Yeah, it is, a 1969 600 Mercedes. He keeps it up, never consults a mechanic, runs like new. Only fifty-eight thousand original miles.

My dad's old 'seventy-eight Chevy has around forty thousand on it, Benny says, pride in his voice.

Barcelona makes a sour face, you comparing that old car of your daddies to that beautiful Mercedes? Like trying to pass off big old salmon egg fishing bait as Russian Beluga Caviar.

I'm not comparing the two. You just do not appreciate the classic beauty in that American made Chevrolet automobile. It is truly an excellent touring car. Go anywhere, and you'll see people look and appreciate it.

Tour the junkyard you mean, where that junkyard man can appreciate how many beer cans they can make out of it, Barcelona snaps back, then continues past any chance of an argument by changing the subject back to the ladies. We always take care of them when they here, she said, leaving Benny to smile, admiring how skillfully she had started and stopped her attack on the old Chevy.

Jonathan having been in the middle of the debate about replacing Big Benny's old Chevy before, jumped on and followed Barcelona's lead out. "I know you do; they love coming here. They say it reminds them of when they were young, and they came here, your dad and mom always treated them so well. In fact, Aunt Lilly spent the last evening with her husband here, before he shipped out to Vietnam. They'd been married only three days."

Why don't you write about that? Young couple, love, lost love, jet fighter pilot, Vietnam War, the city. All the components of a classic lost-love story, Benny asks.

Not what they're expecting.

I like it, it's a better story, Benny says.

Got to do this one first. "Mom called last night, wants me to come up north to some resort, Bethel Cove Inn, I think she said. She and Lilly are there now, been there a week or so. They want me to come and relax with them. They believe that I'm stressed out. Maybe they're right, might be a good idea. A way to get back into writing.

Mom says the chef is fabulous. She says Lilly's convinced I must meet the beautiful lady doctor who runs the place, wants me to look the place over, whatever that means."

Maybe you should look the beautiful doctor over.

Right. Better than sleeping with my agent I suppose, though, you know Benny, she said something odd about this woman, this doctor; said she was too beautiful.

Too beautiful. Oh, well, there's some bad news.

Jonathan looked at Benny for a long moment, nodded, gave a big smile and a wink to Barcelona, stood up and pointed to the two empty glasses he had left on the bar. Put those on my tab.

Barcelona, quick to respond, What! Tab? You let him run a tab?

Benny smiled and held up two tens’ left on the bar.

Barcelona smiled.

Everybody was smiling, except Mr. Chu, who, from his dark corner, looked deep in thought.

Jonathan was nearly out the door when Benny yelled to him, Have her give you a physical while you're there, he chuckled at his own joke.

Jonathan did not turn, just raised his hand above his shoulder. The door slowly swung shut.

Bethel Cove Inn

With the Golden Gate hours behind, Jonathan's racing green, hand-crafted British Morgan Aero Coupe, left Northern California's Redwood Highway and turned west atop miles of the winding, up, down, and through the woods, two-lane roadways, that helped keep the Lost Coast, lost.

This area, famous more for its illegal horticulture than its beautiful coastline, nonetheless offered a remote, unmolested setting ideal for a relaxing resort.

Exactly what this place appeared to be, he was thinking as he drove the Morgan up the long winding drive into the parking area.

The gardenia, wisteria, and rhododendron dominated grounds, surrounded a large three-story lodge. The white lap sided exterior and shingled roof looked more old Cape Cod elegance, than rugged Lost Coast getaway.

Around the lodge, large wooden decks and red tiled patios, provided comfortable seating areas, with views of the gardens and the pine and cedar forest beyond.

To the west, past the high cliffs, he could see rocky Pacific shores and the occasional small, gray sand beach. Past the shore, a dark blue ocean lay lolling under a flotilla of clouds, endlessly voyaging east.

A gentle eastbound breeze, fresh and smelling of brine, gently swirled Jonathan's dark disheveled hair.

He pulled the soft luggage from the parked coupe and considered the resort. Well, he said to himself, a week or two here ought-to bore me to tears. A good cry is probably what I need.

With bags in hand, he walked across the cobblestone parking lot, to a big glass door with shiny brass hardware. A red canvas awning protected it from the elements. Bethel Cove Inn, tastefully stenciled in stylish gold letters on the glass door, confirmed he had reached his destination.

The lobby was larger than he had expected, and the decor modern. The reception desk, a large marble and brass table, sat between two opposing staircases that curved inward toward one another. The room felt bright and airy.

At that desk sat a young woman. Tidily dressed in a dark business suit, she was clipped, cleaned, combed and polished. Not pretty, but neatly done.

He knew right away, this was not the doctor his mother had referred to. Aunt Lilly might mistake well-dressed for beauty, his mother would not.

The woman looked up as Jonathan approached. She appeared a little confused, Can I help you?

Yes, you may. I am Jonathan Sova, I'm here to join my mother and aunt: Muriel Sova and Lillian O'Sullivan. Both guests of yours.

The woman at the desk appeared more distressed now than confused.

You're going to visit with them today?

No, I'm moving in. I'll need a room.

Do you have a reservation? No, no, I would know if you did, you don't, and I can't give you a room.

You can't?

No, no, it's not scheduled, you're not planned for, we're not expecting you, we have no rooms, we're full.

Well, that about would cover it, I'd say. No vacancies, huh?

No, no vacancies.

Well, could you ring Mrs. Sova's room, or page her please?

The woman at the desk seemed not ready to answer.

Jonathan felt he had arrived late, at the wrong wedding.

After a moment's silence, he said, do you have a bar or lounge here somewhere?

Well, yes, pointing to a pair