COVID SEASONS
PROLOGUE
WEDNESDAY JANUARY 29, 10:00 PM
He’d had an upset stomach and headache the entire day. After dinner, as they watched TV, he started coughing and couldn’t stop. He drank some hot tea. Didn’t help. Then cough drops. Nothing helped. It got so bad he was having trouble catching his breath.
She asked him if she should call 9-1-1. He said no, he just needed a good night’s sleep. He took a sleeping pill, but before they went to bed, he had another coughing fit. He was gasping for air, and she insisted on calling 9-1-1. He wouldn’t have it. They argued, and he finally agreed to go to the emergency room. Then, in the car, he insisted on driving.
They got on the freeway, heading toward the hospital. His coughing got worse. She begged him to pull over, but he wouldn’t do it. “Just one more mile,” he said, and then, suddenly, they were off the road. All she remembered was screaming and the car going into a ditch.
Minutes later, she woke up. It was pitch black, and the car was on its side. She was hanging from her seat belt and shoulder harness, looking down at him. He was unconscious.
She had a broken wrist, was badly bruised, and had a concussion. The doctors later told her it was a grade three. Severe. She was in and out of consciousness, but when she was awake, she’d reach down with her good hand and shake him. He never woke up.
They were in that ditch the entire night. No one came until the next morning. By then, it was too late. He died. Loss of blood from a head injury.
She woke up in the hospital. A policeman was there to explain what happened.
“On that part of the freeway,” he told her, “there’s a deep drainage area running along the side of the road. It’s not right next to the road, it’s a few yards away. So when your car went off the road—it was late at night, not much traffic, hardly any light—no one saw it go into the ditch. A maintenance crew spotted it just before sunrise.”
They do blood tests in situations like these. Cause of death was pretty clear, but they want to know if there was an underlying cause: alcohol, drugs, whatever. A few weeks later she was notified. Her husband had Covid-19.
PART 1: A WINTER OF BLISSFUL IGNORANCE
CHAPTER 1
THURSDAY JANUARY 30, 9:30 AM MARK
Mark Taylor, balancing a tray of pastries in one hand and a cupholder with two paper cups in the other, backed out of Mimi’s Place, a coffee shop situated in a strip mall near the corner of Hayden and Mountain View. Once clear of the swinging glass door, he moved slowly across the sidewalk, stopped, bent slightly at the waist, and carefully placed the tray and cupholder on the wrought iron table top. There were a half-dozen tables with matching chairs arranged randomly along the sidewalk, ostensibly reserved for Mimi’s patrons. On this cool January morning in a Scottsdale jammed with winter visitors, every table, and almost every chair, was occupied.
Winter in Arizona, he thought as he removed the cups from their holder and sat. Send me your tired, your poor, your senior citizens freezing their wrinkled butts off.
Seated at the table were his wife Julie and friends John and Sherri McKee. The temperature was in the low fifties, and they were all dressed warmly. Julie, a former model who still turned heads at forty-seven, wore a forest green DKNY outfit. Sherri, a handsome woman of sixty-five who was fighting a losing battle against wrinkles and gray hair, had her usual Chamomile tea, and wore a blue sweater-slacks combo from Banana Republic. John, drinking unsweetened black coffee, wore a navy hoodie, jeans, a very nasty pair of cowboy boots, and his ever-present Ford Trucks baseball cap. Mark, who tended to dress casually, wore a medium-weight black pullover, jeans, and sneakers.
Julie reached for the cup marked with the letter H. “Hazelnut, right?”
“Absolutely,” Mark said. “Hazelnut latte for you, ordinary run-of- the-mill latte for me.”
Sherri glanced at the tray, which was overflowing with a large almond croissant, a dark, chunky morning glory muffin, an oversized chocolate chip cookie, and a scattering of paper plates, napkins, and plastic utensils. “That’s a lot of calories,” she said, perhaps a bit too loudly, drawing glances from people sitting at adjacent tables. In a near whisper, she continued, “What’s the occasion?”
