When she arrived at the rental, Hedda found the real estate agent had left a note on the door: Key Under Mat. Suspicious, she bent down to get the key and let herself in. The house was what you'd expect.
It smelled like an old camper. Downstairs: kitchen, dining room, living room. The dining room set was a bar-height table with backless benches. The living room had a television, desk, slipcovered Ikea sofa and two matching chairs. Framed posters on the walls. Upstairs: two identical white bedrooms with queen beds, a bathroom between them. One faced the PCH. The other faced the sea. She wasn't sure which one to pick.
Hedda padded back downstairs with her shoes still on and the key still in her hand. The mildewy smell was giving her a headache. After a moment's hesitation, she opened the screen door onto the small, walled back garden and blast of ocean sounds filled the house. Seagulls, people just beyond the wall, highway noises, and above it all, a thundering of water falling all over itself to get to shore. Better? Even with the complicated ocean smell... well, she wasn't sure yet.
The garden was surrounded by a six foot brick wall with an arched door at the end that led to the public beach. Hedda decided not to venture out. Beyond the door, surely dozens of Californians, oily and burnt, strewn about the sand with their limbs out like they'd been dropped there. A big violent ocean. White sand and blasting sunlight that clapped together with all the people between them like hands slapping flies out of the air. Altogether: too much.
There were piles of sand in the corners of the garden. She took off her tennis shoes to feel the bricked patio and the fine white sand on her feet. The sensation was very bright, distinct. She stood on her toes and pivoted a little, hearing the small scrape, feeling the temperature change in the deeper part of the sand pile.
"Just in time," she thought, realizing that this sensation, like so many others, was keyed way too high. The man next to her on the airplane had set her on alert, leaning over her lap to retrieve a pen from the floor, making eye contact, leaning in to repeat what he'd said and brushing her earlobe with his lips. He seemed friendly, open, and she had wondered if this is where her story was going to begin.
Eventually he had fallen asleep, leaning gently on her shoulder and breathing softly down the front of her blouse. She stayed in her seat, unmoving, feeling her legs very clearly in her jeans and this stranger's breath on her breasts. She felt like a petty thief.
When the plane started its descent to LAX she reached over carefully and squeezed his arm, noting the sturdy mass of muscle inside his dress shirt. He opened his eyes and blinked, looking confusedly at her. Then he smiled politely and shifted toward the window. When the plane landed he pulled a satchel from under the seat in front of him and made for the aisle, deplaning in a right hurry. Hedda took her time getting into the terminal, a little reddened, still on alert, and followed the shuffling throng to the taxi stand.
She cupped her hand over her eyes and looked up on either side of the wall to the neighboring houses. These were grand: tall, slender, with cabled railings and elegant UV-coated windows rising very high to solar-paneled roofs. Very tall, in fact. The rental seemed squat and frumpy. She wondered briefly how it had remained that way while everything around it had gotten so sleek.
Hedda went back inside and left the door open to air the place out. She wasn't sure what to do next. Unpack? She wandered to the kitchen and opened the cabinets. There were four of everything: plates, coffecups, juiceglasses, wineglasses, soup bowls. Four of each piece of flatware. A full set of used but clean pots and pans.
On the counter the management company had left a thoughtful notepad and pen. She wrote, "Wine" in big letters. In the refrigerator, there was nothing except a box of baking soda and a cellophaned basket of fruits, table crackers, chocolate and a bottle of pino grigio.
Hedda grabbed the note off the basket and tore open the cellophane. Holding the note between her lips she opened drawer after drawer to find a corkscrew. Eventually she found a cache of cooking tools and opened the wine, pouring it into a juiceglass that immediately frosted with condensation. The note read, "Welcome To House."
