set in after I left . . . what's her name? Good grief, I don't even know her name, but I can't get her off my mind. After restless hours trying to push thoughts of her aside, I finally got out of bed, shuffled to the kitchen, opened Van's crate, and told him he could sleep with me.
In less than a week, I've completely lost my mind. I was content with my life. It worked. No surprises. I had everything under control. Now I have a dog on my bed and a child in my head—my life—whatever. How did this happen?
I throw the covers back, swing my feet to the floor, and set myself straight: "It's time to get a grip, Sierra!"
"Van, down. Outside." As though we have all the time in the world, Van stretches, eases himself off the bed, and saunters toward the kitchen. I let him out and set the teapot to boil. While I wait, I go to my studio and grab my calendar off my "desk"—two sawhorses and a piece of plywood.
At 11:00 a.m. I'm scheduled to meet with the couple from Sausalito to discuss their color palette. We agreed to meet at a gallery in Half Moon Bay, a half-way point. The couple—Robert and his young wife, Lindy—wanted to meet at my "studio." Instead, I called the gallery owner, who has a few of my pieces on display, and asked if we could use his office for an hour. He was happy to oblige "his favorite artist." Right.
I usually love the jaunt along Highway 1 to Half Moon Bay. The coastal route, if it isn't socked in with fog, is postcard perfect. But this morning I find myself dreading the time alone—time to think.
I pick up the phone and dial Ruby.
"Morning, Sunshine, want to have lunch in Half Moon Bay today? Maybe do a little shopping? Ruby? Are you there?"
"Sierra? It's . . . It's 5:45 a.m."
"Oh, uh, yeah—I forgot to look at the clock. Sorry. Well anyway, do you?"
"Do I what?"
"Want to have lunch in Half Moon Bay today?"
"No."
"No? Why not?"
"Hugo's coming."
"Hugo? Who's Hugo?"
"Hugo of the warped soul. Remember? He's sitting for me today. I'm working. It's a work day, you know?"
"Oh," I sigh. "Yeah, I know. I'm working too. I'm meeting clients—I thought maybe you'd like to join me."
"Sorry."
"You don't sound sorry."
"I'm asleep!"
"Right. I'll talk to you later."
"Sierra . . ."
"What?"
"Your water's boiling."
With that, the line goes dead. And Ruby goes back to sleep, I assume. I go to the kitchen, turn off the screeching teapot, reach for a mug, fill a diffuser with loose leaves, and . . . the phone rings.
"Hello—"
"Let me get this straight. Spur of the moment, on a whim, you want me to go with you to Half Moon Bay and have lunch? Spontaneously, drop of the hat . . . just do lunch?"
With the phone wedged between my ear and shoulder, I reach for the teapot and fill my cup. "Yeah, what's wrong with that?"
"You're not spontaneous. You don't have a spontaneous bone in your body. What's wrong?"
"Nothing's wrong. Did you change your mind? Do you want to come?"
"No."
"Fine. But I am spontaneous. What about breakfast? Our breakfasts are always spontaneous."
"That's different. It's planned spontaneity. We do it every week. We never just pick up and do lunch . . . and shopping . . . or anything different. You always have to plan it."
"So, let's try it. C'mon."
"No."
For the second time in five minutes, Ruby hangs up on me.
Heading north on Highway 1 out of Santa Cruz, much of the coastline is made up of agricultural land. Verdant rows roll toward the sea and an occasional farmer can be seen sitting atop a tractor surveying his crop. I think of my daddy and how much he'd love to farm land that dropped off into the Pacific—even on a gray and colorless day like today.
My daddy. What would he have done if he'd found . . . What is her name? If he'd found a little girl alone in the forest? I know exactly what he'd have done. He'd have picked her up, lifted her up onto his shoulders, and scoured the area for miles around until he figured out where she belonged. He certainly wouldn't have
In less than a week, I've completely lost my mind. I was content with my life. It worked. No surprises. I had everything under control. Now I have a dog on my bed and a child in my head—my life—whatever. How did this happen?
I throw the covers back, swing my feet to the floor, and set myself straight: "It's time to get a grip, Sierra!"
"Van, down. Outside." As though we have all the time in the world, Van stretches, eases himself off the bed, and saunters toward the kitchen. I let him out and set the teapot to boil. While I wait, I go to my studio and grab my calendar off my "desk"—two sawhorses and a piece of plywood.
At 11:00 a.m. I'm scheduled to meet with the couple from Sausalito to discuss their color palette. We agreed to meet at a gallery in Half Moon Bay, a half-way point. The couple—Robert and his young wife, Lindy—wanted to meet at my "studio." Instead, I called the gallery owner, who has a few of my pieces on display, and asked if we could use his office for an hour. He was happy to oblige "his favorite artist." Right.
I usually love the jaunt along Highway 1 to Half Moon Bay. The coastal route, if it isn't socked in with fog, is postcard perfect. But this morning I find myself dreading the time alone—time to think.
I pick up the phone and dial Ruby.
"Morning, Sunshine, want to have lunch in Half Moon Bay today? Maybe do a little shopping? Ruby? Are you there?"
"Sierra? It's . . . It's 5:45 a.m."
"Oh, uh, yeah—I forgot to look at the clock. Sorry. Well anyway, do you?"
"Do I what?"
"Want to have lunch in Half Moon Bay today?"
"No."
"No? Why not?"
"Hugo's coming."
"Hugo? Who's Hugo?"
"Hugo of the warped soul. Remember? He's sitting for me today. I'm working. It's a work day, you know?"
"Oh," I sigh. "Yeah, I know. I'm working too. I'm meeting clients—I thought maybe you'd like to join me."
"Sorry."
"You don't sound sorry."
"I'm asleep!"
"Right. I'll talk to you later."
"Sierra . . ."
"What?"
"Your water's boiling."
With that, the line goes dead. And Ruby goes back to sleep, I assume. I go to the kitchen, turn off the screeching teapot, reach for a mug, fill a diffuser with loose leaves, and . . . the phone rings.
"Hello—"
"Let me get this straight. Spur of the moment, on a whim, you want me to go with you to Half Moon Bay and have lunch? Spontaneously, drop of the hat . . . just do lunch?"
With the phone wedged between my ear and shoulder, I reach for the teapot and fill my cup. "Yeah, what's wrong with that?"
"You're not spontaneous. You don't have a spontaneous bone in your body. What's wrong?"
"Nothing's wrong. Did you change your mind? Do you want to come?"
"No."
"Fine. But I am spontaneous. What about breakfast? Our breakfasts are always spontaneous."
"That's different. It's planned spontaneity. We do it every week. We never just pick up and do lunch . . . and shopping . . . or anything different. You always have to plan it."
"So, let's try it. C'mon."
"No."
For the second time in five minutes, Ruby hangs up on me.
Heading north on Highway 1 out of Santa Cruz, much of the coastline is made up of agricultural land. Verdant rows roll toward the sea and an occasional farmer can be seen sitting atop a tractor surveying his crop. I think of my daddy and how much he'd love to farm land that dropped off into the Pacific—even on a gray and colorless day like today.
My daddy. What would he have done if he'd found . . . What is her name? If he'd found a little girl alone in the forest? I know exactly what he'd have done. He'd have picked her up, lifted her up onto his shoulders, and scoured the area for miles around until he figured out where she belonged. He certainly wouldn't have
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