“The occasion, my dear woman,” Mark said, grinning, “is that I am flat out hungry. On this winter morning, I was not able to avail myself of my usual cold weather breakfast of hot oatmeal with dried cranberries. So, I must settle for coffee and however many of these goodies I can scarf before the rest of you vultures get your paws on them.”
“Well put, oh great one,” Julie said as she arranged paper plates in front of each person. Sherri, wielding plastic, did the cutting: the croissant in cleanly cut quarters, the muffin in crumbly quarters, and the soft-baked cookie cut into sixths, like a small pizza. Yes, it was a cliché—women’s work—but Mark was unlikely to do it, and John was useless in the kitchen. The women, who’d been friends for a long time, didn’t mind.
“And Mark,” Julie continued, “regarding your comment about oatmeal, you forgot to mention that it was you who shopped yesterday and failed to replenish your cereal supply.”
“Guilty as charged,” Mark said.
John leaned forward, gazed at the pastries, then looked up, first at Julie, then at Mark. “Should we wait? I assume Scott and Emjay are coming?”
“They said they’d be here,” Mark said, “and that’s another reason for having pastries. Today, we celebrate the reconstitution of the Scottsdale Six, after operating as a foursome for what, a month?”
“They left just before Christmas,” Sherri said, “and got back Tuesday.”
“So, more like five weeks.” Mark pushed his chair back and stood. “In any case, today, we are again Six. Six souls in need of conversation, companionship, coffee ... and, occasionally, pastries. So, as organizer—”
“Self-appointed,” John mumbled.
“Organizer, discussion leader—”
“Whatever.”
“Yes, John, whatever ... I say ‘cheers everyone.’” He lifted his cup and drank. Foam clung to his upper lip. He smiled, then sat back down. Mark was, in fact, the self-appointed organizer, discussion leader, and overall majordomo. The others played along.
“John,” Julie said, “to answer your question: No use waiting. Eat. If we run out of food, we’ll get more. And guys, as Sher said, they got back Tuesday. They’re probably wiped out, not to mention busy as hell. Cut ‘em some slack.”
The Core Four, as they often called themselves when Scott and Emjay weren’t around, had known each other for going on eleven years. Mark and Julie Taylor had moved into Monterey Vista, a small gated community in central Scottsdale, in 2004. John and Sherri had purchased their Monterey Vista home in 2009, just after the market crash. John liked to brag about the deal he got. “Pennies on the dollar,” he liked to say.
The regular Thursday morning meetings had begun, just after John and Sherri had moved in, with what they now referred to as “that serendipitous encounter.” John, backing out of Mimi’s front door carrying his and his wife’s drinks, turned and barreled into Mark, who was just approaching the entrance. As John dipped and swayed, trying mightily to keep the drinks from toppling, Mark mumbled an apology, did a double- take, and said, “Hey, I know you. You’re our new neighbor.”
Both families lived in the same quiet cul de sac, albeit on opposite sides. Minutes after their encounter, the couples were seated at the same table, getting to know one another; thus, the Core Four was born.
Over the years, they had added other couples and begun calling themselves the Scottsdale Six. None of the newbies had lasted more than two or three years. One couple had moved away, another took offense when John characterized them as “too argumentative,” and another had just lost interest. Scott and Emjay had moved to Monterey 18 months ago. After meeting the Taylors and McKees at a neighborhood gathering, they’d been invited to join. So far, so good.
Sherri served everyone their choice of pastry. A moment later, John said, “So, Mark, you went to the grocery store and failed to buy oatmeal. Can I assume you avoided the cereal aisle so you wouldn’t have to see Aunt Jemima’s smiling face?”
That tired routine again? Mark smiled. He was mixed-race, and his legal name was Marcus, but he preferred Mark. John would occasionally needle him about avoiding use of the so-called black-sounding name. “I also detour around the aisle where the Uncle Ben’s Rice is displayed.”
“I feel your pain,” John said, grinning.
“I doubt it,” Mark said, returning the grin, then adding, “Mr. Pasty Face.”
“Ouch!” John said, stricken.
“Mark?” Julie said.
“Jules,” John said, grinning, “he knows I’m just messing with him.
Anyway, so what if I’m light-complexioned?”
“Whiter than a Klan bed sheet,” Mark said.
