= 12. =
 He stood in the darkness, shivering with cold. The poncho protected his torso, and he had its hood pulled up over the baseball cap. Still, his trouser legs were soaked, and water ran down his face.
He took out his phone and tried once again to get a signal, but the closest cell tower must be out.
At that moment, a woman’s voice said, "Is someone out there?"
"I’m so sorry," Martin said. "My car died, and I had to run here to get out of the rain."
The front door opened a crack, and out peered a sturdy, youthful woman in a loose flowery shift. She had mussy dark hair, as if she’d been sleeping. Her face had a kind of horsy, athletic prettiness—no makeup—and the house emitted a sort of odd smell of kale and vegetarian fare marinated in strange spices. "Can you call for help?"
"My cell phone isn’t connecting."
"Oh you poor thing. Well, come on inside and get dry. I have a fire going. You can warm up and use my landline."
"Thank you so much," Martin said as he stepped into the cottage and she rattled the locks shut on the door. She was older than he’d thought at first—kind of a hippie survivor with graying hair. She had a bandanna strapped around the top of her head. On second thought, she wasn’t old enough to be a hippie, but more of a nostalgia fan. She had a solid, energetic body under that loose dress—probably a surfer.
That made him think again of Joe Logan. If only he could reach Joe, maybe someone at the Surf Board could pick him up. But how would he then get to LA?
"Can I get you some hot tea or something?" she asked. "My name is Marsha Starker."
"Martin Brown." He stripped off the poncho, which he let fall by the door, where it dripped onto a bristly doormat. He took off his soaked baseball cap and laid it on top as well. "Sorry. It’s all wet."
"Don’t worry. That’s what the rug is for. Are you alone?"
"Yes. Heading to Los Angeles to see my girlfriend. Thank you so much for your kindness."
"What a night. We’re at the start of a huge storm that is supposed to move east over the coast but it will go half the night."
"I was on my way up the street to call Uber. I did have a cell connection up there."
"It’s sketchy down here at the beach," she said. "My partner Josie Klein is in the other room, building a dollhouse."
"Really." Martin was impressed at the odd hobbies people seemed to have.
"Oh yes," Marsha said. "Josie sells them for lots of money. It’s how we can afford this expensive rental."
"I’m sorry to disturb you and Josie."
"Not at all." She raised her chin. "Josie, we have company!"
Martin did not hear a reply.
"She says welcome and make yourself at home. I’ll get you some tea. Just have a seat there. You can look out the window at the storm."
Nice figure, Martin thought as Marsha hustled out of the living room and into a small kitchen just visible around the corner. The cottage was small. Its interior was wooden, with shiplath across the upper half, a beamed ceiling like a ski lodge, and two dangling ceiling lamps with soft amber electric bulbs glowing under tin shades. Bookshelves lined the walls, stuffed with a mix of collectibles, photos, paintings, and old hardcover print volumes. There was a large flagstone fireplace with black andirons and a brass grate. In a bucket stood steel tongs. On one side was a stack of split logs, on the other side a smaller stack of kindling wood.
A wooden counter with a few barstools set off the living room from the kitchen door. Nice arrangement, Martin thought.
A door led off to other parts of the house, including presumably the atelier or Josie’s workshop. He wondered if he’d get a glimpse at the doll houses Josie was making. There had been a shop once in Old Town that sold dollhouses and miniatures. There must be a market for that, he thought.
Marsha stuck a pert, youthful face into the living room. "I like my tea with a shot of brandy. What about you?"
"Oh sure," Martin said. "That would be perfect on a night like this."
Marsha breezed through the living room. "I’ll see if Josie wants to partake." She opened the door and disappeared into the hidden part of the house.
Martin overheard a conversation between two women—one in Marsha’s robust voice, the other in a lighter, more melodious voice. That must be the dollhouse maker, Josie.
Martin absently fiddled with his phone while he waited. Still dead. He was about to ask if he could use the landline, but Marsha was busy. He caught sight of a different woman in a distant room. Josie wore a dark red dress, had reddish hair, and wore thick horn-rimmed glasses from what Martin could see in a glimpse.
Then Marsha was back, striding across the living room in her blue and green flowery shift with yellow blossoms on it. The door slipped shut behind her, cutting off Martin’s view of the hallway and distant work room. "I’ll have our tea in a moment. Then we’ll call on the phone to get you some help."
"Much appreciated," he said. He felt kind of trapped, wishing he were on his way to LA, but he figured he must accept circumstances and be thankful.
"Here we are." Marsha came out of the kitchen at that same oddly rushed clip.
"No need to hurry on my account."
"I’m always like this," she said.
He noticed that she had a bit of an edge to her, a faint coldness mixed with anger. Must have had a bad day, he thought.
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Thank you for reading the first half (free, what I call the Bookstore Metaphor). If you love it, you can (easily and safely at Amazon) buy the whole e-book for the painless price of a cup of coffee—also known as Read-a-Latte (hours of reading enjoyment; the coffee is gone in minutes, but the book stays with you forever). You can also get those many hours of happy reading from the print edition for the price of a sandwich (no, I don't have a metaphor for that, like a 'sandwich metaphor?'). To help the author, please recommend this book your friends, and also post a favorable (five star!) review at Amazon, Good Reads, and similar online reader resources. Thank you (JTC).
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