I gripped the mug of hot tea and blew away the steam hovering around my lips. The unrelenting fog filled the frame of the picture window reminding me of the white out conditions we used to experience in Minnesota when I was growing up in the ‘60’s. The Berkeley and Oakland hills exist in a “banana belt” which means they enjoy a Mediterranean climate and usually escape the Indian Summer fog that socks in San Francisco Bay. But this being September, all bets were off along the California coast and even inland. The marine layer, or whateverthehell those TV weathermen called it, was squatting on us and unlikely to move any time soon, save for the occasional afternoon clearing. And the ranch house at 5748 Constellation Lane where I now sat was as enveloped by the unforgiving white mist as anywhere else.
I placed my cup on the marred oak coffee table bumping up against my knees and lifted my reporter’s pad and pen off the stack of magazines cluttering its surface. The man crossed in front of the picture window momentarily creating a silhouette of his bulky frame, shock of curly hair, and the lump that protruded out of his cheek. The image made him appear outsized and bearish and, as if in a movie theater, I wanted to shout “down in front” so I could get the interview underway. He took a seat in the tattered recliner, upholstered in burnt orange tweed that also resembled something straight out of my childhood, and held up the ice pack to his cheekbone. “Your tea okay?” he solicited.
“Yes, lovely thanks. What flavor is this? It almost doesn’t need sweetening, which would be a good thing for me to know about.” I chortled, which as I pointed out earlier is something I do when I am trying to avoid another action, in this case, dwell on what Jeremy Gates had said to me the day before about this guy murdering his wife.
“Just white tea with vanilla, which gives it that sweet flavor. It was Amy’s favorite,” the man said, sighing and pushing back from the edge of the lounger. He appeared more trusting now than when I first approached the door. I clicked my pen open and drew my pad onto my now crossed legs.
Excerpt from a work in progress. Copyright: Laura A. Novak, 2012
I placed my cup on the marred oak coffee table bumping up against my knees and lifted my reporter’s pad and pen off the stack of magazines cluttering its surface. The man crossed in front of the picture window momentarily creating a silhouette of his bulky frame, shock of curly hair, and the lump that protruded out of his cheek. The image made him appear outsized and bearish and, as if in a movie theater, I wanted to shout “down in front” so I could get the interview underway. He took a seat in the tattered recliner, upholstered in burnt orange tweed that also resembled something straight out of my childhood, and held up the ice pack to his cheekbone. “Your tea okay?” he solicited.
“Yes, lovely thanks. What flavor is this? It almost doesn’t need sweetening, which would be a good thing for me to know about.” I chortled, which as I pointed out earlier is something I do when I am trying to avoid another action, in this case, dwell on what Jeremy Gates had said to me the day before about this guy murdering his wife.
“Just white tea with vanilla, which gives it that sweet flavor. It was Amy’s favorite,” the man said, sighing and pushing back from the edge of the lounger. He appeared more trusting now than when I first approached the door. I clicked my pen open and drew my pad onto my now crossed legs.
Excerpt from a work in progress. Copyright: Laura A. Novak, 2012
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