“Okay, son, let’s go for a ride.”
He rode around the barn, then down the path toward the ocean walk. The sun was slowly sinking toward the horizon, its reflection shimmering on the waves far out toward the entrance of the bay. The path was overgrown and unused, and Brodie walked the horse down it. Through the trees he saw the Hoffman house, and a moment later the greenhouse. He stopped and stared at it through the trees.
Even with memories of the war fresh in his mind, it had been the worst night of his life.
He went on, riding down to the wall around Grand View and then heading along it toward the road. From inside the house he heard music, strident military music, yet with a different kind of beat. He stopped and listened to the faint tune. There was something familiar about it. He rode down to the road and turned in front of the house.
Tall iron gates protected the house from intruders. A small guardhouse was situated on the far side of the gate but it appeared to be unmanned. Rows of tall hedges bracketed the road that led to the white-columned mansion a hundred yards away. Behind it, beyond and below the sheer cliffs, the ocean was serene. A Japanese gardener was meticulously snipping the grass around the gate. He saw Brodie and, smiling, he stood up and saluted.
“Speak English?” Brodie asked.
“Yes, suh, very good.”
“Miss Delilah is an old friend. I’m going to ride down to the house and say hello.”
“Need to call first,” the gardener said, pointing to the guardhouse.
Brodie eased Cyclone through the gate. “It’s a surprise,” he said. The gardener stood motionless as Brodie trotted down the paved road to the house. The music got louder as he reached the house and tied the horse to a fence post. He got his cane from the saddle pocket and went to the door. He could hear the music more distinctly now and realized it was a recording of “Memphis Blues” he had heard in Paris years ago. He rang the doorbell.
A minute passed, then the door opened and Noah stood there. He was wearing a blue jacket, tan cord pants, and immaculate knee-high leather boots. He stared curiously at Brodie for a long moment.
“What’s the matter, Noah, don’t you recognize an old friend?”
Curiosity melted into a smile.
“Mistah Brodie?” Hints of the Caribbean still haunted his accent. “Mon, look at you. Ain’t you the fancy one.”
“You’re not looking too bad yourself. May I come in?”
“Yes, suh. I’ll tell Miss Delilah you’re here. Mon, she is goin’ t’be some surprised.”
Brodie entered a wide, two-story foyer. A winding staircase faced him on the other side of the large room and led to a balcony on the second floor, with four hallways leading away from it. It was a pleasant room, with handsome stuffed chairs, antique tables, Tiffany lamps, vases of flowers, and two large davenports. In a stained-glass window over the doorway, a knight was challenging a dragon with his lance while a lovely damsel cowered nearby. High above the vaulted room, a crystal chandelier shed a comforting blanket of light down on the room. There were several closed doors leading away from the foyer. Brodie heard the laughter of young women behind one.
“Now aren’t you the dashing one,” a dusky voice said from above. Delilah stared down from the balcony, decked out in a dark green, floor-length dress and a wide-brimmed hat trimmed with white roses. Her red hair was braided in a ponytail draped over her shoulder.
Brodie smiled up at her.
“Going to the opera?” he asked.
She looked at the cane.
“Can you make it up the stairs?”
“I’m a little lame, I’m not crippled,” he answered, and managed the broad stairway with little problem. She led him into her apartment and turned around.
“Does a girl get a kiss after twenty years?”
He started to kiss her on the cheek, but she turned her face to his, leaned hard against him, and kissed him fully on the lips, holding the kiss for half a minute before stepping back.
“I think you’re blushing,” she said. “Marines aren’t supposed to blush.”
“I haven’t been kissed like that for a long, long time.”
“How’re you doing, Brodie?”
“The leg’s almost healed. The rest of me’s whole.”
“Thank God for that.” She laughed.
“I wasn’t sure you were here,” he said, and pointed to a Victrola in the corner. The needle was scratching endlessly at the end of the record. “Actually, I was attracted by the music. Is that record by James Reese Europe and the Hell Fighters Band?”
“You’ve heard them?” she said, lifting the needle off the record.
“I saw them. In Paris. The French loved the band. Called it ‘Le Jazz Hot.’ Almost made me want to dance and I don’t know a step.”
“Well, you’ll have to come by. I’ve got all twenty-four of his records. We’ll play music and I’ll teach you the Charleston.”
“I’ll take you up on that.”
“Have you seen Ben?”
“Not yet. I spent a couple of hours with Eli.”
“The stroke almost did him in but he’s handling it well.”
“How about you? I hear you’re the richest lady in California.”
She arched her eyebrows. “Just California?”
Brodie laughed and sat down on a settee. “You live here?”
“I run a tight ship here. Have to make sure my high-class clientele is happy. Three rooms are all I need. What are you drinking?”
“A little bourbon and some ice.”
“So you haven’t seen Ben or your young Eli or Isabel yet?”
He shook his head.
“Or Buck?”
“Nope.”
“Stick around. He comes every night at six to have a cup of coffee and look at the young girls.”
“How is he?”
“Not as quick as he used to be but tough as ever.”
“You know what they say, myths never die,” Brodie said.
She chuckled. “Nice to think so. Back to stay?” she asked.
“Why not?” Brodie answered ruefully.
“That’s the best news I’ve heard since Prohibition,” she said as she filled a pebbled glass half full with hundred-proof Kentucky bourbon, dropped two ice cubes in it, and poured herself a little Scotch. She raised her glass to him.
“Here’s to sin,” she said. “Without it, we’d both be up the creek.”
They touched glasses.
“So Prohibition doesn’t worry you?”
“Honey, it’s going to make my business much sweeter and your job a lot livelier.”
“I haven’t taken a job yet.”
“You will, Brodie. That’s why you came back. It’s what friendship and love are all about. And I haven’t used the word ‘love’ seriously in a very long time.”
“Eli says everybody has to have a home to come back to and he’s right. Eureka ain’t much but it’s all I got. I couldn’t stay in the Marines. I got a battlefield commission the night I was wounded. A year later they upped me to first lieutenant while I was in the hospital, and they made me a captain just before I was discharged. No future, nice pension.”
She sat down on a crimson davenport and leaned back on one elbow.
“Why did you leave, Brodie?”
He shrugged. “To see the world.”
“Uh-huh.”
“You want to know the truth? I was running away from what I just came back to.”
Brodie rode Cyclone back to the stable and gently took off the saddle and bridle. “I’ll be back tomorrow,” Brodie said softly. “Be like old times.”
In the darkness, a cigar tip glowed. “Let’s hope so,” a voice said, and Ben Gorman stepped into the light.
“Give you a start, brother?” he asked. The two men rushed together, hugging and laughing like children. They walked briskly back to the house, both chattering away, cutting each other off with one story after another. Ben didn’t talk about the future. He didn’t have to.
A cool September afternoon nine months later.
Brodie Culhane parked his Ford under the trees behind the bank and turned off the ignition. He took out the makings and struggled to roll a cigarette. He focused on the job, folded the thin paper around his forefinger and sprinkled tobacco into the groove. Then he started to twist the paper with the thumb and forefinger of both hands. It was almost perfect and he smiled to himself, licked the glued edge of the paper, and twisted it shut. It wasn’t a work of art but it was better than smoking harsh store-bought cigarettes. As he lit it, he heard the back door of the Ford open and close.