“Guys?” Julie said, tapping her fingers on the table. “We’ve all heard this routine before. Let’s move on.”
“Yes, Julie, let’s,” Sherri said. “First, we very much appreciate the goodies, but I’m getting a little concerned about Scott and Emjay.” She tapped her cell phone. “Fifteen minutes late, and no call or text. Emjay’s not like that.”
“Sherri, my good woman,” Mark said, “yes, they’re late. A little late. Things happen, people get delayed. It happens to all of us. Right?” Sherri nodded. “They said they’d be here, so be patient—”
“And, speak of the devil, here they come,” Julie said, turning toward the parking lot.
A black Dodge Charger slowed to a rolling stop on the pavement adjacent to their table. The driver tapped his horn, then continued on.
“That’s Scott’s ride,” Mark said, watching the car move away.
CHAPTER 2
THURSDAY JANUARY 30, 9:50 AM
MARK
A few minutes later, Scott, holding a Starbucks cup, wedged himself between tightly parked cars. Emjay was close behind. As they approached the table, Mark again stood. “The world travelers return,” he said.
“After all this time away,” Scott said. He held out his fist, and Mark bumped it with his. “And a good morning to all of you, my friends.” He grinned as he leaned over and snagged a piece of cookie. “Goodies. What’s the occasion?”
“The reconstitution of the Scottsdale Six,” Mark said.
Having just celebrated his forty-eighth birthday, Scott was the youngest of the men. He was tall, lean, and fair, in sharp contrast to his wife, Emjay, who was an attractive Latina. Wearing a Lululemon combo, she approached. Julie, Sherri and John all stood.
“Hola, amigos,” Emjay said, hugging Julie, Sherri, John, and, finally, Mark.
“Amigos, indeed,” Julie said. She sat, Sherri sat, and the three men sat.
“I’m going inside,” Emjay said. “Anyone need anything?” She glanced at the tray. “Should I get another muffin? More cookies?”
“I think we’re okay,” Julie said.
Emjay went inside, returning two minutes later with her own latte. Once she was settled, Sherri said, “We want to hear all about your travels.”
Emjay: “You guys got our emails and pictures?”
Sherri: “Yes, but we want more. Details?”
Scott: “It was a great trip. A few days in Florida—”
Julie: “With your family? Orlando, right?”
Scott: “Yeah. Spent Christmas with them. Then we drove down to Miami. Did some swimming, water skiing, soaked up some vertical rays, hit a few hot spots.
Emjay: “Then over to Europe for a couple of weeks.”
Julie: “Those were wonderful pictures of the French wine country.”
Scott: “Yes. Did some serious drinking over there. We came back through D.C. Stayed with Emjay’s sister and her kids for a few days.”
“Alena, right?” Sherri glanced at Emjay, who nodded. “How’s she doing?”
“As well as can be expected,” Emjay said, “considering.” After an awkward moment of silence, she continued, “Next week, I promise to bring a bunch of pictures, and provide you all with details and answers to all your questions.”
Back to business. “Okay,” Mark said, leaning forward. “Now that that’s decided, without further ado, discussion, distractions, or detours, I call this meeting of the Scottsdale Six to order! Cell phones off or on vibrate, please.” He watched as everyone silenced their phones. “So, the first order of business: discussion of global and national news. I’ve got three subjects: Trump’s impeachment, Kobe’s death, and that new virus, the one from China. Anybody got anything else?”
“Super Bowl this Sunday,” Scott said. “The Chiefs will roll.”
“Jared’s Middle East Peace Plan,” Sherri said. “Another example of Trump making good on a campaign promise.”
“Oh boy,” Mark said, chuckling. “Where do I begin?”
“And we’re into politics,” Julie said. “Mark, let’s not get into a big brouhaha about that.”
“Okay, but I just want to make one point. That plan is totally ridiculous. Dead on arrival. The Palestinians didn’t even come to the announcement. Didn’t participate in the negotiations, of which there were none, as far as anyone can tell.”
“Mark,” Sherri said, “I didn’t expect you to acknowledge another achievement.”
“What achievement? Nothing’s been achieved.”
