when she roared up in her pride and joy, a silver BMW sports car. "You should be in bed, not traipsing around the state looking for... who're we looking for?" She'd brought a bag of Cheetos with her - "absolute nectar of the gods," she announced, waving the sack like a woman flagging down a taxi - and she munched them as she followed Charlie from the front door into the kitchen. There, the family pictures stood where Charlie had left them. Charlie took up the photo of Eric's parents, along with the receipt from Time on My Side.
She said, "I want to tell his family what happened. I don't know where they are, and this is the only clue I have."
Bethany took the picture and the receipt as Charlie explained where she'd found the latter. She said, "Why don't we just phone this place, Charles? There's a number."
"And if Eric's parents own it? What do we say?" Charlie asked. "We can't just tell them about..." She felt tears threaten, again. Again. Remember, I'll always love you, Char. "Not on the phone, Beth. It wouldn't be right."
"No. You're right. We can't do it on the phone. But you're in no shape to cruise up and down freeways. Let me go if you're so set on this."
"I'm fine. I'm okay. I'm feeling better. It was just the flu."
The compromise was that they would travel with the top up and Charlie was to bring with her a Thermos of Lipton's chicken noodle and a carton of orange juice as well, which she was to use to minister to herself during the long drive to the southeast. In this fashion, they made their way to Temecula, down Highway 15 which squeezed a concrete valley through the rock-strewn hills that divided the California desert from the sea. Here, greedy developers had raped the dusty land, planting it with the seed of their neighborhoods, each identical to the last, all colored a uniform shade of dun, all unshaded by even a single tree, all roofed in a pantiled fashion that had prompted the builder of one site to name the monstrosity, ludicrously, "Tuscany Hills."
They arrived in Temecula just after one in the afternoon, and it was no difficult feat for them to find Front Street. It comprised what the city council euphemistically called "The Historic District" and it announced itself from the freeway some mile and a half before the appropriate exit.
"The Historic District" turned out to be several city blocks separated from the rest of the town - its modern half - by a railroad track, the freeway, a smallish industrial park, and a public storage site. These city blocks stretched along a two-lane street, and they were lined with gift shops, restaurants, and antique stores, with the occasional coffee, candy, or ice-cream house thrown in for good measure. In short, "The Historic District" was another name for tourist attraction. It might have once been the center of the town, but now it was a magnet for people seeking a day's respite from the indistinguishable urban sprawl that oozed out from Los Angeles in all directions like a profitable oil slick. There were wooden sidewalks and structures of adobe, stucco, or brick. There were colorful banners, quirky signs, and a you-are-here billboard posted at the edge of the public parking lot. It was Disneyland's Main Street without having to pay the exorbitant entrance fee.
"And you ask me why I hate to venture out of LA," Bethany commented as she pulled into a vacant space and gazed around with a shudder. "This is SoCal at its best. Phony history for fun and profit. It reminds me of Calico Ghost Town. You ever been there, chickadee? The only ghost town on earth that someone's managed to turn into a shopping mall."
Charlie smiled and pointed at the you-are-here billboard. "Let's look at that sign."
They found Time on My Side listed as one of the shops in the first block of the historic district. Between them, they'd decided on the drive that it was probably an establishment selling clocks but when they got to it, they discovered that it was - like so many of its companion businesses - an antique shop. They went inside.
A low growl greeted them, followed by a man's voice admonishing, "Hey you, Mugs. None of that," which was directed to a Norwich terrier who was curled on a cushion on an old desk chair. This stood next to an ancient rolltop desk at