Spider Web by Earlene Fowler Page A

been to come early to photograph the museum’s buildings at sunrise.
    “I did. I also photographed Mr. Boudreaux. I think they’ll be good ones.”
    “Can’t wait to see them. I’ve done my interview with D-Daddy, just haven’t transcribed it yet. Where’re we off to today?”
    “How much time can you spare? What with the festival . . .” His alert raisin brown eyes studied me.
    “I’ve set aside the whole day for you. You and I planned this a long time ago. If anyone needs anything concerning the museum or the Memory Festival, they can call me on my cell.”
    “Wonderful. We have an appointment with a fellow in Pismo Beach. Then I would like to photograph the Oceano Dunes, the old depot and the Cowgirl Café, where I proposed to your gramma. What do you think of that as an anniversary present?”
    “I think she’d love it. Sounds like a full day.”
    “If that’s too much . . .”
    “Not at all. I’ve been looking forward to this day for weeks.” I linked his arm in mine. “We can keep going until you don’t like the light anymore. Do any of these places include interviews?”
    “Just the Pismo one. I thought we could really make some progress today. I’m anxious to get this book put together.”
    “No problem. I assume we’re taking your Subaru. Want me to drive?”
    “If you don’t mind.” His face, tanned brown as the pebbled leather cover of Dove’s old Bible, looked tired. But his alert dark eyes missed nothing. “Benni, are you feeling all right?”
    The question caught me by surprise. I thought I’d hidden my troubled emotions well with my cheery conversation. “Just a little tired. The rain kept waking me up last night.” The lie skipped off my tongue as easy as spitting.
    His expression told me he wasn’t buying my explanation, but he didn’t press me. Though Isaac might be the perfect person for me to discuss my anxieties about Gabe, I wasn’t ready to relive last night.
    Inside the car, I adjusted the seat for my short legs. “Ready to roll, boss man. So, what’s the story behind our Pismo Beach guy?”
    “His grandmother was a nurse who gave free health care to the Dunites back in the thirties. He lived with her for a little while and used to travel with her on her rounds.”
    The Dunites had been a controversial community of people who’d started living in the Pismo Dunes back in the thirties, flourishing there until the last community member died in the early seventies. They’d been often called California’s first hippies.
    “She probably told him some really cool stories,” I said.
    “Hope so. His definition of home should be interesting. His answer to the ad I put in the newspaper was very intriguing.”
    On the drive south on Interstate 101 to Pismo Beach we talked about the book. He was tossing around titles, still looking for the exact right one, though so far we hadn’t been able to think of anything better than “San Celina at Home.”
    “I’ve completed sixteen interviews,” I said. “I have your list and will be doing more of them next week once the Memory Festival is over. I might be able to conduct a few of them during the festival.” I turned my head to smile at him. “Multitasking rocks.”
    “It does, indeed.” He leaned his head back against the leather headrest, closed his eyes and gave a big sigh.
    “Hard night?” I asked.
    “Just thankful for a moment of quiet. With all the moving, building, switching things around these last six months at the ranch, it’s hard to find a peaceful spot to take a nap.”
    Last summer my great-aunt Garnet, Dove’s only sibling, told us that her husband, my uncle WW, had been diagnosed with Parkinson’s disease. Everyone agreed that they should sell their house in Sugartree, Arkansas, and move to California. Their only son, Jake, had accepted a new job in Maine, but he didn’t know how long it would last.
    When Aunt Garnet and Uncle WW moved out here, we also unanimously agreed that the ranch house