“Guys,” Julie said, “enough.”
“Okay,” Mark said. “I won’t mention the rigged impeachment, his absurd Davos comment about that virus: ‘We have it totally under control. It’s one person coming from China.’ And then he thanks President Xi for whatever it is he’s doing—”
“Hates Mexicans,” Emjay added.
This prompted glances from people sitting at an adjacent table. Mark nodded at one grey-haired senior citizen—wearing a MAGA hat, no less—who was giving Emjay the evil eye. Mark coughed, caught his eye, and met his gaze. After a few seconds, MAGA man turned away.
“I’m gonna change the subject,” Julie said. “Kobe’s passing. What a horrible thing. All those children.”
“His daughter,” Sherri said, crossing herself. “Just thirteen.”
“One of those random accidents,” John said. “Could happen to any of us. Underlines the fact that we’re only here, on this earth, for a very short while.”
“Cherish our time here,” Sherri said.
“Still,” John said, “It could happen to any of us. Today. Tomorrow.”
Next week. Next year. “Not to minimize it,” Mark said, “but apparently he—they—rode helicopters frequently. Increased the probability.”
“I agree, and I need a refill,”—John picked up his empty cup —“and I’ve gotta go. Back in a minute.”
As John headed into Mimi’s, Julie said, “Any other global issues before we move on?”
“Let me think,” Mark sighed. “Okay ... Unrest in Iran ... Brexit.”
“Yawn,” Sherri said.
Mark shot her a look, then, “Well, I can’t think of anything else.”
“That virus you mentioned,” Julie said. “Didn’t we get our first case this week? Arizona, I mean?”
“One more thing to worry about.” Scott said, groaning.
“On that unhappy note,” Sherri said, “Mark?”
“Agenda item two.” He paused as he spied John coming out of Mimi’s. “John, we’re moving on to item two: closer to home.”
“I’ve got nothing,” John said, sitting.
“I’ve also got nothing,” Scott said, then, “wait. One thing. Played golf on Tuesday.”
“Hardly news,” John said, grinning.
“Ha ha. But newsworthy. Broke eighty for the first time in forever.”
“In the cold,” Mark said. “Impressive. Where’d you go?”
“Desert Mountain. Expensive. Winter rates.”
“I miss playing,” Mark said, sighing.
“I’ve never played,” John said. “Never could understand the game.”
Golf defies understanding. “I haven’t been out in a dog’s age,” Mark said.
Scott smiled. “How many times have I asked you to come out with me?”
“You’re out of my league,” Mark said, shaking his head. “I’m lucky if I break a hundred.”
“I’ll take a look at your swing. How about next Tuesday?”
“Let me check my calendar.”
“Mark, you’re not working,” Julie said. “Remember?” Her phone began to vibrate. She picked it up. “It’s Marsha Solomon.”
“Marsha?” Mark said. “From next door?”
“Yeah,” Julie said, standing. “I’m gonna take this.” She moved away from the table.
“Not working?” Scott asked, catching Mark’s eye. “Since when?”
“I’m on hiatus.”
“What’s the matter? Too many lawyers?”
“Not enough work. The firm has me on indefinite hiatus.”
“Indefinite?” Scott said. “Sounds like retired to me.”
Mark: “For Christ’s sake. I’m fifty. I’m not retired.”
John: “Indefinite hiatus for how long now?”
Mark: “Two months.”
Scott: “And counting.”
Give me a break. “Scott,” Mark said, “regarding golf on Tuesday, I’ll let you know tomorrow.” He glanced around the table. Paper plates with scattered crumbs, empty coffee cups, wadded napkins. “Anyone got anything else?”
“We saw the movie 1917,” Sherri said. “I thought it was good.”
“Disappointing,” John said. “Don’t know ... Just didn’t strike me as realistic. All those foxholes. A little too staged for me.”
“I was impressed with the way it was filmed,” Sherri said.
“Two stars out of five,” John said.
Julie, pale, returned to the table. “Guys,”—she scanned their faces—“Marsha and her husband ... They were in a car accident.”
“Oh my God,” Sherri said.
