September 2, 2000
Riley, come on! We’ve got to hit the road.”
Kayla Stemple donned jeans, boots, a man’s white T-shirt—size small, and a ball cap to hold down wild blond hair. She grabbed her silver locket, loaded her arms with assorted duffle bags, and pushed through the front door of her little white house.
She should have expected it—today of all days—in lieu of their destination; but she didn’t. Kayla cleared the last step when the words caught her by surprise—again.
“The time has come. You know what to do.”
She spun around expecting to see someone, but of course she didn’t. She never did. Only a voice in her right ear. A soft, masculine voice.
Why do I keep hearing this? I must be losing it.
She proceeded down the walk, tripped over a crack in the concrete, and launched herself into the white gate she was about to open. In a moment like this, some would curse and swear; Kayla shook her head. Lately it was happening a lot. She scrambled to her feet, looked around, and headed to her blue ’68 Chevy Camaro, parked a few feet away.
The Saturday morning lawn ritual had begun. Like the domino effect of a yawn, it started with one mower, and soon the entire street buzzed; and young kids who escaped chores were out conquering the world, in the safety and confines of their own backyards.
“Hi, Kayla!” shouted two who broke free.
Kayla turned to see her blonde, blue-eyed neighbors pedaling their tricycles down the sidewalk.
“Hey, my favorite twins! Does your mom know you’re out here?”
“Oh, she don’t care—we’re four now,” said Jared.
“I think she—”
“Joseph and Jared Evans, you get back here this instant!” came from a nearby window.
“Uh-oh . . . bye, Kayla,” Joseph said, while slowly waving.
She watched them turn their tricycles full circle and pedal at high speed up the sidewalk. She had to smile. They don’t stay that size for long.
It was a great day to stay in Seattle. The scent of fresh-cut grass lingered in the air, music filtered out open windows, weathermen boasted a high of seventy-seven, and the whole city sparkled under the sun. Kayla wanted to celebrate with a walk to Green Lake and a good book, but today was not optional. There were bigger things planned for today. And in that place, down deep where the heart and mind connect, she knew it.
She fiddled with her key until the trunk sprung open; and in that same moment, her cell phone rang. The way she jumped, it could’ve been a snake. What is wrong with me? Kayla grabbed the culprit from the black bag, shoved it up to her ear, and knocked off her ball cap.
“Hello,” she said, scooping up the hat.
“Hi, Honey! Have you left yet?”
“Dad . . . hi.” Kayla leaned against the car. “No, I’m loading the trunk right now.”
“Great! You’ll be here early afternoon then.”
“Yep,” she said in her best attempt.
It was easy to picture her dad at the ranch: sitting at his desk, twirling his Aussie hat while he talked. Kayla smiled. Luke Stemple was still one of the most handsome men she knew—in a dark, rugged, outback kind of way.
“Kayla, are you okay? You sound like you slammed your finger in the door.”
“No, I’m fine . . . just trying to get going.”
She set her bags in the trunk, and pulled out the keys. Hearing his voice calmed down her insides. Just in time, too.
After slamming the front door, Riley Stemple stomped down the walk for all to see, and tossed her oversized gym bag in the trunk. Kayla smirked. If her green-eyed replica only knew how silly she looked.
“—I’m sorry, Dad—what’d you say?” Kayla stood still to listen.
“When you get here, I have something to give you . . . I’ve been saving it for the right time.”
“Something for me? What is it?”
“It’ll wait till you get here. Oh, and Kayla . . . don’t forget my lima beans!”
The prospect of eating “dirt in little plastic skins” crinkled her nose. “I didn’t forget.”
She closed the trunk and headed for the driver’s door; and Luke asked one last question.
“Kayla . . . what did you want to be when you grew up?”
She’d rather eat a lima bean. “Uh . . . Dad, I’m thirty-eight—I am grown up. It doesn’t matter what I wanted to be.” She kicked a piece of gravel near her tire. “I love you, Dad. We’ll see you in a bit . . . bye.” Kayla clicked off the phone, and slid in behind the wheel.
It was easy to ignore Riley’s glare, she had her own thoughts eating at her. Why did he ask me that after all these years . . . ? Accounting suits me—I like numbers. Oh brother . . . who am I kidding?
After warming up the engine, they pulled up to the window of Starbucks. This was Seattle—espresso on every corner.
Kayla smiled her best at Riley. “What would you like? My treat.”
Her grumbling eighteen-year-old leaned forward to read the menu. “An iced almond latte—double shot.”
“Okay, and I’ll have a regular coffee, with a touch of nonfat milk, please.”
The young man acknowledged their order and disappeared.
Riley rolled her eyes. “It figures that you’d have plain old, boring coffee. Why don’t you ever try something new?”
“Wow, Riley—thanks for the boost.”
The exchange was made, and they were back in traffic.
Kayla tried a different tone. “Grandpa’s excited to see you.”
“Why?”
“Come on, Riley, you know how much this means to him.”
Riley scrunched down in the seat, and flicked the thin pink straw in her drink. “Yeah, but does it have to be this weekend?”
“Of course it does—it’s their anniversary!”
“Well, why can’t he come here like he usually does?”
“Riley, don’t start. I’m sorry you’re missing Bumbershoot—and I realize it’s Seattle’s finest arts festival—but this is important, and Grandpa wants us at the ranch.”
“Yeah . . . like you really want to go either, Mom. When was the last time you were there?”
Kayla let it slide, and tried to focus on juggling her boring coffee while merging onto Interstate 5. And since the freeway was always busy, she wasn’t surprised when all four lanes halted in the downtown area.
But Riley wouldn’t let it go. “Us having a party—that’s insane.”
Kayla shot her a look. Riley knew it well and stared up at the skyscrapers.
“Each new building is taller than the one
before . . . when will it ever end?” She asked, not
expecting her mom to answer.
Traffic moved again, and several horns behind them jolted Kayla back to the present. Riley slid down further as drivers pulled out around them. Strike two for Kayla.
It was a quiet drive from that point to Interstate 90—Seattle’s link to rural Eastern Washington. But as they drove up the ramp, Riley blurted it out:
“This is insane—it’s crazy—Grandma Jamie’s dead!”
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