“They’re not given away, and it’ll take forever if you have to explain the story instead
telling it, assuming there really is one.” I put ten dollars on the table to cover my seven dollar
tab, but I wasn’t sticking around for the change. I slid out of my seat, but as I stood, Bonnie
grabbed my sleeve.
Looking up to make a show of squinting into the sun, a subservient pose, she offered me
her other hand. “Fifty percent of everything across the board and we work every day that we can
to get the scenes in the right order? I’m not that far away. Really,” she pleaded, but playfully.
Looking down at her breasts on the way up to her eyes, I formulated a plan that suited my
mood, and I said, “Done.” A few grand was about right for filling out another one of those
goddamned forms.
“Let’s celebrate at my house,” Bonnie said standing.
“Wow—two things in a row we agree on,” I jested weakly.
“Now you know that anything is possible,” she said lightly.
Ten minutes later we turned into the short gravel driveway of a million dollar, beach front
property, and I briefly thought that anything could be possible.
Under the right conditions.
Maybe.
Chapter 11
The Message and the Messenger
Keeping my feelings in check about her alleged poor financial status, I asked Bonnie for a
tour of the house as a circuitous way of getting a truer picture. I followed her first into the
living/dining room, where Bonnie nodded toward the back wall where a landscape painting of a
winding country road, bordered by broad-leafed trees that ran between two open fields of grass.
Neither of us said anything about it. Otherwise, during our trek through the double suite, five-
bedroom, three bathroom home, she did not refer to her expenses, so I was little wiser by the
time we sat down to a ploughman's lunch.
“I had these all of the time in England. Filling and cheap,” I said, taking in the details of the
open living/dining area, ”which still wouldn't explain how you manage this place.”
“My rent is probably less than Ed pays for his apartment,” she said, crunching on a pickle.
She leaned forward with unaccountable intensity. “I was about to close a deal on a townhouse in
North Vancouver when I hurt my back.” She quickly chewed, swallowed, and said, “Workman's
comp wouldn't cover the mortgage, so I withdrew the offer. The next day, I met the man who
was in charge of renting properties the county had expropriated to extend the park from the pier
to the sea wall.” She waved half a pickle from north to west across the room. “Getting this place
convinced me that it was time to write my book, so I quit working full time and sold a share of
my novel to a good friend. Your injuries at Goodbye,” she said, poking the green nub at me, “led
you to writing, as well.” She took a final bite and uncharacteristically said around her food, “Tell
me about why you moved to England; I cut you off—sorry.”
“Four days ago,” I replied, amused.
“I’m still interested,” she said evenly.
Between nibbles of French stick bread and pâté, I meandered through my brief engagement
to an Argentine beauty and a job transfer approved, to be with her and not travel, but I had to
decline it when Graciela called things off. It was then that I realized everyday had become the