“Her husband, Gerry,”—she slowly lowered herself onto her chair —“he’s dead.”
Dead? Mark leaned forward. “What?”
“He’s dead.” She took a deep breath. “Died in the accident.”
“Madre de Dios.” Emjay, stunned, crossed herself.
Sherri, blinking away tears, also crossed herself, then began whispering a prayer. John, shaking his head, put his arm around her, comforting her. A few seconds later, Scott asked, “How did it happen?”
“Marsha was calling from the hospital,” Julie said. “She didn’t say much. She just wanted me—Mark and me—to watch their house.”
“How is she?” Emjay asked. “Physically, I mean.”
“She said she wasn’t hurt badly. Said she’d be there a couple of days.”
“Gerry is,”—Mark sighed—“Gerry was a good friend. Scott, Emjay, remember we told you about the them? They were part of this group before you guys.”
Scott thought for a moment. “I remember you telling us there’d been a few couples before us, but I don’t remember the name.”
“Solomon,” Julie said. “Gerry and Marsha.”
“They were friends of ours, too,” John said, looking up. “Not just from this group. I mean, we all live in the same cul de sac. We saw each other, not all the time, but occasionally.”
“I don’t think we’ve ever met them,” Scott said, “but we’re a couple of blocks over. Honey?”
“I met Marsha,” Emjay said. “Just walking around the neighborhood. In fact,”—she glanced at Julie—“you were with her. You introduced us. Remember we talked for a few minutes?”
“Yes, over by the tennis court,” Julie said. “I told Marsha I’d visit her tomorrow.”
“Good,” Mark said.
“I’m just so shocked,” Sherri said. “So close to home.”
“Horrible,” Julie said.
John glanced at his watch. “On that sad note ...”
“Yes,” Mark said. “It’s a little early, but I think we should adjourn.”
As they stood, Julie said, “I’ll let you guys know about Marsha.” “Please do,” Emjay said.
CHAPTER 3
FRIDAY JANUARY 31, 10:45 AM
JULIE
Julie Taylor was tired. As a Scottsdale police lieutenant, she didn’t see much real action, but a graveyard shift was never any fun. She’d had one callout, just after 3:00 AM. One of her response teams had gotten into a shouting match with a lawyer who was “asserting his First Amendment rights” by playing basketball on his driveway and chugging Miller Light while an old-school boombox blasted out hard rock.
After arriving, and upon further discussion, she’d discovered that he was a wannabe lawyer who’d failed to pass the bar exam once, or maybe twice, or maybe three times. He’d lost count.
Asshole.
After her shift, she’d gone to see Marsha Solomon, and then headed home. After parking her Chevy Malibu in the garage, she moved quickly through the laundry room into the main hallway, tossed her coat on the sofa, and continued into the kitchen.
“Mark?”
No response.
Where the hell is he? “Mark?” she half-shouted. “I’m back.”
“Be there in a minute.”
“I’m in the kitchen.”
Two minutes later, he strolled in, still wearing his warm pajamas and slippers.
Already seated at the counter with a cup of coffee, she gave him the once-over.
“The slob appears.”
“Dressed for comfort,” he said, smiling. “Any coffee left?”
“Yeah. Help yourself. What were you doing?”
“Reading emails,” he said as he poured himself a cup, added a dollop of milk, and sat down next to her. “Cleaning up my desktop. Nothing special.” Sipping his coffee, he picked up the newspaper. “Here’s the headline: As Virus Spreads, So Does Anti-Chinese Sentiment.”
“I’m not surprised.”
“Me neither. So tell me how Marsha’s doing.”
“I did get to see her, but just for a minute. She was pretty much out of it. Drugs. She thanked me for visiting. She was drifting in and out. Know what I mean?” He nodded. “But I did talk to one of the nurses. Said it was a day-to-day thing, and that I should check back tomorrow.”
“Hmm,” he said.
She sipped her coffee, grimacing as she swallowed. “Did you call our illustrious property manager? What’s his name?”
“Yeah. Didn’t get Roger; got his assistant—”
“Shirley?”
“Yeah, Shirley. She’s pretty much worthless.”
Brain dead. “Did they have an emergency contact?”
