Chapter 2

RACHAEL STRETCHED OUT ON the bed, staring up at the ceiling in the dark room. The open window let in a lazy breeze that felt nice after the heat of the day.

Anger still burned inside her. As much as she liked Grandpa, she was pissed that Mom had banished her to the middle of nowhere, and for the whole summer! The whole effin’ summer!

She fingered the ring in her eyebrow, felt it tug her skin. She was beginning to regret getting it. It was ugly, but it had done its job by infuriating Mom. She deserved it! Mom was becoming stricter all the time, refusing to let her go to the parties that all her friends were allowed to go to just because of a bit of truth.

It felt like the older she got, the less Mom let her do. Who cares that she skipped school a few days? It isn’t like her grades are bad or she’s failing classes. Why didn’t Mom accept she was fourteen years old now and should have some freedom? Pam and Lacy got to do what they wanted. Their parents didn’t punish them for skipping school. And their parents didn’t banish them to the back of nowhere for the summer, either!

More infuriating than all was Mom taking her Smartphone away! Just because Jason had sent her the video of him and his friends at a party with her laughing in the background? That wasn’t her fault! It’s not like she’d been drinking!

Mom didn’t understand anything! All she did was yell and lecture and stop her from having fun. And she didn’t listen! It’s not fair!

Rachael’s mind turned to Grandpa. She had good memories of him. The few times he’d visited he’d been a lot of fun, playing with her, always with a smile. He hadn’t changed. Still really tall, slender and ropey, his pale blue eyes radiated kindness.

Despite his jeans, cowboy boots, and white cotton shirt, his silver hair, still thick and wavy, swept back and slightly too long, gave him a distinguished look. Rachael liked how his eyes would crinkle before his smile emerged. He looked full of amusing thoughts, then his smile would arrive, as if he was enjoying a private joke. She’d never seen him angry or upset. Maybe he was too old to be upset. He didn’t have a nagging mother to annoy him. Maybe that’s why.

He didn’t look like he was sixty-something. Maybe mid-forties. It was the way he carried himself that gave her that impression; long, lanky strides, like a ... like a mountain cat. That’s it. No. There was more. Grandpa was quiet. Even in motion he looked quiet. He didn’t fidget or have restless movements. There was an air of pure calm around him, languid, unlike Mom who was more like a tornado.

Rachael rolled off the bed and undressed in the dark. Pale moonlight and a cloudless sky provided more than enough illumination. What was she going to do for the whole summer? How would she last without going crazy in the middle of this deathly silent wilderness?

Driving from the airport, Rachael had shuddered at the barren hills dotted with low bushes and stunted trees that greeted her when they turned off the highway. Then it got worse. The long, winding dirt road climbing through the hills felt like forever, civilization lost. As they’d wound around one hill, Grandpa’s house had come into view.

Her first impression was of an adobe prison. Tall walls formed a blank, featureless barricade with an arched entrance and a red terra cotta tiled roof just visible over the wall.

When Grandpa drove into the enclosed front courtyard, his house hadn’t looked much better: tan adobe walls; two smallish windows with intricate black cast iron security bars; and an arched, double wooden front door. To her, it looked bleak, reinforcing her opinion it was a prison she’d been banished to!

How wrong she was!

Pulling on thin cotton pajamas, Rachael looked around. The bedroom was neat, spacious, and nicely decorated with a large bed, side tables - one with a lamp, a colorful rug over hardwood floors, a dresser drawer, small clothes closet, and a separate armchair by the huge open window. All the furniture was simple, unembellished, classy. It reflected the house.

She’d been very surprised to find on the inside of this prison-like home, a beautiful U-shaped house, all the rooms facing a spacious center rock garden and patio. Most rooms had huge windows. The living area had floor to ceiling glass walls that slid on railings to open the house to the garden.

Terra cotta tiles covered the floors of the entry hall and the kitchen. Everywhere else had beautiful, polished wood floors. Like her room, the furniture was all modern-rustic, solid wood with colorful cushions and small pillows. She knew nothing about carpentry, but she could see the detail work in the interior was exquisite.

Moving to her bedroom door, she opened it silently and left, walking across the hall to the bathroom to wash and brush her teeth. She thought Grandpa suited the house; simple appearance on the outside, complex and intriguing on the hidden inside.

She didn’t know how she was going to survive all summer here, but at least Grandpa didn’t judge her. He didn’t seem to care how she dressed or behaved. In fact, he was really funny at times.

Rachael rinsed her mouth out, put her toothbrush away, and glanced at herself in the mirror. The eyebrow ring stood out like a sore thumb. She opened it and removed it. She didn’t like it that much, but it had done its job - driven Mom nuts.

Rachael studied her hair, took a brush to it hoping it would miraculously straighten as she brushed it vigorously. It didn’t. Why couldn’t she have had straight hair like normal people?!

