“What do you want?” I sounded as surly as I felt. I’d been looking forward to this first late morning from the moment I’d announced my intention to retire early from a wonderful but exhausting career as a high school teacher. I wanted to sleep in, get up and have coffee, and go right back to bed, preferably with a book. “This had better be really good.”
“And a good morning to you too, Gwen.” She gave a short bark of a laugh that echoed in my ear in the most irritating way. “What’s better than two besties spending some time together?”
Besties? Besties? This woman was way too awake for my liking.
“Nora, you sound like a geriatric teenager—and, in case you didn’t notice, I’m not hanging out with that particular age group anymore.”
“Oh, poo on you, spoilsport.” Again that laugh. Maybe she was on something.
I’d heard stories of seniors baking brownies with marijuana in them and passing them around to their pals. I made a mental note to check up on Nora’s latest whereabouts.
“Besides, I’ve got a great idea I want to share.”
I groaned at her words. “Fabulous. As great as the last one? Please say no.”
I could almost hear her disdainful expression.
“It’s not my fault the city wouldn’t let me start a fish pedicure salon. You’d think it’d be a slam dunk, what with all the fish we’ve got around here.”
What Nora lacked in common sense, she made up for in dollar bills. As in millions of them, all tucked securely away in various banks, thanks to a rather extensive lineup of ex-husbands.
“I’m pretty sure the fish used in those types of salons aren’t of the largemouth bass variety.” My tone was as dry as a lecture on the finer points of comma usage. “Look, I don’t want to spend my first real morning of no more school talking on the phone, even with my best friend.”
Sometimes Nora could be as thick as the pea soup fog that rolled in from the rivers. Plain talking was the only way to get through to her. To my surprise, this morning it worked on the first try.
“My thoughts exactly.” She spoke briskly, as if suddenly noticing the time. “Get yourself up and meet me at The Friendly Bean in one hour sharp.”
And with that, the phone went dead. I let it fall out of my hand onto the fluffy comforter, one arm slung across my eyes. I loved that gal like a sister—I really did—but occasionally her timing could make me crazy.
There was no going back to dreamland now. I was wide awake and, knowing Nora, she’d probably march over here and drag me out of bed if I didn’t show up. Sighing deeply, I flung the covers back and shuffled toward the bathroom.
Living in Portland suited me. I liked the climate, the surrounding mountains, the rivers. I liked hiking at Multnomah Falls, even when it was full of selfie-taking tourists. I even liked the rain—as long as I was indoors, preferably with a mug of coffee and a good book.
Being retired suited me as well. I’d planned on reading through my extensive collection of mysteries, beginning with the dame herself, Agatha Christie. Why Nora thought I needed anything else to do was as nebulous as she was, hard to pin down and always changing. It was a good thing that we were as close as we were, better than real-life sisters, as Nora had said more than once. She’d even taken to calling me “Sis” when we were much younger, something that could confuse those who didn’t know us and put a smile on my face whenever I heard it.
Except, of course, when I got pulled into one of her nutty ideas.
Within the prescribed hour, I was showered, dressed, and walking toward The Friendly Bean, our neighborhood coffee spot with some of the best blends around town. It was a coffee kind of day, no doubt about it, but most of them were here in the great Northwest. Clouds that had earlier looked like soft pillows were now turning bruised faces towards the darkening Columbia River. Rain had already begun its daily drizzle shortly before I left my small bungalow, a soft prelude to a larger battering to come.
True to their promise, the skies opened up as I walked, drenching me and every other unfortunate person who happened to be outdoors. We were in for a day of what we called “weather” here in Portland. I yanked up the hood on my jacket and scurried for cover, my Birkenstocks flapping on the wet pavement like a pair of stranded fish.
Nora was sitting near the rear of the small café, one arm draped in a proprietary fashion around the back of the only empty chair in the place. Ignoring the frowns of those having to drink their coffee standing at the various tall tables that dotted the room, I hurried toward her, flinging raindrops as I did.
“It’s already getting messy out there.” I hung my wet jacket on the back of the saved chair and slipped damply into it.
The coffee shop was full of the sound of hissing espresso machines and baristas calling out orders, almost masking the noise of the rain as it hurled itself against the windows that streamed with condensation. Portland, I’d heard one tourist say, tended to rain both inside as well as out.
“I’m glad I Ubered here.” Nora reached up to pat her hair, a smug expression on her thin face. “Rain and hairspray aren’t a good mix.” She inclined her head at the two mugs already sitting in front of me. “I got you the usual, Sis.”
“Thanks. Some days I feel like I need coffee more than food.” I took an exploratory sip and winced. The coffee was hovering somewhere near molten. “And why in the world did you use a taxi? You live closer than I do.”
“Because I didn’t want to get my new shoes wet.”
I leaned over to stare at a pair of bright pink sky-high heels, each one sporting a lacey bow on top. Typical Nora. Ostentatious and girly in one fell swoop.
“And you do know, don’t you, that fifty is the new thirty?” Taking a sip of her drink, a chocolaty concoction that could have doubled as a dessert, Nora dropped one frosted eyelid in a wink. “I mean, just look at Julia Roberts. And me.”
I couldn’t unsee her if I wanted to. Her hair, or what was left of it after a recent disastrous bout with perming rods and an overzealous hairdresser, was teased to within an inch of its blonded life and tucked underneath a hefty “fall” of fake hair. She favored clothes a few decades too young, especially the type made from the stretchy, tight material that would have been at home in a yoga studio. It always amazed me I couldn’t read the care tag stitched into the seams of her clothes. Her makeup routine was based on the “more is better” mind-set, and her shoes were usually of the stiletto heeled variety. Altogether, Nora was a conglomerate of styles that defied age and common sense, in my humble opinion.
I, on the other hand, favored a bare face and shoes as flat as I wished my stomach was. I made up in real estate what Nora lacked. I was wide where she was thin and rounded where she was angled. Life, as far as I was concerned, had been so much better before the advent of irritants such as cholesterol and calories, back when a little puppy fat never did a girl any harm.
I sighed, shook my head, and took another tentative taste of my coffee. Good to go. It was a real woman’s drink: dark roast, black as ink, and guaranteed to put hair on my chest. As if that would even matter. I glanced at my unshaven legs, where they poked out from a pair of old denim capris, scratchy with stubble and white enough to use as nighttime beacons in the harbor. Retirement chic in all its glory.
But if I was honest, I’d preferred a slap-dash approach to fashion my entire life. Nora, in contrast to my choices, had been a fashionista even in kindergarten.
“Oh, come on, you. Cheer up already. Just think, no more grading papers, no more whining parents, no more doing anything you don’t want to do.” Nora held her mug out and clinked it against mine, causing a small tidal wave of coffee to spill on the table. “Here’s to a whole new Gwen Franklin!” She gave my current ensemble a critical look, sweeping her gaze from stem to stern. “And we’ve got to do something