The Solace of Bay Leaves

engine—the gas gauge had been stuck for years, and the last thing I wanted was to run out of gas in a traffic jam. I sent the Universe a silent prayer that no one was seriously injured, and reached for my phone. It’s technically illegal in Seattle to even look at a mobile device when you’re behind the wheel, but I’d challenge any cop who dared ticket me when the motor wasn’t running.
Who to cyber-spy on first? My old friend, or the real estate agent whose plans she’d scuttled? Both Bruce and Deanna Ellingson had seemed perfectly pleasant in our brief exchange at the coffeehouse Sunday morning, but my view of him had already shifted.
Gad. Had that only been yesterday? So much had happened in the last few days. I once complained to an elderly friend that time seemed to go faster as I got older. She’d laid a wrinkled hand on my arm, trained her glacier-blue eyes on me, and said “Oh, honey. It just gets worse.”
At the moment, though, time was standing still. More accurately, the cars were. That sometimes seems like the same thing, in our addicted-to-motion society.
Deanna, Google told me, worked out of the Capitol Hill office of a big real estate outfit. Though the legal assistants and secretaries at my old firm had scattered to all variety of work after the firm’s dramatic demise, and I managed to keep tabs on most of them, I didn’t recall any landing there. I found her page, tilting my phone for a better angle. Recent and true-to-life, the photo showed a lively woman in her mid-50s with a healthy glow and a perfect haircut. I’d seen the same picture on her business card and the flyer for Laurel’s old house.
Looking that perky all the time had to be exhausting.
The website touted her decades of experience in commercial and residential property, single and multi-family. Unusual to handle both, I thought, but then a website is supposed to brag a bit. I read on. The bio listed training and certifications that sounded impressive, but what did I know? No mention of the Byrd’s Nest or the mysterious Mr. Byrd. With a Y.
Traffic hadn’t budged. In my rear view, I saw a vehicle attempting to wriggle out of the backup and turn around, but as tightly packed as the cars were on the narrow street, it would be nearly impossible. Besides, there wasn’t anywhere to go—a city of hills, water, and bridges, bisected by an interstate, didn’t offer many alternatives.
I turned back to my phone and scrolled through Deanna’s listings. Tons of condos. Seattle had gone a little condo crazy, not that I could complain, since my loft is one. A handful of listings for houses, all in her neighborhood.
How much longer? “Hang in there, buddy,” I told Arf, then called the shop.
“Don’t worry,” Cayenne said when I told her I was stuck in traffic. “If you’re not here by close, I’ll wait.”
“If I’m not back by close, I’ll die of boredom and a burst bladder. Go ahead and lock up at the usual time. I’ll deal with the cash register.”
Bladder talk made me shift in my seat. What was a bond broker doing home on a Monday afternoon? Surely he wasn’t running his business from the spare bedroom.
A bond broker. I barely knew what that was, but I was on close personal terms with a man who knew the field inside out. I texted my brother and asked him to meet me for lunch tomorrow.
A siren pierced the air, coming toward us. Around me, engines turned on, anxiety and relief spewing from tail pipes. “Take it easy, people. It’s gonna be a while.”
An ambulance came into view, then turned toward Harbor-view. Two more crested the hill behind it. Whatever happened, it had indeed been serious.
Meet you at Ripe, Carl replied. I could kill for a bowl of tomato-basil soup. One of Laurel’s classics.
Deal, I said, then clicked off the phone and tossed it aside.
Finally, cars began to inch forward. Twenty minutes later, at the corner of Third and Madison, I saw the remains of the problem: A black Suburban had crashed into the side of a Metro bus, clad in the purple and gold of the University of Washington. A tow truck was hitching up the SUV, and a giant tow idled on Third, waiting to remove the disabled bus. Police officers directed traffic. The bike patrol, with their ability to respond quickly, were sometimes called upon, but I didn’t see Tag. What had caused the SUV to lose control coming down the hill, I could not imagine. Thank God only three ambulances had been needed.
Trouble can hit you when you least expect it.
Arf and I made it back to the shop in time to count the till while Cayenne swept and Matt emptied the samovar. Business had been good for a rainy Monday in October. My concerns aside, we could weather the ebb and flow. No pun intended.
Assuming this glitch with Edgar and his custom blend didn’t blow up on me. I crossed my fingers and made for home. The door of my building was firmly latched this time, thank goodness.
Nate had texted to say he had dinner in hand. One of the advantages of dating a man in his forties is that he’s used to planning his own meals, even if it’s takeout. One of the advantages of being a woman in my forties is that I consider takeout pizza on the couch with a great guy to be a romantic dinner for two. Plus the World Series was on TV. What could be better?
Seeing the Mariners make the Series. Next year.
Next year. I tried not to think that far ahead in our relationship. But with the talk of houses and condos and apartments swirling around me, not to mention Glenn and his Nate