Back in the bedroom, she crawled under the covers, the sheets soft and clean and smelling like they were just laundered. She settled and sighed. Unlike Los Angeles, it was too quiet. She’d never fall asleep.

Morning sun woke her, the cream plaster walls bright. Yawning, she stretched. She’d slept well! What time was it? Automatically, she reached out for her Smartphone that wasn’t there, and frowned in annoyance.

Dressed, she wandered through the house looking for Grandpa. Loud voices drew her to the front door. She cracked it open to find him standing with his hands shoved into jean pockets, a slouched stance, and looking at the ground as a tall, middle-aged blonde woman wearing jeans and a plaid shirt laced into him.

The woman turned back to her Ford Explorer, reached in, pulled a box out and threw it at him. It landed a couple of feet short of hitting him.

“And that’s the stuff you left at my house! I hope you rot in Hell, Jake Longstreet! You’re the most insensitive, inconsiderate man I’ve ever met!”

The angry lady jumped into her SUV, started it, and roared off, dust spewing from the rear wheels as they spun for grip. She raced out through the arched courtyard entrance, the rear bumper barely missing the stone arch.

When Grandpa bent to pick up the packing box, she noticed his slight smile of amusement. How could he smile after being yelled at like that? Why hadn’t he yelled back?

“Hey. You’re awake,” he said, carrying the box.

Rachael opened the front door fully to let him pass. “Who was that?”

Grandpa grinned. “A woman scorned. Hell hath no fury and all that.”

Rachael smiled with amusement. “Shakespeare, right?”

“Nope. William Congreve. Heaven has no rage like love to hatred turned, nor hell a fury like a woman scorned. From his work, The Mourning Bride.”

“Never heard of it or him,” Rachael informed him.

Grandpa grinned, his eyes twinkling. “And yet you know the words, more or less. Shows you the power of well written literature.”

Rachael shrugged. “What’s in the box?”

Grandpa looked inside as he walked towards the kitchen. “Shirts, and a sock.”

Rachael followed him into the big kitchen. He dumped the box on the table and moved to the counter to pour a mug of coffee. She looked into the box. “Is she your girlfriend?” she asked, fishing through the clothes.

“Was might be more accurate.”

“What happened?”

“She had marriage in mind.”

Rachael pulled out three shirts. A single black sock looked lost at the bottom of the box. “And you didn’t want to get married?”

“I don’t know her well enough.” Grandpa sat at the table and sipped coffee.

“You know her well enough for her to want to marry you. How long was she your girlfriend?”

“Two weeks.”

Rachael looked at him in surprise. “Only two weeks?”

The corner of Grandpa’s mouth ticked up in amusement. “I know what you’re thinking. Two weeks and she wants to marry me. Either I’m exceptionally good or she’s exceptionally weird.”

Rachael smiled. “Actually, I was wondering how you could have forgotten one sock at her place. I mean, didn’t you feel a missing sock? And how do you forget a shirt? Do you usually go around town shirtless?”

Grandpa laughed. “Girlfriends’ rooms are like laundry machines. They magically eat items of clothing. No matter how hard you look, you never find the lost item. Then they turn up when you don’t need them.”

“Are you taking about clothes or girlfriends?” Rachael asked with a laugh. Shoving the shirts back into the box, she continued, “Was she serious about marriage?”

“Seems so. I would have been her sixth husband.”

“A serial wife, huh? I’ve heard about them. Did her other husbands die mysteriously? What’s for breakfast?”

“Cereal. Top cupboard on the right.”

SOMEWHAT AMUSED, I STUDIED Rachael as she made herself breakfast. The clean, unpolluted air of Arizona must have worked on her overnight - cleansed the smog of L.A. from her brain. Or perhaps it was being separated from her mother.

Whatever it was, Rachael had changed from the girl I picked up at the airport. She still wore a black T-shirt, but today her jeans were blue. She must have forgotten to put her eyebrow ring in, too. It was missing. She’d also forgotten she was angry with the world. Rachael had smiled several times so far this morning, each that wonderful, bright, beautiful smile I remembered.

She placed a bowl of corn flakes and a glass of orange juice on the table, sat, and started eating. Between spoonfuls, she asked, “What are we doing today?”

For fun, I said, “I thought we settled that yesterday. Matching tattoos.”

Rachael’s eyes opened wide. “You were serious?”

“Absolutely. Why not?”

“Mom would kill me if I did! She’d kill you, too!”

“Good point. So let’s read books instead,” I offered, keeping a straight face.

“That’s not as adventurous as getting a tattoo,” Rachael pointed out, taking another mouthful of cereal.

“So, it’s adventure you want?”

She nodded, thought for a bit, her expressive eyes brightened and with a big smile, announced, “Let’s get the tattoo. I’ll do it where Mom won’t see.”

“And where would that be?” I asked, wondering where her mother wouldn’t notice it.

“On my butt!” She grinned at me. “And you can get one there, too!”