“Marsha’s sister in San Diego. The police had already notified her. She’ll be here this afternoon.”
“Okay then.” Another sip, another grimace. “You made the coffee too strong.”
He smiled. “Guilty as charged.”
She added milk, stirred, took another sip. “Better.”
“I’m happy for you.”
Where’d that come from? “Sarcasm this early in the day?”
“Never too early.”
“So, Mr. Lawyer on Indefinite Hiatus,”—they exchanged smiles—“what are you gonna do today?”
“Got some reading, some things about new regulations on family- owned businesses. Then I’m gonna have a late lunch with Don. He wants me to think about coming back.”
“When? You going back, I mean.”
“He hasn’t said, but he implied there was some turnover coming.”
“Hmm.”
“I might hit some golf balls after that.” He stood, moved to the
coffee maker, and poured more coffee and milk. “And what about you?”
“Sleep. Then I’ve got a meeting at five. They’re rolling out some new policies. Criminals to catch, citizens to protect, just do it by the book. After that, I’m gonna meet up with Lauren. Maybe have dinner if she wants to. You’ll be okay by yourself?”
“I’ll get some Chinese take out. I’ll be fine. Suns are playing the Thunder. I’ll watch that.” “Sounds exciting.”
“Now who’s being sarcastic?”
Marcus Taylor—Mark—was from Philadelphia. His father, William, was a somewhat militant black man who’d worked on an assembly line his entire life. His white mother, Sarah, was from a faux liberal Main Line family who had shown their true colors by immediately disowning her when they married.
Without her family’s support, they struggled to make ends meet. Mark and his brother, Dennis, always had enough food and clean clothes, but not much else.
After high school, wanting to be a lawyer, Mark worked his way thought Penn State, where he met Julie Roth, a criminal justice major, at a party. She was from Easton, a small town in Pennsylvania’s Lehigh Valley, a gritty region that never fully recovered from the collapse of Bethlehem Steel.
It was a cliche: he was working class black; she was white, blonde, and Jewish. In 1992, after graduating from Penn State—she in criminal justice, he in pre-law—they married and moved to Philly, where he got his law degree at Drexel. They were broke, ambitious, and happy as clams. He found work as a public defender; she became a rookie cop. They saved some money, but it wasn’t enough, so they decided to move to a faster- growing region.
After a few month of searching, he landed a job with a Phoenix-based firm specializing in family and small business law. After establishing their household, she joined the Scottsdale police force. Mark’s career progressed well, and he eventually made partner. When Lauren was born, Julie, not wanting to be an absentee mother, resigned. When Lauren turned four, Julie rejoined the force. A few years later, she became a sergeant, and last year was promoted to lieutenant. She had aspirations of becoming a commander.
Lauren was now a sophomore at Arizona State, and her love life had become a concern. “Mark?” Julie said, standing and moving to the sink, where she rinsed her cup and placed it on the drying rack. “When I’m with Lauren, I’m gonna talk to her about Matt.”
Matt Donaldson, a junior at Arizona State, lived with his mother, Stacey, in the same cul de sac as the Taylors and McKees. Like Lauren and many college students at ASU, he split time between his near campus apartment and home. There were two aspects to the problem: the obvious one, Matt’s negative influence on Lauren; and the on-again-off-again feud between the Taylors and Stacey Donaldson.
“All I can say is: be careful. You know how sensitive she gets.”
“I’m gonna focus on their relationship. I’ll keep you-know-who out of it, unless she brings her in.”
Mark stood and moved to the sink. “I doubt that she will.” He leaned in and kissed her on the cheek. “Reading between the lines, I think she feels the same way about Stacey as we do.”
I hope so, but ... Julie checked her cell phone, then moved quickly into the living room.
Mark followed. “Jules? One more thing?”
She grabbed her coat. “What?”
“Not to get you upset, but ... If you guys have dinner, take it easy on the wine.”
She turned to face him, and they locked eyes. “I don’t need you to tell me—”
“All I meant was—”
“I know what you meant.” She turned and moved quickly away. Seconds later, the door between the laundry room and garage squealed open, then slammed shut.
