about not getting the grandstand and concession repairs finished in time for the big Independence Day celebration, yap, yap, yap. Dressing him down with half his mouth, laughing at him out the other half.
Balfour had plenty of time to think, holed up in his house, nothing to do but drink too much whiskey and stare at the TV. He didn’t even have any interest in looking at the porn sites on his computer anymore. More he thought, the madder he got. He shouldn’t have to take this kind of crap. What’d he do to deserve it? Nothing. Bad enough he had one cross to bear, his butt-ugly looks, but this new one weighed twice as heavy, and hurt a lot more because it wasn’t true, he wasn’t what they were all saying he was. No way. He was just a guy trying to get along the best he could, same as everybody else. None of this was his fault.
He couldn’t keep on taking the abuse. He had to do something about it, pay Verriker back for making him a laughingstock.
Yeah—payback.
Question was, what kind?
1
Kerry was sitting at the table on the long front porch, drinking coffee and taking in the view, when I came out in my robe and slippers. It was only a little after nine Sunday morning, another cloudless, end-of-June day; the temperature was already in the seventies, though it would probably get up near ninety by midafternoon. Usually I don’t deal well with heat, but somehow hot days in the mountains don’t seem quite as bothersome.
“’Morning,” she said as I sat down. “I wondered how long you were going to stay in bed. Sleep well?”
“Yup. Must be the mountain air.” I snuffled up a deep breath of it, yawned, and sniffed in some more. The resinous pine smell was sharp and clean; you could smell the gathering heat, too, a pleasantly dusty summer odor. I grinned at her and added, “Among other things.”
“Uh-huh.”
“How long have you been up?”
“Oh, an hour or so. Nice out here.”
“Nice,” I agreed. I helped myself to coffee from the pot she’d brewed and brought out on a tray.
“You really do like this place?”
“Yup. So far, so good.”
“Me, too. I wish Emily had been able to come with us. We don’t want to take the plunge without her seeing the place first.”
“ If we take the plunge. I still think the owners are asking too much.”
“Sam Budlong said they’d take less.”
“But not a lot less. At least, that was the impression I got.”
“If the Murrays want to sell badly enough, they’ll be reasonable. It’s been on the market a long time.”
“So we don’t need to rush.”
“No, but if the rest of this little vacation goes well, and if Emily likes the property as much as we do and we can negotiate an affordable price, there’s no reason to keep looking, is there? Frankly, I’ve grown a little tired of the hunt.”
So had I, patience not being one of my long suits. Off and on over the past three months, we’d spent weekends in different areas within a few hours’ driving distance from San Francisco—Lake County, the north coast along Highway 1, Big Basin and Santa Cruz, Penn Valley—and looked at maybe a score of properties, none of which had come close to our ideal second home. Emily had been with us before, but she was away all of this week: Her school glee club had been invited to take part in a state-sponsored summer music festival in Southern California. Singing was her first love and career goal.
It had been one of Kerry’s ad agency clients who’d suggested we consider Green Valley, in the Sierra foothills northeast of Placerville: quiet, scenic, remote enough for solitude, but still reasonably close to Highway 50, and a relatively easy three-hour drive from the city. So we’d come up, looked around, and liked what we saw enough to contact a real estate agent in the valley town of Six Pines. I’d been skeptical when Sam Budlong said, “I think I have just the place you’re looking for,” but once he showed it to us, my skepticism went away
Balfour had plenty of time to think, holed up in his house, nothing to do but drink too much whiskey and stare at the TV. He didn’t even have any interest in looking at the porn sites on his computer anymore. More he thought, the madder he got. He shouldn’t have to take this kind of crap. What’d he do to deserve it? Nothing. Bad enough he had one cross to bear, his butt-ugly looks, but this new one weighed twice as heavy, and hurt a lot more because it wasn’t true, he wasn’t what they were all saying he was. No way. He was just a guy trying to get along the best he could, same as everybody else. None of this was his fault.
He couldn’t keep on taking the abuse. He had to do something about it, pay Verriker back for making him a laughingstock.
Yeah—payback.
Question was, what kind?
1
Kerry was sitting at the table on the long front porch, drinking coffee and taking in the view, when I came out in my robe and slippers. It was only a little after nine Sunday morning, another cloudless, end-of-June day; the temperature was already in the seventies, though it would probably get up near ninety by midafternoon. Usually I don’t deal well with heat, but somehow hot days in the mountains don’t seem quite as bothersome.
“’Morning,” she said as I sat down. “I wondered how long you were going to stay in bed. Sleep well?”
“Yup. Must be the mountain air.” I snuffled up a deep breath of it, yawned, and sniffed in some more. The resinous pine smell was sharp and clean; you could smell the gathering heat, too, a pleasantly dusty summer odor. I grinned at her and added, “Among other things.”
“Uh-huh.”
“How long have you been up?”
“Oh, an hour or so. Nice out here.”
“Nice,” I agreed. I helped myself to coffee from the pot she’d brewed and brought out on a tray.
“You really do like this place?”
“Yup. So far, so good.”
“Me, too. I wish Emily had been able to come with us. We don’t want to take the plunge without her seeing the place first.”
“ If we take the plunge. I still think the owners are asking too much.”
“Sam Budlong said they’d take less.”
“But not a lot less. At least, that was the impression I got.”
“If the Murrays want to sell badly enough, they’ll be reasonable. It’s been on the market a long time.”
“So we don’t need to rush.”
“No, but if the rest of this little vacation goes well, and if Emily likes the property as much as we do and we can negotiate an affordable price, there’s no reason to keep looking, is there? Frankly, I’ve grown a little tired of the hunt.”
So had I, patience not being one of my long suits. Off and on over the past three months, we’d spent weekends in different areas within a few hours’ driving distance from San Francisco—Lake County, the north coast along Highway 1, Big Basin and Santa Cruz, Penn Valley—and looked at maybe a score of properties, none of which had come close to our ideal second home. Emily had been with us before, but she was away all of this week: Her school glee club had been invited to take part in a state-sponsored summer music festival in Southern California. Singing was her first love and career goal.
It had been one of Kerry’s ad agency clients who’d suggested we consider Green Valley, in the Sierra foothills northeast of Placerville: quiet, scenic, remote enough for solitude, but still reasonably close to Highway 50, and a relatively easy three-hour drive from the city. So we’d come up, looked around, and liked what we saw enough to contact a real estate agent in the valley town of Six Pines. I’d been skeptical when Sam Budlong said, “I think I have just the place you’re looking for,” but once he showed it to us, my skepticism went away
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