I laughed. “An ass tattoo isn’t manly. Besides, I was joking about a tattoo.”

“Aw! C’mon, Gramps. Live a little. Be a rebel!”

I wondered how angry Cara would be with me if I let her daughter get a tattoo. Probably spitting mad. I had a vision of her standing in my face, all five feet seven of her, shaking her finger at me and castigating me like a child, “How could you, Dad?! I leave my daughter in your care and look what you do to my baby!!“ It made me grin.

“Great!” Rachael exclaimed, mistaking my grin for agreement.

“Not so fast, Rach.”

“What now?”

“There are conditions.”

“Like what?”

“I have final approval on the tattoo. You can’t get anything rude or offensive.”

“Okay. And I get final approval on yours,” she said.

“Nope. I get final approval on mine.”

“That’s not fair!” she pointed out.

“Do you want a tattoo or not?”

“Fine. Is there a tattoo parlor in town?”

“Not that I’m aware of.” Before she could protest, I added, “We’ll consult an expert. You can’t go to any old tattoo place.”

“Which expert?”

An hour later I led Rachael into Fred’s Barber Shop. Four dark red vinyl barber seats lined one wall of the small shop, mirrors facing each. Blue Barbasol glass containers had black combs and scissors soaking in them. An old leather strop hung at one station.

The shop was empty. It was early.

“Who’re we meeting?” Rachael asked as she followed me in, a small bell fastened to the door tinkling.

Fred emerged from the back room. Fred was in his mid-fifties. He was big, as in BIG. Six-four, bushy beard, and a build like a biker, his most amazing feature was the colorful tattoos covering his arms. Not one piece of natural skin was left untouched.

“Holy shit!” Rachael exclaimed under her breath.

“Hey! Jake!” Fred said with a welcoming smile. He saw Rachael. “Who’s this?”

“Fred, meet Rachael, my granddaughter.”

“You’re the Rachael he talks about?” Fred asked, moving towards us, his hand outstretched. His huge hand completely enveloped Rachael’s. “I thought you were a kid from what I’d heard. You’re not. You’re a young lady!”

“Thanks,” Rachael responded. I noticed color dust her cheeks.

Fred had that impact on everyone. At first glance you thought, tough biker, mean, crude. Nothing could be further from the truth. Fred was university educated, loved reading poetry, was happy being a barber, and was gay. He was one of those rare people completely comfortable in his skin, impervious to nasty remarks - just a genuinely good guy. A big teddy bear. He could put anyone at ease.

“I cut your hair two weeks ago,” he reminded me. “So, to what do I owe the honor?”

“Advice on tattoos,” I told him. “Rachael wants one.”

“Does she?” he said, smiling at my granddaughter.

“Grandpa’s getting one, too,” Rachael said.

Fred laughed. “Seriously?”

I nodded. “I want advice. Who do you recommend?”

“Hmm. Well, you get what you pay for. I’d recommend A Touch of Ink over in Old Vail Village. Ask for Gary. He owns the place. He’s a real artiste so you can trust him. Runs a clean shop. But you’ll pay for it. He’s expensive.”

“Thanks.”

“What design are you going to get?” Fred asked Rachael.

“A dragon spitting fire,” she told him.

“No, she’s not,” I informed Fred.

“Then I’ll get an American Eagle with a snake in its claw.”

“I don’t think so,” I replied.

With a grin, she countered, “How about an Arizona Wren? It’s the state bird.”

Fred laughed. “Just make sure it isn’t a boyfriend’s name or you’ll live to regret it. And watch out where you put it. Place it in the wrong spot and it’ll sag when you get older and look weird.”

“Got it covered,” I informed him. I shook his hand. “Thanks.”

“No problem. Really nice meeting you, Rachael. Your grandfather got it all wrong. You’re much prettier than he boasted.”

Rachael blushed again. “Thanks.”

It didn’t take long to find A Touch of Ink. Vail was a small place. Nestled amongst other small stores in a strip mall, it was unassuming.

We were the only customers. The store was clinically clean, the walls festooned with tattoo artwork. I asked the slender young man for Gary and he smiled slightly.

“That would be me.”

I shook his hand. “Fred Dyson recommended you. Said you were the only one he’d trust.”

Gary nodded. “He’s been a good customer. So, what tattoo do you want?”

I nodded towards Rachael. “It’s for both of us. Do you have a catalogue?”

“Yup. Three of them over there,” he said, pointing to a small table with two seats for clients to wait. “But I can do anything at all, if you have a picture.”

He looked at Rachael. “Are you sure you want one? I can give you a temporary tattoo.”

Rachael shook her head. “I want a real one.”

“Real tattoos are not painless.”

“How do you apply them?” she asked.

I left them to chat and sat, opening one binder to look at designs. It was impossible. There were hundreds of designs - a bewildering array - and none looked appropriate for a fourteen-year-old girl.